[transcriber's note: the pronunciation guide and word list are at the end of the book.] _poems of rural life in the dorset dialect._ by william barnes. [illustration] london: kegan paul, trench, trÜbner & co., ltd. _to the reader._ kind reader, two of the three collections of these dorset poems have been, for some time, out of print, and the whole of the three sets are now brought out in one volume. i have little more to say for them, than that the writing of them as glimpses of life and landscape in dorset, which often open to my memory and mindsight, has given me very much pleasure; and my happiness would be enhanced if i could believe that you would feel my sketches to be so truthful and pleasing as to give you even a small share of pleasure, such as that of the memories from which i have written them. this edition has a list of such dorset words as are found in the poems, with some hints on dorset word shapes, and i hope that they will be found a fully good key to the meanings of the verse. yours kindly, w. barnes _june ._ contents. first collection. spring. the spring the woodlands leädy-day, an' riddèn house easter zunday easter monday dock-leaves the blackbird woodcom' feäst the milk-maïd o' the farm the girt woak tree that's in the dell vellèn o' the tree bringèn woone gwaïn o' zundays evenèn twilight evenèn in the village may bob the fiddler hope in spring the white road up athirt the hill the woody hollow jenny's ribbons eclogue:--the 'lotments eclogue:--a bit o' sly coortèn summer. evenèn, an' maïdens out at door the shepherd o' the farm vields in the light whitsuntide an' club walkèn woodley the brook that ran by gramfer's sleep did come wi' the dew sweet music in the wind uncle an' aunt havèn woones fortune a-twold jeäne's weddèn day in mornèn rivers don't gi'e out meäken up a miff haÿ-meäken haÿ-carrèn eclogue:--the best man in the vield where we did keep our flagon week's end in zummer, in the wold vo'k's time the meäd a-mow'd the sky a-cleärèn the evenèn star o' zummer the clote i got two vields polly be-èn upzides wi' tom be'mi'ster thatchèn o' the rick bees a-zwarmèn readèn ov a head-stwone zummer evenèn dance eclogue:--the veäiries fall. corn a-turnèn yollow a-haulèn o' the corn harvest hwome:--the vu'st peärt harvest hwome:--second peärt a zong ov harvest hwome poll's jack-daw the ivy the welshnut tree jenny out vrom hwome grenley water the veäiry veet that i do meet mornèn out a-nuttèn teäkèn in apples meäple leaves be yollow night a-zettèn in the weather-beäten tree shrodon feäir:--the vu'st peärt shrodon feäir:--the rest o't martin's tide guy faux's night eclogue:--the common a-took in eclogue:--two farms in woone winter. the vrost a bit o' fun fanny's be'th-day what dick an' i did grammer's shoes zunsheen in the winter the weepèn leädy the happy days when i wer young in the stillness o' the night the settle an' the girt wood vire the carter chris'mas invitation keepèn up o' chris'mas zittèn out the wold year woak wer good enough woonce lullaby meäry-ann's child eclogue:--father come hwome eclogue:--a ghost sundry pieces. a zong the maïd vor my bride the hwomestead the farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter uncle out o' debt an' out o' danger the church an' happy zunday the wold waggon the drèven o' the common the common a-took in a wold friend the rwose that deck'd her breast nanny's cow the shep'erd bwoy hope a-left behind a good father the beam in grenley church the vaïces that be gone poll looks a-know'd avore the music o' the dead the pleäce a teäle's a-twold o' aunt's tantrums the stwonèn pworch farmer's sons jeäne the dree woaks the hwomestead a-vell into hand the guide post gwain to feäir jeäne o' grenley mill the bells ov alderburnham the girt wold house o' mossy stwone a witch eclogue:--the times * * * * * second collection. blackmwore maïdens my orcha'd in lindèn lea bishop's caundle hay meäkèn--nunchen time a father out an' mother hwome riddles day's work a-done light or sheäde the waggon a-stooded gwaïn down the steps ellen brine ov allenburn the motherless child the leädy's tower fatherhood the maïd o' newton childhood meäry's smile meäry wedded the stwonèn bwoy the young that died in beauty fäir emily of yarrow mill the scud mindèn house the lovely maïd ov elwell meäd our fathers' works the wold vo'k dead culver dell and the squire our be'thplace the window freämed wi' stwone the waterspring in the leäne the poplars the linden on the lawn our abode in arby wood slow to come, quick agone the vier-zide knowlwood hallowed pleäces the wold wall bleäke's house john bleäke at hwome milkèn time when birds be still ridèn hwome at night zun-zet. spring the zummer hedge the water crowvoot the lilac the blackbird the slantèn light o' fall thissledown the may-tree the lydlinch bells the stage coach wayfeärèn the leäne the raïlroad the raïlroad seats sound o' water trees be company a pleäce in zight gwaïn to brookwell brookwell the shy man the winter's willow i know who jessie lee true love the beän-vield wold friends a-met fifehead ivy hall false friends-like the bachelor married peäir's love-walk a wife a-praïs'd the wife a-lost the thorns in the geäte angels by the door vo'k a-comèn into church woone rule good meäster collins herrènston out at plough the bwoat the pleäce our own agean eclogue:--john an' thomas pentridge by the river wheat the meäd in june early risén zelling woone's honey dobbin dead happiness gruffmoody grim the turn o' the days the sparrow club gammony gaÿ the heäre nanny gill moonlight on the door my love's guardian angel leeburn mill praise o' do'set third collection. woone smile mwore the echo vull a man naighbour plaÿmeätes the lark the two churches woak hill the hedger in the spring the flood in spring comen hwome grammer a-crippled the castle ruins eclogue:--john jealous early plaÿmeäte pickèn o' scroff good night went hwome the hollow woak childern's childern the rwose in the dark come zummer winds the neäme letters the new house a-gettèn wold zunday the pillar'd geäte zummer stream zummer stream linda deäne eclogue:--come an' zee us lindenore me'th below the tree treat well your wife the child an' the mowers the love child hawthorn down oben vields what john wer a-tellèn sheädes times o' year eclogue:--racketèn joe zummer an' winter to me two an' two the lew o' the rick the wind in woone's feäce tokens tweil fancy the broken heart evenèn light vields by watervalls the wheel routs nanny's new abode leaves a-vallèn lizzie blessens a-left fall time fall the zilver-weed the widow's house the child's greäve went vrom hwome the fancy feäir things do come round zummer thoughts in winter time i'm out o' door grief an' gladness slidèn lwonesomeness a snowy night the year-clock not goo hwome to-night the humstrum shaftesbury feäir the beäten path ruth a-ridèn beauty undecked my love is good heedless o' my love the do'set militia a do'set sale don't ceäre changes kindness withstanders daniel dwithen turnèn things off the giants in treädes the little worold bad news the turnstile the better vor zeèn o' you pity john bloom in lon'on a lot o' maïdens poems of rural life. first collection. spring. the spring. when wintry weather's all a-done, an' brooks do sparkle in the zun, an' nâisy-buildèn rooks do vlee wi' sticks toward their elem tree; when birds do zing, an' we can zee upon the boughs the buds o' spring,-- then i'm as happy as a king, a-vield wi' health an' zunsheen. vor then the cowslip's hangèn flow'r a-wetted in the zunny show'r, do grow wi' vi'lets, sweet o' smell, bezide the wood-screen'd grægle's bell; where drushes' aggs, wi' sky-blue shell, do lie in mossy nest among the thorns, while they do zing their zong at evenèn in the zunsheen. an' god do meäke his win' to blow an' raïn to vall vor high an' low, an' bid his mornèn zun to rise vor all alike, an' groun' an' skies ha' colors vor the poor man's eyes: an' in our trials he is near, to hear our mwoan an' zee our tear, an' turn our clouds to zunsheen. an' many times when i do vind things all goo wrong, an' vo'k unkind, to zee the happy veedèn herds, an' hear the zingèn o' the birds, do soothe my sorrow mwore than words; vor i do zee that 'tis our sin do meäke woone's soul so dark 'ithin, when god would gi'e woone zunsheen. the woodlands. o spread ageän your leaves an' flow'rs, lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands! here underneath the dewy show'rs o' warm-aïr'd spring-time, zunny woodlands! as when, in drong or open ground, wi' happy bwoyish heart i vound the twitt'rèn birds a-buildèn round your high-bough'd hedges, zunny woodlands. you gie'd me life, you gie'd me jaÿ, lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands you gie'd me health, as in my plaÿ i rambled through ye, zunny woodlands! you gie'd me freedom, vor to rove in aïry meäd or sheädy grove; you gie'd me smilèn fannèy's love, the best ov all o't, zunny woodlands! my vu'st shrill skylark whiver'd high, lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands! to zing below your deep-blue sky an' white spring-clouds, o zunny woodlands! an' boughs o' trees that woonce stood here, wer glossy green the happy year that gie'd me woone i lov'd so dear, an' now ha' lost, o zunny woodlands! o let me rove ageän unspied, lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands! along your green-bough'd hedges' zide, as then i rambled, zunny woodlands! an' where the missèn trees woonce stood, or tongues woonce rung among the wood, my memory shall meäke em good, though you've a-lost em, zunny woodlands! leady-day, an' ridden house. aye, back at leädy-day, you know, i come vrom gullybrook to stowe; at leädy-day i took my pack o' rottletraps, an' turn'd my back upon the weather-beäten door, that had a-screen'd, so long avore, the mwost that theäse zide o' the greäve, i'd live to have, or die to seäve! my childern, an' my vier-pleäce, where molly wi' her cheerful feäce, when i'd a-trod my wat'ry road vrom night-bedarken'd vields abrode, wi' nimble hands, at evenèn, blest wi' vire an' vood my hard-won rest; the while the little woones did clim', so sleek-skinn'd, up from lim' to lim', till, strugglèn hard an' clingèn tight, they reach'd at last my feäce's height. all tryèn which could soonest hold my mind wi' little teäles they twold. an' riddèn house is such a caddle, i shan't be over keen vor mwore [=o]'t, not yet a while, you mid be sure [=o]'t,-- i'd rather keep to woone wold staddle. well, zoo, avore the east begun to redden wi' the comèn zun, we left the beds our mossy thatch wer never mwore to overstratch, an' borrow'd uncle's wold hoss _dragon_, to bring the slowly lumbrèn waggon, an' when he come, we vell a-packèn the bedsteads, wi' their rwopes an' zackèn; an' then put up the wold eärm-chair, an' cwoffer vull ov e'then-ware, an' vier-dogs, an' copper kittle, wi' crocks an' saucepans, big an' little; an' fryèn-pan, vor aggs to slide in butter round his hissèn zide, an' gridire's even bars, to bear the drippèn steäke above the gleäre o' brightly-glowèn coals. an' then, all up o' top o' them ageän the woaken bwoard, where we did eat our croust o' bread or bit o' meat,-- an' when the bwoard wer up, we tied upon the reäves, along the zide, the woäken stools, his glossy meätes, bwoth when he's beäre, or when the pleätes do clatter loud wi' knives, below our merry feäces in a row. an' put between his lags, turn'd up'ard, the zalt-box an' the corner cupb'ard. an' then we laid the wold clock-ceäse, all dumb, athirt upon his feäce, vor we'd a-left, i needen tell ye, noo works 'ithin his head or belly. an' then we put upon the pack the settle, flat upon his back; an' after that, a-tied in pairs in woone another, all the chairs, an' bits o' lumber wo'th a ride, an' at the very top a-tied, the childern's little stools did lie, wi' lags a-turn'd towárd the sky: zoo there we lwoaded up our scroff, an' tied it vast, an' started off. an',--as the waggon cooden car all we had to teäke,--the butter-barrel an' cheese-wring, wi' his twinèn screw, an' all the païls an' veäts, an' blue wold milk leads, and a vew things mwore, wer all a-carr'd the day avore, and when the mwost ov our wold stuff wer brought outside o' thik brown ruf, i rambled roun' wi' narrow looks, in fusty holes an' darksome nooks, to gather all i still mid vind, o' rags or sticks a-left behind. an' there the unlatch'd doors did creak, a-swung by winds, a-streamèn weak drough empty rooms, an' meäkèn sad my heart, where me'th woonce meäde me glad. vor when a man do leäve the he'th an' ruf where vu'st he drew his breath, or where he had his bwoyhood's fun, an' things wer woonce a-zaid an' done that took his mind, do touch his heart a little bit, i'll answer vor't. zoo riddèn house is such a caddle, that i would rather keep my staddle. easter zunday. last easter jim put on his blue frock cwoat, the vu'st time--vier new; wi' yollow buttons all o' brass, that glitter'd in the zun lik' glass; an' pok'd 'ithin the button-hole a tutty he'd a-begg'd or stole. a span-new wes'co't, too, he wore, wi' yollow stripes all down avore; an' tied his breeches' lags below the knee, wi' ribbon in a bow; an' drow'd his kitty-boots azide, an' put his laggèns on, an' tied his shoes wi' strings two vingers wide, because 'twer easter zunday. an' after mornèn church wer out he come back hwome, an' stroll'd about all down the vields, an' drough the leäne, wi' sister kit an' cousin jeäne, a-turnèn proudly to their view his yollow breast an' back o' blue. the lambs did plaÿ, the grounds wer green, the trees did bud, the zun did sheen; the lark did zing below the sky, an' roads wer all a-blown so dry, as if the zummer wer begun; an' he had sich a bit o' fun! he meäde the maïdens squeäl an' run, because 'twer easter zunday. easter monday. an' zoo o' monday we got drough our work betimes, an ax'd a vew young vo'k vrom stowe an' coom, an' zome vrom uncle's down at grange, to come. an' they so spry, wi' merry smiles, did beät the path an' leäp the stiles, wi' two or dree young chaps bezide, to meet an' keep up easter tide: vor we'd a-zaid avore, we'd git zome friends to come, an' have a bit o' fun wi' me, an' jeäne, an' kit, because 'twer easter monday. an' there we plaÿ'd away at quaïts, an' weigh'd ourzelves wi' sceäles an' waïghts; an' jump'd to zee who jump'd the spryest, an' sprung the vurdest an' the highest; an' rung the bells vor vull an hour. an' plaÿ'd at vives ageän the tower. an' then we went an' had a taït, an' cousin sammy, wi' his waïght, broke off the bar, he wer so fat! an' toppled off, an' vell down flat upon his head, an' squot his hat, because 'twer easter monday. dock-leaves. the dock-leaves that do spread so wide up yonder zunny bank's green zide, do bring to mind what we did do at plaÿ wi' dock-leaves years agoo: how we,--when nettles had a-stung our little hands, when we wer young,-- did rub em wi' a dock, an' zing "_out nettl', in dock. in dock, out sting._" an' when your feäce, in zummer's het, did sheen wi' tricklèn draps o' zweat, how you, a-zot bezide the bank, didst toss your little head, an' pank, an' teäke a dock-leaf in your han', an' whisk en lik' a leädy's fan; while i did hunt, 'ithin your zight, vor streaky cockle-shells to fight. in all our plaÿ-geämes we did bruise the dock-leaves wi' our nimble shoes; bwoth where we merry chaps did fling you maïdens in the orcha'd swing, an' by the zaw-pit's dousty bank, where we did taït upon a plank. --(d'ye mind how woonce, you cou'den zit the bwoard, an' vell off into pit?) an' when we hunted you about the grassy barken, in an' out among the ricks, your vlèe-èn frocks an' nimble veet did strik' the docks. an' zoo they docks, a-spread so wide up yonder zunny bank's green zide, do bring to mind what we did do, among the dock-leaves years agoo. the blackbird. ov all the birds upon the wing between the zunny show'rs o' spring,-- vor all the lark, a-swingèn high, mid zing below a cloudless sky. an' sparrows, clust'rèn roun' the bough, mid chatter to the men at plough,-- the blackbird, whisslèn in among the boughs, do zing the gaÿest zong. vor we do hear the blackbird zing his sweetest ditties in the spring, when nippèn win's noo mwore do blow vrom northern skies, wi' sleet or snow, but dr[=e]ve light doust along between the leäne-zide hedges, thick an' green; an' zoo the blackbird in among the boughs do zing the gaÿest zong. 'tis blithe, wi' newly-open'd eyes, to zee the mornèn's ruddy skies; or, out a-haulèn frith or lops vrom new-pl[=e]sh'd hedge or new-vell'd copse, to rest at noon in primrwose beds below the white-bark'd woak-trees' heads; but there's noo time, the whole däy long, lik' evenèn wi' the blackbird's zong. vor when my work is all a-done avore the zettèn o' the zun, then blushèn jeäne do walk along the hedge to meet me in the drong, an' staÿ till all is dim an' dark bezides the ashen tree's white bark; an' all bezides the blackbird's shrill an' runnèn evenèn-whissle's still. an' there in bwoyhood i did rove wi' pryèn eyes along the drove to vind the nest the blackbird meäde o' grass-stalks in the high bough's sheäde: or clim' aloft, wi' clingèn knees, vor crows' aggs up in swaÿèn trees, while frighten'd blackbirds down below did chatter o' their little foe. an' zoo there's noo pleäce lik' the drong, where i do hear the blackbird's zong. woodcom' feast. come, fanny, come! put on thy white, 'tis woodcom' feäst, good now! to-night. come! think noo mwore, you silly maïd, o' chickèn drown'd, or ducks a-straÿ'd; nor mwope to vind thy new frock's taïl a-tore by hitchèn in a naïl; nor grieve an' hang thy head azide, a-thinkèn o' thy lam' that died. the flag's a-vleèn wide an' high, an' ringèn bells do sheäke the sky; the fifes do play, the horns do roar, an' boughs be up at ev'ry door: they 'll be a-dancèn soon,--the drum 's a-rumblèn now. come, fanny, come! why father's gone, an' mother too. they went up leäne an hour agoo; an' at the green the young and wold do stan' so thick as sheep in vwold: the men do laugh, the bwoys do shout,-- come out you mwopèn wench, come out, an' go wi' me, an' show at leäst bright eyes an' smiles at woodcom' feäst. come, let's goo out, an' fling our heels about in jigs an' vow'r-han' reels; while äll the stiff-lagg'd wolder vo'k, a-zittèn roun', do talk an' joke an' smile to zee their own wold rigs. a-show'd by our wild geämes an' jigs. vor ever since the vwold church speer vu'st prick'd the clouds, vrom year to year, when grass in meäd did reach woone's knees, an' blooth did kern in apple-trees, zome merry day 'v' a-broke to sheen above the dance at woodcom' green, an' all o' they that now do lie so low all roun' the speer so high, woonce, vrom the biggest to the leäst, had merry hearts at woodcom' feäst. zoo keep it up, an' gi'e it on to other vo'k when we be gone. come otit; vor when the zettèn zun do leäve in sheäde our harmless fun, the moon a-risèn in the east do gi'e us light at woodcom' feäst. come, fanny, come! put on thy white, 'tis merry woodcom' feäst to night: there's nothèn vor to mwope about,-- come out, you leäzy jeäde, come out! an' thou wult be, to woone at leäst, the prettiest maïd at woodcom' feäst. the milk-maid o' the farm. o poll's the milk-maïd o' the farm! an' poll's so happy out in groun', wi' her white païl below her eärm as if she wore a goolden crown. an' poll don't zit up half the night, nor lie vor half the day a-bed; an' zoo her eyes be sparklèn bright, an' zoo her cheäks be bloomèn red. in zummer mornèns, when the lark do rouse the litty lad an' lass to work, then she's the vu'st to mark her steps along the dewy grass. an' in the evenèn, when the zun do sheen ageän the western brows o' hills, where bubblèn brooks do run, there she do zing bezide her cows. an' ev'ry cow of hers do stand, an' never overzet her païl; nor try to kick her nimble hand, nor switch her wi' her heavy taïl. noo leädy, wi' her muff an' vaïl, do walk wi' sich a steätely tread as she do, wi' her milkèn païl a-balanc'd on her comely head. an' she, at mornèn an' at night, do skim the yollow cream, an' mwold an' wring her cheeses red an' white, an' zee the butter vetch'd an' roll'd. an' in the barken or the ground, the chaps do always do their best to milk the vu'st their own cows round, an' then help her to milk the rest. zoo poll's the milk-maïd o' the farm! an' poll's so happy out in groun', wi' her white païl below her eärm, as if she wore a goolden crown. the girt woak tree that's in the dell. the girt woak tree that's in the dell! there's noo tree i do love so well; vor times an' times when i wer young, i there've a-climb'd, an' there've a-zwung, an' pick'd the eäcorns green, a-shed in wrestlèn storms vrom his broad head. an' down below's the cloty brook where i did vish with line an' hook, an' beät, in plaÿsome dips and zwims, the foamy stream, wi' white-skinn'd lim's. an' there my mother nimbly shot her knittèn-needles, as she zot at evenèn down below the wide woak's head, wi' father at her zide. an' i've a-plaÿed wi' many a bwoy, that's now a man an' gone awoy; zoo i do like noo tree so well 's the girt woak tree that's in the dell. an' there, in leäter years, i roved wi' thik poor maïd i fondly lov'd,-- the maïd too feäir to die so soon,-- when evenèn twilight, or the moon, cast light enough 'ithin the pleäce to show the smiles upon her feäce, wi' eyes so clear's the glassy pool, an' lips an' cheäks so soft as wool. there han' in han', wi' bosoms warm, wi' love that burn'd but thought noo harm, below the wide-bough'd tree we past the happy hours that went too vast; an' though she'll never be my wife, she's still my leäden star o' life. she's gone: an' she've a-left to me her mem'ry in the girt woak tree; zoo i do love noo tree so well 's the girt woak tree that's in the dell an' oh! mid never ax nor hook be brought to spweil his steätely look; nor ever roun' his ribby zides mid cattle rub ther heäiry hides; nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep his lwonesome sheäde vor harmless sheep; an' let en grow, an' let en spread, an' let en live when i be dead. but oh! if men should come an' vell the girt woak tree that's in the dell, an' build his planks 'ithin the zide o' zome girt ship to plough the tide, then, life or death! i'd goo to sea, a saïlèn wi' the girt woak tree: an' i upon his planks would stand, an' die a-fightèn vor the land,-- the land so dear,--the land so free,-- the land that bore the girt woak tree; vor i do love noo tree so well 's the girt woak tree that's in the dell. vellen o' the tree. aye, the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun' wer a-stannèn this mornèn, an' now's a-cut down. aye, the girt elem tree, so big roun' an' so high, where the mowers did goo to their drink, an' did lie in the sheäde ov his head, when the zun at his heighth had a-drove em vrom mowèn, wi' het an' wi' drîth, where the haÿ-meäkers put all their picks an' their reäkes, an' did squot down to snabble their cheese an' their ceäkes, an' did vill vrom their flaggons their cups wi' their eäle, an' did meäke theirzelves merry wi' joke an' wi' teäle. ees, we took up a rwope an' we tied en all round at the top o'n, wi' woone end a-hangèn to ground, an' we cut, near the ground, his girt stem a'most drough, an' we bent the wold head o'n wi' woone tug or two; an' he sway'd all his limbs, an' he nodded his head, till he vell away down like a pillar o' lead: an' as we did run vrom en, there; clwose at our backs, oh! his boughs come to groun' wi' sich whizzes an' cracks; an' his top wer so lofty that, now he is down, the stem o'n do reach a-most over the groun'. zoo the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun' wer a-stannèn this mornèn, an' now's a-cut down. bringen woone gwaÏn[a] o' zundays. ah! john! how i do love to look at theäse green hollor, an' the brook among the withies that do hide the stream, a-growèn at the zide; an' at the road athirt the wide an' shallow vword, where we young bwoys did peärt, when we did goo half-woys, to bring ye gwaïn o' zundays. vor after church, when we got hwome, in evenèn you did always come to spend a happy hour or two wi' us, or we did goo to you; an' never let the comers goo back hwome alwone, but always took a stroll down wi' em to the brook to bring em gwaïn o' zundays. how we did scote all down the groun', a-pushèn woone another down! or challengèn o' zides in jumps down over bars, an' vuzz, an' humps; an' peärt at last wi' slaps an' thumps, an' run back up the hill to zee who'd get hwome soonest, you or we. that brought ye gwaïn o' zundays. o' leäter years, john, you've a-stood my friend, an' i've a-done you good; but tidden, john, vor all that you be now, that i do like ye zoo, but what you wer vor years agoo: zoo if you'd stir my heart-blood now. tell how we used to play, an' how you brought us gwaïn o' zundays. [footnote a: "to bring woone gwaïn,"--to bring one going; to bring one on his way.] evenÈn twilight. ah! they vew zummers brought us round the happiest days that we've a-vound, when in the orcha'd, that did stratch to westward out avore the patch ov high-bough'd wood, an' shelve to catch the western zun-light, we did meet wi' merry tongues an' skippèn veet at evenèn in the twilight. the evenèn aïr did fan, in turn, the cheäks the midday zun did burn. an' zet the russlèn leaves at plaÿ, an' meäke the red-stemm'd brembles sway in bows below the snow-white maÿ; an' whirlèn roun' the trees, did sheäke jeäne's raven curls about her neck, they evenèns in the twilight. an' there the yollow light did rest upon the bank towárd the west, an' twitt'rèn birds did hop in drough the hedge, an' many a skippèn shoe did beät the flowers, wet wi' dew, as underneäth the tree's wide limb our merry sheäpes did jumpy, dim, they evenèns in the twilight. how sweet's the evenèn dusk to rove along wi' woone that we do love! when light enough is in the sky to sheäde the smile an' light the eye 'tis all but heaven to be by; an' bid, in whispers soft an' light 's the ruslèn ov a leaf, "good night," at evenèn in the twilight. an' happy be the young an' strong, that can but work the whole day long so merry as the birds in spring; an' have noo ho vor any thing another day mid teäke or bring; but meet, when all their work's a-done, in orcha'd vor their bit o' fun at evenèn in the twilight. evenÈn in the village. now the light o' the west is a-turn'd to gloom, an' the men be at hwome vrom ground; an' the bells be a-zendèn all down the coombe from tower, their mwoansome sound. an' the wind is still, an' the house-dogs do bark, an' the rooks be a-vled to the elems high an' dark, an' the water do roar at mill. an' the flickerèn light drough the window-peäne vrom the candle's dull fleäme do shoot, an' young jemmy the smith is a-gone down leäne, a-plaÿèn his shrill-vaïced flute. an' the miller's man do zit down at his ease on the seat that is under the cluster o' trees. wi' his pipe an' his cider can. may. come out o' door, 'tis spring! 'tis maÿ the trees be green, the vields be gaÿ; the weather's warm, the winter blast, wi' all his traïn o' clouds, is past; the zun do rise while vo'k do sleep, to teäke a higher daily zweep, wi' cloudless feäce a-flingèn down his sparklèn light upon the groun'. the air's a-streamèn soft,--come drow the windor open; let it blow in drough the house, where vire, an' door a-shut, kept out the cwold avore. come, let the vew dull embers die, an' come below the open sky; an' wear your best, vor fear the groun' in colours gaÿ mid sheäme your gown: an' goo an' rig wi' me a mile or two up over geäte an' stile, drough zunny parrocks that do leäd, wi' crooked hedges, to the meäd, where elems high, in steätely ranks, do rise vrom yollow cowslip-banks, an' birds do twitter vrom the spraÿ o' bushes deck'd wi' snow-white maÿ; an' gil'cups, wi' the deäisy bed, be under ev'ry step you tread. we'll wind up roun' the hill, an' look all down the thickly-timber'd nook, out where the squier's house do show his grey-wall'd peaks up drough the row o' sheädy elems, where the rook do build her nest; an' where the brook do creep along the meäds, an' lie to catch the brightness o' the sky; an' cows, in water to theïr knees, do stan' a-whiskèn off the vlees. mother o' blossoms, and ov all that's feäir a-yield vrom spring till fall, the gookoo over white-weäv'd seas do come to zing in thy green trees, an' buttervlees, in giddy flight, do gleäm the mwost by thy gaÿ light oh! when, at last, my fleshly eyes shall shut upon the vields an' skies, mid zummer's zunny days be gone, an' winter's clouds be comèn on: nor mid i draw upon the e'th, o' thy sweet aïr my leätest breath; alassen i mid want to staÿ behine' for thee, o flow'ry may! bob the fiddler. oh! bob the fiddler is the pride o' chaps an' maïdens vur an' wide; they can't keep up a merry tide, but bob is in the middle. if merry bob do come avore ye, he'll zing a zong, or tell a story; but if you'd zee en in his glory, jist let en have a fiddle. aye, let en tuck a crowd below his chin, an' gi'e his vist a bow, he'll dreve his elbow to an' fro', an' plaÿ what you do please. at maypolèn, or feäst, or feäir, his eärm wull zet off twenty peäir, an' meäke em dance the groun' dirt-beäre, an' hop about lik' vlees. long life to bob! the very soul o' me'th at merry feäst an' pole; vor when the crowd do leäve his jowl, they'll all be in the dumps. zoo at the dance another year, at _shillinston_ or _hazelbur'_, mid bob be there to meäke em stir, in merry jigs, their stumps! hope in spring. in happy times a while agoo, my lively hope, that's now a-gone did stir my heart the whole year drough, but mwost when green-bough'd spring come on; when i did rove, wi' litty veet, drough deäisy-beds so white's a sheet, but still avore i us'd to meet the blushèn cheäks that bloom'd vor me! an' afterward, in lightsome youth, when zummer wer a-comèn on, an' all the trees wer white wi' blooth, an' dippèn zwallows skimm'd the pon'; sweet hope did vill my heart wi' jaÿ, an' tell me, though thik spring wer gaÿ, there still would come a brighter maÿ, wi' blushèn cheäks to bloom vor me! an' when, at last, the time come roun', an' brought a lofty zun to sheen upon my smilèn fanny, down drough n[=e]sh young leaves o' yollow green; how charmèn wer the het that glow'd, how charmèn wer the sheäde a-drow'd, how charmèn wer the win' that blow'd upon her cheäks that bloom'd vor me! but hardly did they times begin, avore i vound em short to staÿ: an' year by year do now come in, to peärt me wider vrom my jaÿ, vor what's to meet, or what's to peärt, wi' maïdens kind, or maïdens smart, when hope's noo longer in the heart, an' cheäks noo mwore do bloom vor me! but there's a worold still to bless the good, where zickness never rose; an' there's a year that's winterless, where glassy waters never vroze; an' there, if true but e'thly love do seem noo sin to god above, 's a smilèn still my harmless dove, so feäir as when she bloom'd vor me! the white road up athirt the hill. when hot-beam'd zuns do strik right down, an' burn our zweaty feäzen brown; an' zunny slopes, a-lyèn nigh, be back'd by hills so blue's the sky; then, while the bells do sweetly cheem upon the champèn high-neck'd team, how lively, wi' a friend, do seem the white road up athirt the hill. the zwellèn downs, wi' chalky tracks a-climmèn up their zunny backs, do hide green meäds an' zedgy brooks. an' clumps o' trees wi' glossy rooks, an' hearty vo'k to laugh an' zing, an' parish-churches in a string, wi' tow'rs o' merry bells to ring, an' white roads up athirt the hills. at feäst, when uncle's vo'k do come to spend the day wi' us at hwome, an' we do lay upon the bwoard the very best we can avvword, the wolder woones do talk an' smoke, an' younger woones do plaÿ an' joke, an' in the evenèn all our vo'k do bring em gwaïn athirt the hill. an' while the green do zwarm wi' wold an' young, so thick as sheep in vwold, the bellows in the blacksmith's shop, an' miller's moss-green wheel do stop, an' lwonesome in the wheelwright's shed 's a-left the wheelless waggon-bed; while zwarms o' comèn friends do tread the white road down athirt the hill. an' when the windèn road so white, a-climmèn up the hills in zight, do leäd to pleäzen, east or west, the vu'st a-known, an' lov'd the best, how touchèn in the zunsheen's glow, or in the sheädes that clouds do drow upon the zunburnt downs below, 's the white road up athirt the hill. what peaceful hollows here the long white roads do windy round among! wi' deäiry cows in woody nooks, an' haymeäkers among their pooks, an' housen that the trees do screen from zun an' zight by boughs o' green! young blushèn beauty's hwomes between the white roads up athirt the hills. the woody hollow. if mem'ry, when our hope's a-gone, could bring us dreams to cheat us on, ov happiness our hearts voun' true in years we come too quickly drough; what days should come to me, but you, that burn'd my youthvul cheäks wi' zuns o' zummer, in my plaÿsome runs about the woody hollow. when evenèn's risèn moon did peep down drough the hollow dark an' deep, where gigglèn sweethearts meäde their vows in whispers under waggèn boughs; when whisslèn bwoys, an' rott'lèn ploughs wer still, an' mothers, wi' their thin shrill vaïces, call'd their daughters in, from walkèn in the hollow; what souls should come avore my zight, but they that had your zummer light? the litsome younger woones that smil'd wi' comely feäzen now a-spweil'd; or wolder vo'k, so wise an' mild, that i do miss when i do goo to zee the pleäce, an' walk down drough the lwonesome woody hollow? when wrongs an' overbearèn words do prick my bleedèn heart lik' swords, then i do try, vor christes seäke, to think o' you, sweet days! an' meäke my soul as 'twer when you did weäke my childhood's eyes, an' when, if spite or grief did come, did die at night in sleep 'ithin the hollow. jenny's ribbons. jean ax'd what ribbon she should wear 'ithin her bonnet to the feäir? she had woone white, a-gi'ed her when she stood at meäry's chrissenèn; she had woone brown, she had woone red, a keepseäke vrom her brother dead, that she did like to wear, to goo to zee his greäve below the yew. she had woone green among her stock, that i'd a-bought to match her frock; she had woone blue to match her eyes, the colour o' the zummer skies, an' thik, though i do like the rest, is he that i do like the best, because she had en in her heäir when vu'st i walk'd wi' her at feäir. the brown, i zaid, would do to deck thy heäir; the white would match thy neck; the red would meäke thy red cheäk wan a-thinkèn o' the gi'er gone; the green would show thee to be true; but still i'd sooner zee the blue, because 'twer he that deck'd thy heäir when vu'st i walk'd wi' thee at feäir. zoo, when she had en on, i took her han' 'ithin my elbow's crook, an' off we went athirt the weir an' up the meäd toward the feäir; the while her mother, at the geäte, call'd out an' bid her not staÿ leäte, an' she, a-smilèn wi' her bow o' blue, look'd roun' and nodded, _no_. [gothic: eclogue.] the 'lotments. _john and richard._ john. zoo you be in your groun' then, i do zee, a-workèn and a-zingèn lik' a bee. how do it answer? what d'ye think about it? d'ye think 'tis better wi' it than without it? a-recknèn rent, an' time, an' zeed to stock it, d'ye think that you be any thing in pocket? richard. o', 'tis a goodish help to woone, i'm sure o't. if i had not a-got it, my poor bwones would now ha' eäch'd a-crackèn stwones upon the road; i wish i had zome mwore o't. john. i wish the girt woones had a-got the greäce to let out land lik' this in ouer pleäce; but i do fear there'll never be nwone vor us, an' i can't tell whatever we shall do: we be a-most starvèn, an' we'd goo to 'merica, if we'd enough to car us. richard. why 'twer the squire, good now! a worthy man, that vu'st brought into ouer pleäce the plan, he zaid he'd let a vew odd eäcres o' land to us poor leäb'rèn men; an', faïth, he had enough o' teäkers vor that, an' twice so much ageän. zoo i took zome here, near my hovel, to exercise my speäde an' shovel; an' what wi' dungèn, diggèn up, an' zeedèn, a-thinnèn, cleänèn, howèn up an' weedèn, i, an' the biggest o' the childern too, do always vind some useful jobs to do. john. aye, wi' a bit o' ground, if woone got any, woone's bwoys can soon get out an' eärn a penny; an' then, by workèn, they do learn the vaster the way to do things when they have a meäster; vor woone must know a deäl about the land bevore woone's fit to lend a useful hand, in geärden or a-vield upon a farm. richard. an' then the work do keep em out o' harm; vor vo'ks that don't do nothèn wull be vound soon doèn woorse than nothèn, i'll be bound. but as vor me, d'ye zee, with theäse here bit o' land, why i have ev'ry thing a'mwost: vor i can fatten vowels for the spit, or zell a good fat goose or two to rwoast; an' have my beäns or cabbage, greens or grass, or bit o' wheat, or, sich my happy feäte is, that i can keep a little cow, or ass, an' a vew pigs to eat the little teäties. john. an' when your pig's a-fatted pretty well wi' teäties, or wi' barley an' some bran, why you've a-got zome vlitches vor to zell, or hang in chimney-corner, if you can. richard. aye, that's the thing; an' when the pig do die, we got a lot ov offal for to fry, an' netlèns for to bwoil; or put the blood in, an' meäke a meal or two o' good black-pudden. john. i'd keep myzelf from parish, i'd be bound, if i could get a little patch o' ground. [gothic: eclogue.] a bit o' sly coorten. _john and fanny._ john. now, fanny, 'tis too bad, you teazèn maïd! how leäte you be a' come! where have ye staÿ'd? how long you have a-meäde me waït about! i thought you werden gwaïn to come ageän: i had a mind to goo back hwome ageän. this idden when you promis'd to come out. fanny. now 'tidden any good to meäke a row, upon my word, i cooden come till now. vor i've a-been kept in all day by mother, at work about woone little job an' t'other. if you do want to goo, though, don't ye staÿ vor me a minute longer, i do praÿ. john. i thought you mid be out wi' jemmy bleäke, fanny. an' why be out wi' him, vor goodness' seäke? john. you walk'd o' zunday evenèn wi'n, d'ye know, you went vrom church a-hitch'd up in his eärm. fanny. well, if i did, that werden any harm. lauk! that _is_ zome'at to teäke notice o'_. john. he took ye roun' the middle at the stile, an' kiss'd ye twice 'ithin the ha'f a mile. fanny. ees, at the stile, because i shoulden vall, he took me hold to help me down, that's all; an' i can't zee what very mighty harm he could ha' done a-lendèn me his eärm. an' as vor kissèn o' me, if he did, i didden ax en to, nor zay he mid: an' if he kiss'd me dree times, or a dozen, what harm wer it? why idden he my cousin? an' i can't zee, then, what there is amiss in cousin jem's jist gi'èn me a kiss. john. well, he shan't kiss ye, then; you shan't be kiss'd by his girt ugly chops, a lanky houn'! if i do zee'n, i'll jist wring up my vist an' knock en down. i'll squot his girt pug-nose, if i don't miss en; i'll warn i'll spweil his pretty lips vor kissèn! fanny. well, john, i'm sure i little thought to vind that you had ever sich a jealous mind. what then! i s'pose that i must be a dummy, an' mussen goo about nor wag my tongue to any soul, if he's a man, an' young; or else you'll work yourzelf up mad wi' passion, an' talk away o' gi'èn vo'k a drashèn, an' breakèn bwones, an' beäten heads to pummy! if you've a-got sich jealous ways about ye, i'm sure i should be better off 'ithout ye. john. well, if girt jemmy have a-won your heart, we'd better break the coortship off, an' peärt. fanny. he won my heart! there, john, don't talk sich stuff; don't talk noo mwore, vor you've a-zaid enough. if i'd a-lik'd another mwore than you, i'm sure i shoulden come to meet ye zoo; vor i've a-twold to father many a storry, an' took o' mother many a scwoldèn vor ye. [_weeping._] but 'twull be over now, vor you shan't zee me out wi' ye noo mwore, to pick a quarrel wi' me. john. well, fanny, i woon't zay noo mwore, my dear. let's meäke it up. come, wipe off thik there tear. let's goo an' zit o' top o' theäse here stile, an' rest, an' look about a little while. fanny. now goo away, you crabbed jealous chap! you shan't kiss me,--you shan't! i'll gi' ye a slap. john. then you look smilèn; don't you pout an' toss your head so much, an' look so very cross. fanny. now, john! don't squeeze me roun' the middle zoo. i woon't stop here noo longer, if you do. why, john! be quiet, wull ye? fie upon it! now zee how you've a-wrumpl'd up my bonnet! mother'ill zee it after i'm at hwome, an' gi'e a guess directly how it come. john. then don't you zay that i be jealous, fanny. fanny. i wull: vor you _be_ jealous, mister jahnny. there's zomebody a-comèn down the groun' towards the stile. who is it? come, get down i must run hwome, upon my word then, now; if i do staÿ, they'll kick up sich a row. good night. i can't staÿ now. john. then good night, fanny! come out a-bit to-morrow evenèn, can ye? summer. evenÈn, an' maidens out at door. now the sheädes o' the elems do stratch mwore an' mwore, vrom the low-zinkèn zun in the west o' the sky; an' the maïdens do stand out in clusters avore the doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by. an' their cwombs be a-zet in their bunches o' heäir, an' their currels do hang roun' their necks lily-white, an' their cheäks they be rwosy, their shoulders be beäre, their looks they be merry, their limbs they be light. an' the times have a-been--but they cant be noo mwore-- when i had my jaÿ under evenèn's dim sky, when my fanny did stan' out wi' others avore her door, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by. an' up there, in the green, is her own honey-zuck, that her brother traïn'd up roun' her window; an' there is the rwose an' the jessamy, where she did pluck a flow'r vor her bosom or bud vor her heäir. an' zoo smile, happy maïdens! vor every feäce, as the zummers do come, an' the years do roll by, will soon sadden, or goo vur away vrom the pleäce, or else, lik' my fanny, will wither an' die. but when you be a-lost vrom the parish, zome mwore will come on in your pleäzen to bloom an' to die; an' the zummer will always have maïdens avore their doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by. vor daughters ha' mornèn when mothers ha' night, an' there's beauty alive when the feäirest is dead; as when woone sparklèn weäve do zink down vrom the light, another do come up an' catch it instead. zoo smile on, happy maïdens! but i shall noo mwore zee the maïd i do miss under evenèn's dim sky; an' my heart is a-touch'd to zee you out avore the doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by. the shepherd o' the farm. oh! i be shepherd o' the farm, wi' tinklèn bells an' sheep-dog's bark, an' wi' my crook a-thirt my eärm, here i do rove below the lark. an' i do bide all day among the bleäten sheep, an' pitch their vwold; an' when the evenèn sheädes be long, do zee em all a-penn'd an' twold. an' i do zee the friskèn lam's, wi' swingèn taïls an' woolly lags, a-playèn roun' their veedèn dams an' pullèn o' their milky bags. an' i bezide a hawthorn tree, do' zit upon the zunny down, while sheädes o' zummer clouds do vlee wi' silent flight along the groun'. an' there, among the many cries o' sheep an' lambs, my dog do pass a zultry hour, wi' blinkèn eyes, an' nose a-stratch'd upon the grass; but, in a twinklèn, at my word, he's all awake, an' up, an' gone out roun' the sheep lik' any bird, to do what he's a-zent upon. an' i do goo to washèn pool, a-sousèn over head an' ears, the shaggy sheep, to cleän their wool an' meäke em ready vor the sheärs. an' when the shearèn time do come, then we do work vrom dawn till dark; where zome do shear the sheep, and zome do mark their zides wi' meästers mark. an' when the shearèn's all a-done, then we do eat, an' drink, an' zing, in meäster's kitchen till the tun wi' merry sounds do sheäke an' ring. oh! i be shepherd o' the farm, wi' tinklèn bells an' sheep dog's bark, an' wi' my crook a-thirt my eärm, here i do rove below the lark. vields in the light. woone's heart mid leäp wi' thoughts o' jaÿ in comèn manhood light an' gaÿ when we do teäke the worold on vrom our vore-elders dead an' gone; but days so feäir in hope's bright eyes do often come wi' zunless skies: woone's fancy can but be out-done, where trees do swaÿ an' brooks do run, by risèn moon or zettèn zun. vor when at evenèn i do look all down theäse hangèn on the brook, wi' weäves a-leäpèn clear an' bright, where boughs do swaÿ in yollow light; noo hills nor hollows, woods nor streams, a-voun' by daÿ or zeed in dreams, can ever seem so fit to be good angel's hwomes, though they do gi'e but païn an' tweil to such as we. an' when by moonlight darksome sheädes do lie in grass wi' dewy bleädes, an' worold-hushèn night do keep the proud an' angry vast asleep, when i can think, as i do rove, ov only souls that i do love; then who can dream a dream to show, or who can think o' moons to drow, a sweeter light to rove below? whitsuntide an' club walken. ees, last whit-monday, i an' meäry got up betimes to mind the deäiry; an' gi'ed the milkèn païls a scrub, an' dress'd, an' went to zee the club. vor up at public-house, by ten o'clock the pleäce wer vull o' men, a-dress'd to goo to church, an' dine, an' walk about the pleäce in line. zoo off they started, two an' two, wi' païnted poles an' knots o' blue, an' girt silk flags,--i wish my box 'd a-got em all in ceäpes an' frocks,-- a-weävèn wide an' flappèn loud in plaÿsome winds above the crowd; while fifes did squeak an' drums did rumble, an' deep beäzzoons did grunt an' grumble, an' all the vo'k in gath'rèn crowds kick'd up the doust in smeechy clouds, that slowly rose an' spread abrode in streamèn aïr above the road. an' then at church there wer sich lots o' hats a-hangèn up wi' knots, an' poles a-stood so thick as iver, the rushes stood beside a river. an' mr goodman gi'ed em warnèn to spend their evenèn lik' their mornèn; an' not to praÿ wi' mornèn tongues, an' then to zwear wi' evenèn lungs: nor vu'st sheäke hands, to let the wrist lift up at last a bruisèn vist: vor clubs were all a-meän'd vor friends, he twold em, an' vor better ends than twitèn vo'k an' pickèn quarrels, an' tipplèn cups an' emptèn barrels,-- vor meäkèn woone man do another in need the kindness ov a brother. an' after church they went to dine 'ithin the long-wall'd room behine the public-house, where you remember, we had our dance back last december. an' there they meäde sich stunnèn clatters wi' knives an' forks, an' pleätes an' platters; an' waïters ran, an' beer did pass vrom tap to jug, vrom jug to glass: an' when they took away the dishes, they drink'd good healths, an' wish'd good wishes, to all the girt vo'k o' the land, an' all good things vo'k took in hand; an' woone cried _hip, hip, hip!_ an' hollow'd, an' tothers all struck in, an' vollow'd; an' grabb'd their drink wi' eager clutches, an' swigg'd it wi' sich hearty glutches, as vo'k, stark mad wi' pweison stuff, that thought theirzelves not mad enough. an' after that they went all out in rank ageän, an' walk'd about, an' gi'ed zome parish vo'k a call; an', then went down to narley hall an' had zome beer, an' danc'd between the elem trees upon the green. an' down along the road they done all sorts o' mad-cap things vor fun; an' danc'd, a-pokèn out their poles, an' pushèn bwoys down into holes: an' sammy stubbs come out o' rank, an' kiss'd me up ageän the bank, a saucy chap; i ha'nt vor'gied en not yet,--in short, i han't a-zeed en. zoo in the dusk ov evenèn, zome went back to drink, an' zome went hwome. woodley. sweet woodley! oh! how fresh an' gaÿ thy leänes an' vields be now in maÿ, the while the broad-leav'd clotes do zwim in brooks wi' gil'cups at the brim; an' yollow cowslip-beds do grow by thorns in blooth so white as snow; an' win' do come vrom copse wi' smells o' grægles wi' their hangèn bells! though time do dreve me on, my mind do turn in love to thee behind, the seäme's a bulrush that's a-shook by wind a-blowèn up the brook: the curlèn stream would dreve en down, but plaÿsome aïr do turn en roun', an' meäke en seem to bend wi' love to zunny hollows up above. thy tower still do overlook the woody knaps an' windèn brook, an' leäne's wi' here an' there a hatch, an' house wi' elem-sheäded thatch, an' vields where chaps do vur outdo the zunday sky, wi' cwoats o' blue; an' maïdens' frocks do vur surpass the whitest deäsies in the grass. what peals to-day from thy wold tow'r do strike upon the zummer flow'r, as all the club, wi' dousty lags, do walk wi' poles an' flappèn flags, an' wind, to music, roun' between a zwarm o' vo'k upon the green! though time do dreve me on, my mind do turn wi' love to thee behind. the brook that ran by gramfer's. when snow-white clouds wer thin an' vew avore the zummer sky o' blue, an' i'd noo ho but how to vind zome plaÿ to entertaïn my mind; along the water, as did wind wi' zedgy shoal an' hollow crook, how i did ramble by the brook that ran all down vrom gramfer's. a-holdèn out my line beyond the clote-leaves, wi' my withy wand, how i did watch, wi' eager look, my zwimmèn cork, a-zunk or shook by minnows nibblèn at my hook, a-thinkèn i should catch a breäce o' perch, or at the leäst some deäce, a-zwimmèn down vrom gramfer's. then ten good deäries wer a-ved along that water's windèn bed, an' in the lewth o' hills an' wood a half a score farm-housen stood: but now,--count all o'm how you would, so many less do hold the land,-- you'd vind but vive that still do stand, a-comèn down vrom gramfer's. there, in the midst ov all his land, the squier's ten-tunn'd house did stand, where he did meäke the water clim' a bank, an' sparkle under dim bridge arches, villèn to the brim his pon', an' leäpèn, white as snow, vrom rocks a-glitt'rèn in a bow, an' runnèn down to gramfer's. an' now woone wing is all you'd vind o' thik girt house a-left behind; an' only woone wold stwonen tun 's a-stannèn to the raïn an' zun,-- an' all's undone that he'd a-done; the brook ha' now noo call to staÿ to vill his pon' or clim' his baÿ, a-runnèn down to gramfer's. when woonce, in heavy raïn, the road at grenley bridge wer overflow'd, poor sophy white, the pleäces pride, a-gwaïn vrom market, went to ride her pony droo to tother zide; but vound the strëam so deep an' strong, that took her off the road along the hollow down to gramfer's. 'twer dark, an' she went on too vast to catch hold any thing she pass'd; noo bough hung over to her hand, an' she could reach noo stwone nor land, where woonce her little voot could stand; noo ears wer out to hear her cries, nor wer she woonce a-zeen by eyes, till took up dead at gramfer's. sleep did come wi' the dew. o when our zun's a-zinkèn low, how soft's the light his feäce do drow upon the backward road our mind do turn an' zee a-left behind; when we, in childhood's days did vind our jaÿ among the gil'cup flow'rs, all drough the zummer's zunny hours; an' sleep did come wi' the dew. an' afterwards, when we did zweat a tweilèn in the zummer het, an' when our daily work wer done did meet to have our evenèn fun: till up above the zettèn zun the sky wer blushèn in the west, an' we laid down in peace to rest, an' sleep did come wi' the dew. ah! zome do turn--but tidden right-- the night to day, an' day to night; but we do zee the vu'st red streak o' mornèn, when the day do break; zoo we don't grow up peäle an' weak, but we do work wi' health an' strength, vrom mornèn drough the whole day's length, an' sleep do come wi' the dew. an' when, at last, our e'thly light is jist a-drawèn in to night, we mid be sure that god above, if we be true when he do prove our stedvast faïth an' thankvul love, wull do vor us what mid be best, an' teäke us into endless rest, as sleep do come wi' the dew. sweet music in the wind. when evenèn is a-drawèn in, i'll steal vrom others' naïsy din; an' where the whirlèn brook do roll below the walnut-tree, i'll stroll an' think o' thee wi' all my soul, dear jenny; while the sound o' bells do vlee along wi' mwoansome zwells, sweet music in the wind! i'll think how in the rushy leäze o' zunny evenèns jis' lik' theäse, in happy times i us'd to zee thy comely sheäpe about the tree, wi' païl a-held avore thy knee; an' lissen'd to thy merry zong that at a distance come along, sweet music in the wind! an' when wi' me you walk'd about o' zundays, after church wer out. wi' hangèn eärm an' modest look; or zittèn in some woody nook we lissen'd to the leaves that shook upon the poplars straïght an' tall, or rottle o' the watervall, sweet music in the wind! an' when the plaÿvul aïr do vlee, o' moonlight nights, vrom tree to tree, or whirl upon the sheäkèn grass, or rottle at my window glass: do seem,--as i do hear it pass,-- as if thy vaïce did come to tell me where thy happy soul do dwell, sweet music in the wind! uncle an' aunt. how happy uncle us'd to be o' zummer time, when aunt an' he o' zunday evenèns, eärm in eärm, did walk about their tiny farm, while birds did zing an' gnats did zwarm, drough grass a'most above their knees, an' roun' by hedges an' by trees wi' leafy boughs a-swaÿèn. his hat wer broad, his cwoat wer brown, wi' two long flaps a-hangèn down; an' vrom his knee went down a blue knit stockèn to his buckled shoe; an' aunt did pull her gown-taïl drough her pocket-hole, to keep en neat, as she mid walk, or teäke a seat by leafy boughs a-zwaÿèn. an' vu'st they'd goo to zee their lots o' pot-eärbs in the geärden plots; an' he, i'-may-be, by the hatch, would zee aunt's vowls upon a patch o' zeeds, an' vow if he could catch em wi' his gun, they shoudden vlee noo mwore into their roostèn tree, wi' leafy boughs a-swaÿèn. an' then vrom geärden they did pass drough orcha'd out to zee the grass, an' if the apple-blooth, so white, mid be at all a-touch'd wi' blight; an' uncle, happy at the zight, did guess what cider there mid be in all the orcha'd, tree wi' tree, wi' tutties all a-swaÿèn. an' then they stump'd along vrom there a-vield, to zee the cows an' meäre; an' she, when uncle come in zight, look'd up, an' prick'd her ears upright, an' whicker'd out wi' all her might; an' he, a-chucklèn, went to zee the cows below the sheädy tree, wi' leafy boughs a-swaÿen. an' last ov all, they went to know how vast the grass in meäd did grow an' then aunt zaid 'twer time to goo in hwome,--a-holdèn up her shoe, to show how wet he wer wi' dew. an' zoo they toddled hwome to rest, lik' doves a-vleèn to their nest in leafy boughs a-swaÿen. haven woones fortune a-twold. in leäne the gipsies, as we went a-milkèn, had a-pitch'd their tent, between the gravel-pit an' clump o' trees, upon the little hump: an' while upon the grassy groun' their smokèn vire did crack an' bleäze, their shaggy-cwoated hoss did greäze among the bushes vurder down. an' zoo, when we brought back our païls, the woman met us at the raïls, an' zaid she'd tell us, if we'd show our han's, what we should like to know. zoo poll zaid she'd a mind to try her skill a bit, if i would vu'st; though, to be sure, she didden trust to gipsies any mwore than i. well; i agreed, an' off all dree o's went behind an elem tree, an' after she'd a-zeed 'ithin my han' the wrinkles o' the skin, she twold me--an' she must a-know'd that dicky met me in the leäne,-- that i'd a-walk'd, an' should ageän, wi' zomebody along thik road. an' then she twold me to bewar o' what the letter _m_ stood vor. an' as i walk'd, o' _m_onday night, drough _m_eäd wi' dicky overright the _m_ill, the _m_iller, at the stile, did stan' an' watch us teäke our stroll, an' then, a blabbèn dousty-poll! twold _m_other o't. well wo'th his while! an' poll too wer a-bid bewar o' what the letter _f_ stood vor; an' then, because she took, at _f_eäir, a bosom-pin o' jimmy heäre, young _f_ranky beät en black an' blue. 'tis _f_ vor _f_eäir; an' 'twer about a _f_earèn _f_rank an' jimmy foüght, zoo i do think she twold us true. in short, she twold us all about what had a-vell, or would vall out; an' whether we should spend our lives as maïdens, or as wedded wives; but when we went to bundle on, the gipsies' dog were at the raïls a-lappèn milk vrom ouer païls,-- a pretty deäl o' poll's wer gone. jeane's wedden day in mornen. at last jeäne come down stairs, a-drest wi' weddèn knots upon her breast, a-blushèn, while a tear did lie upon her burnèn cheäk half dry; an' then her robert, drawèn nigh wi' tothers, took her han' wi' pride, to meäke her at the church his bride, her weddèn day in mornèn. wi' litty voot an' beätèn heart she stepp'd up in the new light cart, an' took her bridemaïd up to ride along wi' robert at her zide: an' uncle's meäre look'd roun' wi' pride to zee that, if the cart wer vull, 'twer jenny that he had to pull, her weddèn day in mornèn. an' aunt an' uncle stood stock-still, an' watch'd em trottèn down the hill; an' when they turn'd off out o' groun' down into leäne, two tears run down aunt's feäce; an' uncle, turnèn roun', sigh'd woonce, an' stump'd off wi' his stick, because did touch en to the quick to peärt wi' jeäne thik mornèn. "now jeäne's agone," tom mutter'd, "we shall mwope lik' owls 'ithin a tree; vor she did zet us all agog vor fun, avore the burnèn log." an' as he zot an' talk'd, the dog put up his nose athirt his thighs, but coulden meäke en turn his eyes, jeäne's weddèn day in mornèn. an' then the naïghbours round us, all by woones an' twos begun to call, to meet the young vo'k, when the meäre mid bring em back a married peäir: an' all o'm zaid, to robert's sheäre, there had a-vell the feärest feäce, an' kindest heart in all the pleäce, jeäne's weddèn day in mornèn. rivers don't gi'e out. the brook i left below the rank ov alders that do sheäde his bank, a-runnèn down to dreve the mill below the knap, 's a runnèn still; the creepèn days an' weeks do vill up years, an' meäke wold things o' new, an' vok' do come, an' live, an' goo, but rivers don't gi'e out, john. the leaves that in the spring do shoot zo green, in fall be under voot; maÿ flow'rs do grow vor june to burn, an' milk-white blooth o' trees do kern, an' ripen on, an' vall in turn; the miller's moss-green wheel mid rot, an' he mid die an' be vorgot, but rivers don't gi'e out, john. a vew short years do bring an' rear a maïd--as jeäne wer--young an' feäir, an' vewer zummer-ribbons, tied in zunday knots, do feäde bezide her cheäk avore her bloom ha' died: her youth won't staÿ,--her rwosy look 's a feädèn flow'r, but time's a brook to run an' not gi'e out, john. an' yet, while things do come an' goo, god's love is steadvast, john, an' true; if winter vrost do chill the ground, 'tis but to bring the zummer round, all's well a-lost where he's a-vound, vor if 'tis right, vor christes seäke he'll gi'e us mwore than he do teäke,-- his goodness don't gi'e out, john. meaken up a miff. vorgi'e me, jenny, do! an' rise thy hangèn head an' teary eyes, an' speak, vor i've a-took in lies, an' i've a-done thee wrong; but i wer twold,--an' thought 'twer true,-- that sammy down at coome an' you wer at the feäir, a-walkèn drough the pleäce the whole day long. an' tender thoughts did melt my heart, an' zwells o' viry pride did dart lik' lightnèn drough my blood; a-peärt ov your love i should scorn, an' zoo i vow'd, however sweet your looks mid be when we did meet, i'd trample ye down under veet, or let ye goo forlorn. but still thy neäme would always be the sweetest, an' my eyes would zee among all maïdens nwone lik' thee vor ever any mwore; zoo by the walks that we've a-took by flow'ry hedge an' zedgy brook, dear jenny, dry your eyes, an' look as you've a-look'd avore. look up, an' let the evenèn light but sparkle in thy eyes so bright, as they be open to the light o' zunzet in the west; an' let's stroll here vor half an hour, where hangèn boughs do meäke a bow'r above theäse bank, wi' eltrot flow'r an' robinhoods a-drest. hay-meaken. 'tis merry ov a zummer's day, where vo'k be out a-meäkèn haÿ; where men an' women, in a string, do ted or turn the grass, an' zing, wi' cheemèn vaïces, merry zongs, a-tossèn o' their sheenèn prongs wi' eärms a-zwangèn left an' right, in colour'd gowns an' shirtsleeves white; or, wider spread, a reäkèn round the rwosy hedges o' the ground, where sam do zee the speckled sneäke, an' try to kill en wi' his reäke; an' poll do jump about an' squall, to zee the twistèn slooworm crawl. 'tis merry where a gaÿ-tongued lot ov haÿ-meäkers be all a-squot, on lightly-russlèn haÿ, a-spread below an elem's lofty head, to rest their weary limbs an' munch their bit o' dinner, or their nunch; where teethy reäkes do lie all round by picks a-stuck up into ground. an' wi' their vittles in their laps, an' in their hornen cups their draps o' cider sweet, or frothy eäle, their tongues do run wi' joke an' teäle. an' when the zun, so low an' red, do sheen above the leafy head o' zome broad tree, a-rizèn high avore the vi'ry western sky, 'tis merry where all han's do goo athirt the groun', by two an' two, a-reäkèn, over humps an' hollors, the russlèn grass up into rollers. an' woone do row it into line, an' woone do clwose it up behine; an' after them the little bwoys do stride an' fling their eärms all woys, wi' busy picks, an' proud young looks a-meäkèn up their tiny pooks. an' zoo 'tis merry out among the vo'k in haÿ-vield all day long. hay-carren. 'tis merry ov a zummer's day, when vo'k be out a-haulèn haÿ, where boughs, a-spread upon the ground, do meäke the staddle big an' round; an' grass do stand in pook, or lie in long-back'd weäles or parsels, dry. there i do vind it stir my heart to hear the frothèn hosses snort, a-haulèn on, wi' sleek heäir'd hides, the red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides. aye; let me have woone cup o' drink, an' hear the linky harness clink, an' then my blood do run so warm, an' put sich strangth 'ithin my eärm, that i do long to toss a pick, a-pitchèn or a-meäkèn rick. the bwoy is at the hosse's head, an' up upon the waggon bed the lwoaders, strong o' eärm do stan', at head, an' back at taïl, a man, wi' skill to build the lwoad upright an' bind the vwolded corners tight; an' at each zide [=o]'m, sprack an' strong, a pitcher wi' his long-stem'd prong, avore the best two women now a-call'd to reäky after plough. when i do pitchy, 'tis my pride vor jenny hine to reäke my zide, an' zee her fling her reäke, an' reach so vur, an' teäke in sich a streech; an' i don't shatter haÿ, an' meäke mwore work than needs vor jenny's reäke. i'd sooner zee the weäles' high rows lik' hedges up above my nose, than have light work myzelf, an' vind poor jeäne a-beät an' left behind; vor she would sooner drop down dead. than let the pitchers get a-head. 'tis merry at the rick to zee how picks do wag, an' haÿ do vlee. while woone's unlwoadèn, woone do teäke the pitches in; an' zome do meäke the lofty rick upright an' roun', an' tread en hard, an' reäke en down, an' tip en, when the zun do zet, to shoot a sudden vall o' wet. an' zoo 'tis merry any day where vo'k be out a-carrèn hay. [gothic: eclogue.] the best man in the vield. _sam and bob._ sam. that's slowish work, bob. what'st a-been about? thy pookèn don't goo on not over sprack. why i've a-pook'd my weäle, lo'k zee, clear out, an' here i be ageän a-turnèn back. bob. i'll work wi' thee then, sammy, any day, at any work dost like to teäke me at, vor any money thou dost like to lay. now, mister sammy, what dost think o' that? my weäle is nearly twice so big as thine, or else, i warnt, i shouldden be behin'. sam. ah! hang thee, bob! don't tell sich whoppèn lies. _my_ weäle's the biggest, if do come to size. 'tis jist the seäme whatever bist about; why, when dost goo a-teddèn grass, you sloth, another hand's a-fwo'c'd to teäke thy zwath, an' ted a half way back to help thee out; an' then a-reäkèn rollers, bist so slack, dost keep the very bwoys an' women back. an' if dost think that thou canst challenge i at any thing,--then, bob, we'll teäke a pick a-piece, an' woonce theäse zummer, goo an' try to meäke a rick a-piece. a rick o' thine wull look a little funny, when thou'st a-done en, i'll bet any money. bob. you noggerhead! last year thou meäd'st a rick, an' then we had to trig en wi' a stick. an' what did john that tipp'd en zay? why zaid he stood a-top o'en all the while in dread, a-thinkèn that avore he should a-done en he'd tumble over slap wi' him upon en. sam. you yoppèn dog! i warnt i meäde my rick so well's thou meäd'st thy lwoad o' haÿ last week. they hadden got a hundred yards to haul en, an' then they vound 'twer best to have en boun', vor if they hadden, 'twould a-tumbl'd down; an' after that i zeed en all but vallèn, an' trigg'd en up wi' woone o'm's pitchèn pick, to zee if i could meäke en ride to rick; an' when they had the dumpy heap unboun', he vell to pieces flat upon the groun'. bob. do shut thy lyèn chops! what dosten mind thy pitchèn to me out in gully-plot, a-meäkèn o' me waït (wast zoo behind) a half an hour vor ev'ry pitch i got? an' how didst groun' thy pick? an' how didst quirk to get en up on end? why hadst hard work to rise a pitch that wer about so big 's a goodish crow's nest, or a wold man's wig! why bist so weak, dost know, as any roller: zome o' the women vo'k will beät thee hollor. sam. you snub-nos'd flopperchops! i pitch'd so quick, that thou dost know thou hadst a hardish job to teäke in all the pitches off my pick; an' dissèn zee me groun' en, nother, bob. an' thou bist stronger, thou dost think, than i? girt bandy-lags! i jist should like to try. we'll goo, if thou dost like, an' jist zee which can heave the mwost, or car the biggest nitch. bob. there, sam, do meäke me zick to hear thy braggèn! why bissen strong enough to car a flagon. sam. you grinnèn fool! why i'd zet thee a-blowèn, if thou wast wi' me vor a day a-mowèn. i'd wear my cwoat, an' thou midst pull thy rags off, an' then in half a zwath i'd mow thy lags off. bob. thee mow wi' me! why coossen keep up wi' me: why bissèn fit to goo a-vield to skimmy, or mow down docks an' thistles! why i'll bet a shillèn, samel, that thou cassen whet. sam. now don't thee zay much mwore than what'st a-zaid, or else i'll knock thee down, heels over head. bob. thou knock me down, indeed! why cassen gi'e a blow half hard enough to kill a bee. sam. well, thou shalt veel upon thy chops and snout. bob. come on, then, samel; jist let's have woone bout. where we did keep our flagon. when we in mornèn had a-drow'd the grass or russlèn haÿ abrode, the lit'some maïdens an' the chaps, wi' bits o' nunchèns in their laps, did all zit down upon the knaps up there, in under hedge, below the highest elem o' the row, where we did keep our flagon. there we could zee green vields at hand, avore a hunderd on beyand, an' rows o' trees in hedges roun' green meäds, an' zummerleäzes brown, an' thorns upon the zunny down, while aïer, vrom the rockèn zedge in brook, did come along the hedge, where we did keep our flagon. there laughèn chaps did try in plaÿ to bury maïdens up in haÿ, as gigglèn maïdens tried to roll the chaps down into zome deep hole, or sting wi' nettles woone o'm's poll; while john did hele out each his drap o' eäle or cider, in his lap where he did keep the flagon. woone day there spun a whirlwind by where jenny's clothes wer out to dry; an' off vled frocks, a'most a-catch'd by smock-frocks wi' their sleeves outstratch'd, an' caps a-frill'd an' eäperns patch'd; an' she a-steärèn in a fright, wer glad enough to zee em light where we did keep our flagon. an' when white clover wer a-sprung among the eegrass, green an' young, an' elder-flowers wer a-spread among the rwosen white an' red, an' honeyzucks wi' hangèn head,-- o' zunday evenèns we did zit to look all roun' the grounds a bit, where we'd a-kept our flagon. week's end in zummer, in the wold vo'k's time. his aunt an' uncle,--ah! the kind wold souls be often in my mind: a better couple never stood in shoes, an' vew be voun' so good. _she_ cheer'd the work-vo'k in theïr tweils wi' timely bits an' draps, an' smiles; an' _he_ païd all o'm at week's end, their money down to goo an' spend. in zummer, when week's end come roun' the haÿ-meäkers did come vrom groun', an' all zit down, wi' weary bwones, within the yard a-peäved wi' stwones, along avore the peäles, between the yard a-steän'd an' open green. there women zot wi' bare-neck'd chaps, an' maïdens wi' their sleeves an' flaps to screen vrom het their eärms an' polls. an' men wi' beards so black as coals: girt stocky jim, an' lanky john, an' poor wold betty dead an' gone; an' cleän-grown tom so spry an' strong, an' liz the best to pitch a zong, that now ha' nearly half a score o' childern zwarmèn at her door; an' whindlen ann, that cried wi' fear to hear the thunder when 'twer near,-- a zickly maïd, so peäle's the moon, that voun' her zun goo down at noon; an' blushèn jeäne so shy an' meek, that seldom let us hear her speak, that wer a-coorted an' undone by farmer woodley's woldest son; an' after she'd a-been vorzook, wer voun' a-drown'd in longmeäd brook. an' zoo, when _he_'d a-been all roun', an' païd em all their wages down, _she_ us'd to bring vor all, by teäle a cup o' cider or ov eäle, an' then a tutty meäde o' lots o' blossoms vrom her flower-nots, to wear in bands an' button-holes at church, an' in their evenèn strolls. the pea that rangled to the oves, an' columbines an' pinks an' cloves, sweet rwosen vrom the prickly tree, an' jilliflow'rs, an' jessamy; an' short-liv'd pinies, that do shed their leaves upon a eärly bed. she didden put in honeyzuck: she'd nwone, she zaïd, that she could pluck avore wild honeyzucks, a-vound in ev'ry hedge ov ev'ry ground. zoo maïd an' woman, bwoy an' man, went off, while zunzet aïr did fan their merry zunburnt feäzen; zome down leäne, an' zome drough parrocks hwome. ah! who can tell, that ha'nt a-vound, the sweets o' week's-end comèn round! when zadurday do bring woone's mind sweet thoughts o' zunday clwose behind; the day that's all our own to spend wi' god an' wi' an e'thly friend. the worold's girt vo'k, wi' the best o' worldly goods mid be a-blest; but zunday is the poor man's peärt, to seäve his soul an' cheer his heart. the mead a-mow'd. when sheädes do vall into ev'ry hollow, an' reach vrom trees half athirt the groun'; an' banks an' walls be a-lookèn yollow, that be a-turn'd to the zun gwaïn down; drough haÿ in cock, o, we all do vlock, o, along our road vrom the meäd a-mow'd. an' when the last swaÿèn lwoad's a-started up hill so slow to the lofty rick, then we so weary but merry-hearted, do shoulder each [=o]'s a reäke an' pick, wi' empty flagon, behind the waggon, to teäke our road vrom the meäd a-mow'd. when church is out, an' we all so slowly about the knap be a-spreadèn wide, how gaÿ the paths be where we do strolly along the leäne an' the hedge's zide; but nwone's a voun', o, up hill or down, o, so gaÿ's the road drough the meäd a-mow'd. an' when the visher do come, a-drowèn his flutt'ren line over bleädy zedge, drough groun's wi' red thissle-heads a-blowèn, an' watchèn o't by the water's edge; then he do love, o, the best to rove, o, along his road drough the meäd a-mow'd. the sky a-clearen. the drevèn scud that overcast the zummer sky is all a-past, an' softer aïr, a-blowèn drough the quiv'rèn boughs, do sheäke the vew last raïn drops off the leaves lik' dew; an' peäviers, now a-gettèn dry, do steam below the zunny sky that's now so vast a-cleärèn. the sheädes that wer a-lost below the stormy cloud, ageän do show their mockèn sheäpes below the light; an' house-walls be a-lookèn white, an' vo'k do stir woonce mwore in zight, an' busy birds upon the wing do whiver roun' the boughs an' zing, to zee the sky a-clearèn. below the hill's an ash; below the ash, white elder-flow'rs do blow: below the elder is a bed o' robinhoods o' blushèn red; an' there, wi' nunches all a-spread, the haÿ-meäkers, wi' each a cup o' drink, do smile to zee hold up the raïn, an' sky a-cleärèn. 'mid blushèn maïdens, wi' their zong, still draw their white-stemm'd reäkes among the long-back'd weäles an' new-meäde pooks, by brown-stemm'd trees an' cloty brooks; but have noo call to spweil their looks by work, that god could never meäke their weaker han's to underteäke, though skies mid be a-cleärèn. 'tis wrong vor women's han's to clips the zull an' reap-hook, speädes an' whips; an' men abroad, should leäve, by right, woone faïthful heart at hwome to light their bit o' vier up at night, an' hang upon the hedge to dry their snow-white linen, when the sky in winter is a-cleärèn. the evenÈn star o' zummer. when vu'st along theäse road vrom mill, i zeed ye hwome all up the hill, the poplar tree, so straïght an' tall, did rustle by the watervall; an' in the leäze the cows wer all a-lyèn down to teäke their rest an' slowly zunk towárd the west the evenèn star o' zummer. in parrock there the haÿ did lie in weäle below the elems, dry; an' up in hwome-groun' jim, that know'd we all should come along thik road, d a-tied the grass in knots that drow'd poor poll, a-watchèn in the west woone brighter star than all the rest,-- the evenèn star o' zummer. the stars that still do zet an' rise, did sheen in our forefather's eyes; they glitter'd to the vu'st men's zight, the last will have em in their night; but who can vind em half so bright as i thought thik peäle star above my smilèn jeäne, my zweet vu'st love, the evenèn star o' zummer. how sweet's the mornèn fresh an' new, wi' sparklèn brooks an' glitt'rèn dew; how sweet's the noon wi' sheädes a-drow'd upon the groun' but leätely mow'd, an' bloomèn flowers all abrode; but sweeter still, as i do clim', theäse woody hill in evenèn dim 's the evenèn star o' zummer. the clote. _(water-lily.)_ o zummer clote! when the brook's a-glidèn so slow an' smooth down his zedgy bed, upon thy broad leaves so seäfe a-ridèn the water's top wi' thy yollow head, by alder's heads, o, an' bulrush beds, o. thou then dost float, goolden zummer clote! the grey-bough'd withy's a-leänèn lowly above the water thy leaves do hide; the bendèn bulrush, a-swaÿèn slowly, do skirt in zummer thy river's zide; an' perch in shoals, o, do vill the holes, o, where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote! oh! when thy brook-drinkèn flow'r's a-blowèn, the burnèn zummer's a-zettèn in; the time o' greenness, the time o' mowèn, when in the haÿ-vield, wi' zunburnt skin, the vo'k do drink, o, upon the brink, o, where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote! wi' eärms a-spreadèn, an' cheäks a-blowèn, how proud wer i when i vu'st could zwim athirt the pleäce where thou bist a-growèn, wi' thy long more vrom the bottom dim; while cows, knee-high, o, in brook, wer nigh, o, where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote! ov all the brooks drough the meäds a-windèn, ov all the meäds by a river's brim, there's nwone so feäir o' my own heart's vindèn, as where the maïdens do zee thee swim, an' stan' to teäke, o, wi' long-stemm'd reäke, o, thy flow'r afloat, goolden zummer clote! i got two vields. i got two vields, an' i don't ceäre what squire mid have a bigger sheäre. my little zummer-leäze do stratch all down the hangèn, to a patch o' meäd between a hedge an' rank ov elems, an' a river bank. where yollow clotes, in spreadèn beds o' floatèn leaves, do lift their heads by bendèn bulrushes an' zedge a-swaÿèn at the water's edge, below the withy that do spread athirt the brook his grey-leav'd head. an' eltrot flowers, milky white, do catch the slantèn evenèn light; an' in the meäple boughs, along the hedge, do ring the blackbird's zong; or in the day, a-vleèn drough the leafy trees, the whoa'se gookoo do zing to mowers that do zet their zives on end, an' stan' to whet. from my wold house among the trees a leäne do goo along the leäze o' yollow gravel, down between two mossy banks vor ever green. an' trees, a-hangèn overhead, do hide a trinklèn gully-bed, a-cover'd by a bridge vor hoss or man a-voot to come across. zoo wi' my hwomestead, i don't ceäre what squire mid have a bigger sheäre! polly be-en upzides wi' tom. ah! yesterday, d'ye know, i voun' tom dumpy's cwoat an' smock-frock, down below the pollard out in groun'; an' zoo i slyly stole an' took the smock-frock up, an' tack'd the sleeves an' collar up, an' pack'd zome nice sharp stwones, all fresh a-crack'd 'ithin each pocket-hole. an' in the evenèn, when he shut off work, an' come an' donn'd his cwoat, their edges gi'ed en sich a cut, how we did stan' an' laugh! an' when the smock-frock i'd a-zow'd kept back his head an' hands, he drow'd hizzelf about, an' teäv'd, an' blow'd, lik' any up-tied calf. then in a veag away he flung his frock, an' after me he sprung, an' mutter'd out sich dreats, an' wrung his vist up sich a size! but i, a-runnèn, turn'd an' drow'd some doust, a-pick'd up vrom the road, back at en wi' the wind, that blow'd it right into his eyes. an' he did blink, an' vow he'd catch me zomehow yet, an' be my match. but i wer nearly down to hatch avore he got vur on; an' up in chammer, nearly dead wi' runnèn, lik' a cat i vled, an' out o' window put my head to zee if he wer gone. an' there he wer, a-prowlèn roun' upon the green; an' i look'd down an' told en that i hoped he voun' he mussen think to peck upon a body zoo, nor whip the meäre to drow me off, nor tip me out o' cart ageän, nor slip cut hoss-heäir down my neck. be'mi'ster. sweet be'mi'ster, that bist a-bound by green an' woody hills all round, wi' hedges, reachèn up between a thousan' vields o' zummer green, where elems' lofty heads do drow their sheädes vor haÿ-meakers below, an' wild hedge-flow'rs do charm the souls o' maïdens in their evenèn strolls. when i o' zunday nights wi' jeäne do saunter drough a vield or leäne, where elder-blossoms be a-spread above the eltrot's milk-white head, an' flow'rs o' blackberries do blow upon the brembles, white as snow, to be outdone avore my zight by jeän's gaÿ frock o' dazzlèn white; oh! then there's nothèn that's 'ithout thy hills that i do ho about,-- noo bigger pleäce, noo gaÿer town, beyond thy sweet bells' dyèn soun', as they do ring, or strike the hour, at evenèn vrom thy wold red tow'r. no: shelter still my head, an' keep my bwones when i do vall asleep. thatchen o' the rick. as i wer out in meäd last week, a-thatchèn o' my little rick, there green young ee-grass, ankle-high, did sheen below the cloudless sky; an' over hedge in tother groun', among the bennets dry an' brown, my dun wold meäre, wi' neck a-freed vrom zummer work, did snort an' veed; an' in the sheäde o' leafy boughs, my vew wold ragged-cwoated cows did rub their zides upon the raïls, or switch em wi' their heäiry taïls. an' as the mornèn zun rose high above my mossy roof clwose by, the blue smoke curreled up between the lofty trees o' feädèn green: a zight that's touchèn when do show a busy wife is down below, a-workèn hard to cheer woone's tweil wi' her best feäre, an' better smile. mid women still in wedlock's yoke zend up, wi' love, their own blue smoke, an' husbands vind their bwoards a-spread by faïthvul hands when i be dead, an' noo good men in ouer land think lightly o' the weddèn band. true happiness do bide alwone wi' them that ha' their own he'th-stwone to gather wi' their childern roun', a-smilèn at the worold's frown. my bwoys, that brought me thatch an' spars, wer down a-taïtèn on the bars, or zot a-cuttèn wi' a knife, dry eltrot-roots to meäke a fife; or drevèn woone another round the rick upon the grassy ground. an', as the aïer vrom the west did fan my burnèn feäce an' breast, an' hoppèn birds, wi' twitt'rèn beaks, did show their sheenèn spots an' streaks, then, wi' my heart a-vill'd wi' love an' thankvulness to god above, i didden think ov anything that i begrudg'd o' lord or king; vor i ha' round me, vur or near, the mwost to love an' nwone to fear, an' zoo can walk in any pleäce, an' look the best man in the feäce. what good do come to eächèn heads, o' lièn down in silken beds? or what's a coach, if woone do pine to zee woone's naïghbour's twice so fine? contentment is a constant feäst, he's richest that do want the leäst. bees a-zwarmen. avore we went a-milkèn, vive or six o's here wer all alive a-teäkèn bees that zwarm'd vrom hive; an' we'd sich work to catch the hummèn rogues, they led us sich a dance all over hedge an' ditch; an' then at last where should they pitch, but up in uncle's thatch? dick rung a sheep-bell in his han'; liz beät a cannister, an' nan did bang the little fryèn-pan wi' thick an' thumpèn blows; an' tom went on, a-carrèn roun' a bee-pot up upon his crown, wi' all his edge a-reachèn down avore his eyes an' nose. an' woone girt bee, wi' spitevul hum, stung dicky's lip, an' meäde it come all up amost so big's a plum; an' zome, a-vleèn on, got all roun' liz, an' meäde her hop an' scream, a-twirlèn lik' a top, an' spring away right backward, flop down into barken pon': an' nan' gi'ed tom a roguish twitch upon a bank, an' meäde en pitch right down, head-voremost, into ditch,-- tom coulden zee a wink. an' when the zwarm wer seäfe an' sound in mother's bit o' bee-pot ground, she meäde us up a treat all round o' sillibub to drink. readen ov a head-stwone. as i wer readèn ov a stwone in grenley church-yard all alwone, a little maïd ran up, wi' pride to zee me there, an' push'd a-zide a bunch o' bennets that did hide a verse her father, as she zaïd, put up above her mother's head, to tell how much he loved her: the verse wer short, but very good, i stood an' larn'd en where i stood:-- "mid god, dear meäry, gi'e me greäce to vind, lik' thee, a better pleäce, where i woonce mwore mid zee thy feäce; an' bring thy childern up to know his word, that they mid come an' show thy soul how much i lov'd thee." "where's father, then," i zaid, "my chile?" "dead too," she answer'd wi' a smile; "an' i an' brother jim do bide at betty white's, o' tother zide o' road." "mid he, my chile," i cried, "that's father to the fatherless, become thy father now, an' bless, an' keep, an' leäd, an' love thee." though she've a-lost, i thought, so much, still he don't let the thoughts o't touch her litsome heart by day or night; an' zoo, if we could teäke it right, do show he'll meäke his burdens light to weaker souls, an' that his smile is sweet upon a harmless chile, when they be dead that lov'd it. zummer evenÈn dance. come out to the parrock, come out to the tree, the maïdens an' chaps be a-waïtèn vor thee; there's jim wi' his fiddle to plaÿ us some reels, come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels. come, all the long grass is a-mow'd an' a-carr'd, an' the turf is so smooth as a bwoard an' so hard; there's a bank to zit down, when y'ave danced a reel drough, an' a tree over head vor to keep off the dew. there be rwoses an' honeyzucks hangèn among the bushes, to put in thy weäst; an' the zong o' the nightingeäle's heärd in the hedges all roun'; an' i'll get thee a glow-worm to stick in thy gown. there's meäry so modest, an' jenny so smart, an' mag that do love a good rompse to her heart; there's joe at the mill that do zing funny zongs, an' short-lagged dick, too, a-waggèn his prongs. zoo come to the parrock, come out to the tree, the maïdens an' chaps be a-waïtèn vor thee; there's jim wi' his fiddle to plaÿ us some reels,-- come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels. [gothic: eclogue.] the veairies. _simon an' samel._ simon. there's what the vo'k do call a veäiry ring out there, lo'k zee. why, 'tis an oddish thing. samel. ah! zoo do seem. i wunder how do come! what is it that do meäke it, i do wonder? simon. be hang'd if i can tell, i'm sure! but zome do zay do come by lightnèn when do thunder; an' zome do say sich rings as thík ring there is, do grow in dancèn-tracks o' little veäiries, that in the nights o' zummer or o' spring do come by moonlight, when noo other veet do tread the dewy grass, but their's, an' meet an' dance away together in a ring. samel. an' who d'ye think do work the fiddlestick? a little veäiry too, or else wold nick! simon. why, they do zay, that at the veäiries' ball, there's nar a fiddle that's a-heär'd at all; but they do plaÿ upon a little pipe a-meäde o' kexes or o' straws, dead ripe, a-stuck in row (zome short an' longer zome) wi' slime o' snaïls, or bits o' plum-tree gum, an' meäke sich music that to hear it sound, you'd stick so still's a pollard to the ground. samel. what do em dance? 'tis plaïn by theäse green wheels, they don't frisk in an' out in dree-hand reels; vor else, instead o' theäse here girt round o, the'd cut us out a figure aïght ( ), d'ye know. simon. oh! they ha' jigs to fit their little veet. they woulden dance, you know, at their fine ball, the dree an' vow'r han' reels that we do sprawl an' kick about in, when we men do meet. samel. an' zoo have zome vo'k, in their midnight rambles, a-catch'd the veäiries, then, in theäsem gambols. simon. why, yes; but they be off lik' any shot, so soon's a man's a-comèn near the spot samel. but in the day-time where do veäiries hide? where be their hwomes, then? where do veäiries bide? simon. oh! they do get awaÿ down under ground, in hollow pleäzen where they can't be vound. but still my gramfer, many years agoo, (he liv'd at grenley-farm, an milk'd a deäiry), if what the wolder vo'k do tell is true, woone mornèn eärly vound a veäiry. samel. an' did he stop, then, wi' the good wold bwoy? or did he soon contrive to slip awoy? simon. why, when the vo'k were all asleep, a-bed, the veäiries us'd to come, as 'tis a-zaid, avore the vire wer cwold, an' dance an hour or two at dead o' night upon the vloor; var they, by only utterèn a word or charm, can come down chimney lik' a bird; or draw their bodies out so long an' narrow, that they can vlee drough keyholes lik' an arrow. an' zoo woone midnight, when the moon did drow his light drough window, roun' the vloor below, an' crickets roun' the bricken he'th did zing, they come an' danced about the hall in ring; an' tapp'd, drough little holes noo eyes could spy, a kag o' poor aunt's meäd a-stannèn by. an' woone o'm drink'd so much, he coulden mind the word he wer to zay to meäke en small; he got a-dather'd zoo, that after all out tothers went an' left en back behind. an' after he'd a-beät about his head, ageän the keyhole till he wer half dead, he laid down all along upon the vloor till gramfer, comen down, unlocked the door: an' then he zeed en ('twer enough to frighten èn) bolt out o' door, an' down the road lik' lightenèn. fall. corn a-turnen yollow. the windless copse ha' sheädy boughs, wi' blackbirds' evenèn whistles; the hills ha' sheep upon their brows, the zummerleäze ha' thistles: the meäds be gaÿ in grassy maÿ, but, oh! vrom hill to hollow, let me look down upon a groun' o' corn a-turnèn yollow. an' pease do grow in tangled beds, an' beäns be sweet to snuff, o; the teäper woats do bend their heads, the barley's beard is rough, o. the turnip green is fresh between the corn in hill or hollow, but i'd look down upon a groun' o' wheat a-turnèn yollow. 'tis merry when the brawny men do come to reap it down, o, where glossy red the poppy head 's among the stalks so brown, o. 'tis merry while the wheat's in hile, or when, by hill or hollow, the leäzers thick do stoop to pick the ears so ripe an' yollow. a-haulen o' the corn. ah! yesterday, you know, we carr'd the piece o' corn in zidelèn plot, an' work'd about it pretty hard, an' vound the weather pretty hot. 'twer all a-tied an' zet upright in tidy hile o' monday night; zoo yesterday in afternoon we zet, in eärnest, ev'ry woone a-haulèn o' the corn. the hosses, wi' the het an' lwoad, did froth, an' zwang vrom zide to zide, a-gwaïn along the dousty road, an' seem'd as if they would a-died. an' wi' my collar all undone, an' neck a-burnèn wi' the zun, i got, wi' work, an' doust, an' het, so dry at last, i coulden spet, a-haulèn o' the corn. at uncle's orcha'd, gwaïn along, i begged some apples, vor to quench my drith, o' poll that wer among the trees: but she, a saucy wench, toss'd over hedge some crabs vor fun. i squaïl'd her, though, an' meäde her run; an' zoo she gie'd me, vor a treat, a lot o' stubberds vor to eat. a-haulèn o' the corn. an' up at rick, jeäne took the flagon, an' gi'ed us out zome eäle; an' then i carr'd her out upon the waggon, wi' bread an' cheese to gi'e the men. an' there, vor fun, we dress'd her head wi' noddèn poppies bright an' red, as we wer catchèn vrom our laps, below a woak, our bits an' draps, a-haulèn o' the corn. harvest hwome. _the vu'st peärt. the supper._ since we wer striplèns naïghbour john, the good wold merry times be gone: but we do like to think upon what we've a-zeed an' done. when i wer up a hardish lad, at harvest hwome the work-vo'k had sich suppers, they wer jumpèn mad wi' feästèn an' wi' fun. at uncle's, i do mind, woone year, i zeed a vill o' hearty cheer; fat beef an' puddèn, eäle an' beer, vor ev'ry workman's crop an' after they'd a-gie'd god thanks, they all zot down, in two long ranks, along a teäble-bwoard o' planks, wi' uncle at the top. an' there, in platters, big and brown, wer red fat beäcon, an' a roun' o' beef wi' gravy that would drown a little rwoastèn pig; wi' beäns an' teäties vull a zack, an' cabbage that would meäke a stack, an' puddèns brown, a-speckled black wi' figs, so big's my wig. an' uncle, wi' his elbows out, did carve, an' meäke the gravy spout; an' aunt did gi'e the mugs about a-frothèn to the brim. pleätes werden then ov e'then ware, they ate off pewter, that would bear a knock; or wooden trenchers, square, wi' zalt-holes at the rim. an' zoo they munch'd their hearty cheer, an' dipp'd their beards in frothy-beer, an' laugh'd, an' jok'd--they couldden hear what woone another zaid. an' all o'm drink'd, wi' woone accword, the wold vo'k's health: an' beät the bwoard, an' swung their eärms about, an' roar'd, enough to crack woone's head. harvest hwome. _second peärt. what they did after supper._ zoo after supper wer a-done, they clear'd the teäbles, an' begun to have a little bit o' fun, as long as they mid stop. the wold woones took their pipes to smoke, an' tell their teäles, an' laugh an' joke, a-lookèn at the younger vo'k, that got up vor a hop. woone screäp'd away, wi' merry grin, a fiddle stuck below his chin; an' woone o'm took the rollèn pin, an' beät the fryèn pan. an' tothers, dancèn to the soun', went in an' out, an' droo an' roun', an' kick'd, an' beät the tuèn down, a-laughèn, maïd an' man. an' then a maïd, all up tip-tooe, vell down; an' woone o'm wi' his shoe slit down her pocket-hole in two, vrom top a-most to bottom. an' when they had a-danc'd enough, they got a-plaÿèn blindman's buff, an' sard the maïdens pretty rough, when woonce they had a-got em. an' zome did drink, an' laugh, an' roar, an' lots o' teäles they had in store, o' things that happen'd years avore to them, or vo'k they know'd. an' zome did joke, an' zome did zing, an' meäke the girt wold kitchen ring; till uncle's cock, wi' flappèn wing, stratch'd out his neck an' crow'd. a zong ov harvest hwome. the ground is clear. there's nar a ear o' stannèn corn a-left out now, vor win' to blow or raïn to drow; 'tis all up seäfe in barn or mow. here's health to them that plough'd an' zow'd; here's health to them that reap'd an' mow'd, an' them that had to pitch an' lwoad, or tip the rick at harvest hwome. _the happy zight,--the merry night,_ _the men's delight,--the harvest hwome._ an' mid noo harm o' vire or storm beval the farmer or his corn; an' ev'ry zack o' zeed gi'e back a hunderd-vwold so much in barn. an' mid his meäker bless his store, his wife an' all that she've a-bore, an' keep all evil out o' door, vrom harvest hwome to harvest hwome. _the happy zight,--the merry night,_ _the men's delight,--the harvest hwome._ mid nothèn ill betide the mill, as day by day the miller's wheel do dreve his clacks, an' heist his zacks, an' vill his bins wi' show'rèn meal: mid's water never overflow his dousty mill, nor zink too low, vrom now till wheat ageän do grow, an' we've another harvest hwome. _the happy zight,--the merry night,_ _the men's delight,--the harvest hwome._ drough cisterns wet an' malt-kil's het, mid barley paÿ the malter's païns; an' mid noo hurt bevall the wort, a-bweilèn vrom the brewer's graïns. mid all his beer keep out o' harm vrom bu'sted hoop or thunder storm, that we mid have a mug to warm our merry hearts nex' harvest hwome. _the happy zight,--the merry night,_ _the men's delight,--the harvest hwome._ mid luck an' jaÿ the beäker paÿ, as he do hear his vier roar, or nimbly catch his hot white batch, a-reekèn vrom the oven door. an' mid it never be too high vor our vew zixpences to buy, when we do hear our childern cry vor bread, avore nex' harvest hwome. _the happy zight,--the merry night,_ _the men's delight,--the harvest hwome._ wi' jaÿ o' heart mid shooters start the whirrèn pa'tridges in vlocks; while shots do vlee drough bush an' tree, an' dogs do stan' so still as stocks. an' let em ramble round the farms wi' guns 'ithin their bended eärms, in goolden zunsheen free o' storms, rejaïcèn vor the harvest hwome. _the happy zight,--the merry night,_ _the men's delight,--the harvest hwome._ poll's jack-daw. ah! jimmy vow'd he'd have the law ov ouer cousin poll's jack-daw, that had by day his withy jaïl a-hangèn up upon a naïl, ageän the elem tree, avore the house, jist over-right the door, an' twitted vo'k a-passèn by a-most so plaïn as you or i; vor hardly any day did pass 'ithout tom's teachèn o'm zome sa'ce; till by-an'-by he call'd em all 'soft-polls' an' 'gawkeys,' girt an' small. an' zoo, as jim went down along the leäne a-whisslèn ov a zong, the saucy daw cried out by rote "girt soft-poll!" lik' to split his droat. jim stopp'd an' grabbled up a clot, an' zent en at en lik' a shot; an' down went daw an' cage avore the clot, up thump ageän the door. zoo out run poll an' tom, to zee what all the meänèn o't mid be; "now who did that?" zaid poll. "who whurr'd theäse clot?" "girt soft-poll!" cried the bird. an' when tom catch'd a glimpse o' jim, a-lookèn all so red an' slim, an' slinkèn on, he vled, red hot, down leäne to catch en, lik' a shot; but jim, that thought he'd better trust to lags than vistes, tried em vu'st. an' poll, that zeed tom woulden catch en, stood a-smilèn at the hatch. an' zoo he vollow'd en for two or dree stwones' drows, an' let en goo. the ivy. upon theäse knap i'd sooner be the ivy that do climb the tree, than bloom the gaÿest rwose a-tied an' trimm'd upon the house's zide. the rwose mid be the maïdens' pride, but still the ivy's wild an' free; an' what is all that life can gi'e, 'ithout a free light heart, john? the creepèn sheäde mid steal too soon upon the rwose in afternoon; but here the zun do drow his het vrom when do rise till when do zet, to dry the leaves the raïn do wet. an' evenèn aïr do bring along the merry deäiry-maïden's zong, the zong of free light hearts, john. oh! why do vo'k so often chaïn their pinèn minds vor love o' gaïn, an' gi'e their innocence to rise a little in the worold's eyes? if pride could lift us to the skies, what man do value god do slight, an' all is nothèn in his zight 'ithout an honest heart, john. an ugly feäce can't bribe the brooks to show it back young han'some looks, nor crooked vo'k intice the light to cast their zummer sheädes upright: noo goold can blind our meäker's zight. an' what's the odds what cloth do hide the bosom that do hold inside a free an' honest heart, john? the welshnut tree. when in the evenèn the zun's a-zinkèn, a drowèn sheädes vrom the yollow west, an' mother, weary, 's a-zot a thinkèn, wi' vwolded eärms by the vire at rest, then we do zwarm, o, wi' such a charm, o, so vull o' glee by the welshnut tree. a-leävèn father in-doors, a-leinèn' in his girt chair in his easy shoes, or in the settle so high behine en, while down bezide en the dog do snooze, our tongues do run, o, enough to stun, o, your head wi' glee by the welshnut tree. there we do plaÿ 'thread the woman's needle.' an' slap the maïdens a-dartèn drough: or try who'll ax em the hardest riddle, or soonest tell woone a-put us, true; or zit an' ring, o, the bells, ding, ding, o, upon our knee by the welshnut tree. an' zome do goo out, an' hide in orcha't, an' tothers, slily a-stealèn by, where there's a dark cunnèn pleäce, do sarch it, till they do zee em an' cry, "i spy," an' thik a-vound, o, do gi'e a bound, o, to get off free to the welshnut tree. poll went woone night, that we midden vind her, inzide a woak wi' a hollow moot, an' drough a hole near the groun' behind her, i pok'd a stick in, an' catch'd her voot; an' out she scream'd, o, an' jump'd, an' seem'd, o, a-móst to vlee to the welshnut tree. an' when, at last, at the drashel, mother do call us, smilèn, in-door to rest, then we do cluster by woone another, to zee hwome them we do love the best: an' then do sound, o, "good night," all round, o, to end our glee by the welshnut tree. jenny out vrom hwome. o wild-reävèn west winds; as you do roar on, the elems do rock an' the poplars do ply, an' weäve do dreve weäve in the dark-water'd pon',-- oh! where do ye rise vrom, an' where do ye die? o wild-reävèn winds i do wish i could vlee wi' you, lik' a bird o' the clouds, up above the ridge o' the hill an' the top o' the tree, to where i do long vor, an' vo'k i do love. or else that in under theäse rock i could hear, in the soft-zwellèn sounds you do leäve in your road, zome words you mid bring me, vrom tongues that be dear, vrom friends that do love me, all scatter'd abrode. o wild-reävèn winds! if you ever do roar by the house an' the elems vrom where i'm a-come, breathe up at the window, or call at the door, an' tell you've a-voun' me a-thinkèn o' hwome. grenley water. the sheädeless darkness o' the night can never blind my mem'ry's zight; an' in the storm, my fancy's eyes can look upon their own blue skies. the laggèn moon mid faïl to rise, but when the daylight's blue an' green be gone, my fancy's zun do sheen at hwome at grenley water. as when the work-vo'k us'd to ride in waggon, by the hedge's zide, drough evenèn sheädes that trees cast down vrom lofty stems athirt the groun'; an' in at house the mug went roun', while ev'ry merry man praïs'd up the pretty maïd that vill'd his cup, the maïd o' grenley water. there i do seem ageän to ride the hosses to the water-zide, an' zee the visher fling his hook below the withies by the brook; or fanny, wi' her blushèn look, car on her païl, or come to dip wi' ceäreful step, her pitcher's lip down into grenley water. if i'd a farm wi' vower ploughs, an' vor my deäiry fifty cows; if grenley water winded down drough two good miles o' my own groun'; if half ov ashknowle hill wer brown wi' my own corn,--noo growèn pride should ever meäke me cast azide the maïd o' grenley water. the veairy veet that i do meet. when dewy fall's red leaves do vlee along the grass below the tree, or lie in yollow beds a-shook upon the shallow-water'd brook, or drove 'ithin a sheädy nook; then softly, in the evenèn, down the knap do steal along the groun' the veäiry veet that i do meet below the row o' beech trees. 'tis jist avore the candle-light do redden windows up at night, an' peäler stars do light the vogs a-risèn vrom the brooks an' bogs, an' when in barkens yoppèn dogs do bark at vo'k a-comèn near, or growl a-lis'enèn to hear the veäiry veet that i do meet below the row o' beech trees. dree times a-year do bless the road o' womanhood a-gwaïn abrode: when vu'st her litty veet do tread the eärly maÿ's white deäisy bed: when leaves be all a-scattered dead; an' when the winter's vrozen grass do glissen in the zun lik' glass vor veäiry veet that i do meet below the row o' beech trees. mornÈn. when vu'st the breakèn day is red, an' grass is dewy wet, an' roun' the blackberry's a-spread the spider's gliss'nèn net, then i do dreve the cows across the brook that's in a vog, while they do trot, an' bleäre, an' toss their heads to hook the dog; vor the cock do gi'e me warnèn, an' light or dark, so brisk's a lark, i'm up at break o' mornèn. avore the maïden's sleep's a-broke by window-strikèn zun, avore the busy wife's vu'st smoke do curl above the tun, my day's begun. an' when the zun 's a-zinkèn in the west, the work the mornèn brought's a-done, an' i do goo to rest, till the cock do gi'e me warnèn; an' light or dark, so brisk's a lark, i'm up ageän nex' mornèn. we can't keep back the daily zun, the wind is never still, an' never ha' the streams a-done a-runnèn down at hill. zoo they that ha' their work to do, should do't so soon's they can; vor time an' tide will come an' goo, an' never waït vor man, as the cock do gi'e me warnèn; when, light or dark, so brisk's a lark, i'm up so rathe in mornèn. we've leäzes where the aïr do blow, an' meäds wi' deäiry cows, an' copse wi' lewth an' sheäde below the overhangèn boughs. an' when the zun, noo time can tire, 's a-quench'd below the west, then we've, avore the bleäzèn vire, a settle vor to rest,-- to be up ageän nex' mornèn so brisk's a lark, when, light or dark, the cock do gi'e us warnèn. out a-nuttÈn. last week, when we'd a haul'd the crops, we went a-nuttèn out in copse, wi' nuttèn-bags to bring hwome vull, an' beaky nuttèn-crooks to pull the bushes down; an' all o's wore wold clothes that wer in rags avore, an' look'd, as we did skip an' zing, lik' merry gipsies in a string, a-gwaïn a-nuttèn. zoo drough the stubble, over rudge an' vurrow, we begun to trudge; an' sal an' nan agreed to pick along wi' me, an' poll wi' dick; an' they went where the wold wood, high an' thick, did meet an' hide the sky; but we thought we mid vind zome good ripe nuts among the shorter wood, the best vor nuttèn. we voun' zome bushes that did feäce the downcast zunlight's highest pleäce, where clusters hung so ripe an' brown, that some slipp'd shell an' vell to groun'. but sal wi' me zoo hitch'd her lag in brembles, that she coulden wag; while poll kept clwose to dick, an' stole the nuts vrom's hinder pocket-hole, while he did nutty. an' nanny thought she zaw a sneäke, an' jump'd off into zome girt breäke, an' tore the bag where she'd a-put her sheäre, an' shatter'd ev'ry nut. an' out in vield we all zot roun' a white-stemm'd woak upon the groun', where yollor evenèn light did strik' drough yollow leaves, that still wer thick in time o' nuttèn, an' twold ov all the luck we had among the bushes, good an' bad! till all the maïdens left the bwoys, an' skipp'd about the leäze all woys vor musherooms, to car back zome, a treat vor father in at hwome. zoo off we trudg'd wi' clothes in slents an' libbets, jis' lik' jack-o'-lents, vrom copse a-nuttèn. teaken in apples. we took the apples in last week, an' got, by night, zome eächèn backs a-stoopèn down all day to pick so many up in mawns an' zacks. an' there wer liz so proud an' prim, an' dumpy nan, an' poll so sly; an' dapper tom, an' loppèn jim, an' little dick, an' fan, an' i. an' there the lwoaded tree bent low, behung wi' apples green an' red; an' springèn grass could hardly grow, drough windvalls down below his head. an' when the maïdens come in roun' the heavy boughs to vill their laps, we slily shook the apples down lik' haïl, an' gi'ed their backs some raps. an' zome big apple, jimmy flung to squaïl me, gi'ed me sich a crack; but very shortly his ear rung, wi' woone i zent to paÿ en back. an' after we'd a-had our squaïls, poor tom, a-jumpèn in a bag, wer pinch'd by all the maïden's naïls, an' rolled down into hwome-groun' quag. an' then they carr'd our fan all roun', 'ithin a mawn, till zome girt stump upset en over on the groun', an' drow'd her out along-straïght, plump. an' in the cider-house we zot upon the windlass poll an' nan, an' spun 'em roun' till they wer got so giddy that they coulden stan'. meaple leaves be yollow. come, let's stroll down so vur's the poun', avore the sparklèn zun is down: the zummer's gone, an' days so feäir as theäse be now a-gettèn reäre. the night, wi' mwore than daylight's sheäre o' wat'ry sky, do wet wi' dew the ee-grass up above woone's shoe, an' meäple leaves be yollow. the last hot doust, above the road, an' vu'st dead leaves ha' been a-blow'd by plaÿsome win's where spring did spread the blossoms that the zummer shed; an' near blue sloos an' conkers red the evenèn zun, a zettèn soon, do leäve a-quiv'rèn to the moon, the meäple leaves so yollow. zoo come along, an' let's injaÿ the last fine weather while do staÿ; while thou canst hang, wi' ribbons slack, thy bonnet down upon thy back, avore the winter, cwold an' black, do kill thy flowers, an' avore thy bird-cage is a-took in door, though meäple leaves be yollow. night a-zetten in. when leäzers wi' their laps o' corn noo longer be a-stoopèn, an' in the stubble, all vorlorn, noo poppies be a-droopèn; when theäse young harvest-moon do weäne, that now've his horns so thin, o, we'll leäve off walkèn in the leäne, while night's a zettèn in, o. when zummer doust is all a-laid below our litty shoes, o; when all the raïn-chill'd flow'rs be dead, that now do drink the dews, o; when beauty's neck, that's now a-show'd, 's a-muffled to the chin, o; we'll leäve off walkèn in the road, when night's a-zettèn in, o. but now, while barley by the road do hang upon the bough, o, a-pull'd by branches off the lwoad a-ridèn hwome to mow, o; while spiders roun' the flower-stalks ha' cobwebs yet to spin, o, we'll cool ourzelves in out-door walks, when night's a-zettèn in, o. while down at vword the brook so small, that leätely wer so high, o, wi' little tinklèn sounds do vall in roun' the stwones half dry, o; while twilight ha' sich aïr in store, to cool our zunburnt skin, o, we'll have a ramble out o' door, when night's a-zettèn in, o. the weather-beaten tree. the woaken tree, a-beät at night by stormy winds wi' all their spite, mid toss his lim's, an' ply, an' mwoan, wi' unknown struggles all alwone; an' when the day do show his head, a-stripp'd by winds at last a-laid, how vew mid think that didden zee, how night-time had a-tried thik tree. an' happy vo'k do seldom know how hard our unknown storms do blow, the while our heads do slowly bend below the trials god do zend, like shiv'rèn bennets, beäre to all the drevèn winds o' dark'nèn fall. an' zoo in tryèn hardships we be lik' the weather beäten tree. but he will never meäke our sheäre o' sorrow mwore than we can bear, but meäke us zee, if 'tis his will, that he can bring us good vrom ill; as after winter he do bring, in his good time, the zunny spring, an' leaves, an' young vo'k vull o' glee a-dancèn roun' the woaken tree. true love's the ivy that do twine unwith'rèn roun' his mossy rine, when winter's zickly zun do sheen upon its leaves o' glossy green, so patiently a-holdèn vast till storms an' cwold be all a-past, an' only livèn vor to be a-meäted to the woaken tree. shrodon feÄir. _the vu'st peärt._ an' zoo's the day wer warm an' bright, an' nar a cloud wer up in zight, we wheedled father vor the meäre an' cart, to goo to shrodon feäir. an' poll an' nan run off up stairs, to shift their things, as wild as heäres; an' pull'd out, each o'm vrom her box, their snow-white leäce an' newest frocks, an' put their bonnets on, a-lined wi' blue, an' sashes tied behind; an' turn'd avore the glass their feäce an' back, to zee their things in pleäce; while dick an' i did brush our hats an' cwoats, an' cleän ourzelves lik' cats. at woone or two o'clock, we vound ourzelves at shrodon seäfe an' sound, a-struttèn in among the rows o' tilted stannèns an' o' shows, an' girt long booths wi' little bars chock-vull o' barrels, mugs, an' jars, an' meat a-cookèn out avore the vier at the upper door; where zellers bwold to buyers shy did hollow round us, "what d'ye buy?" an' scores o' merry tongues did speak at woonce, an' childern's pipes did squeak, an' horns did blow, an' drums did rumble, an' bawlèn merrymen did tumble; an' woone did all but want an edge to peärt the crowd wi', lik' a wedge. we zaw the dancers in a show dance up an' down, an' to an' fro, upon a rwope, wi' chalky zoles, so light as magpies up on poles; an' tumblers, wi' their streaks an' spots, that all but tied theirzelves in knots. an' then a conjurer burn'd off poll's han'kerchief so black's a snoff, an' het en, wi' a single blow, right back ageän so white as snow. an' after that, he fried a fat girt ceäke inzide o' my new hat; an' yet, vor all he did en brown, he didden even zweal the crown. shrodon feÄr. _the rest o't._ an' after that we met wi' zome o' mans'on vo'k, but jist a-come, an' had a raffle vor a treat all roun', o' gingerbread to eat; an' tom meäde leäst, wi' all his sheäkes, an' païd the money vor the ceäkes, but wer so lwoth to put it down as if a penny wer a poun'. then up come zidelèn sammy heäre, that's fond o' poll, an' she can't bear, a-holdèn out his girt scram vist, an' ax'd her, wi' a grin an' twist, to have zome nuts; an' she, to hide her laughèn, turn'd her head azide, an' answer'd that she'd rather not, but nancy mid. an' nan, so hot as vier, zaid 'twer quite enough vor poll to answer vor herzuf: she had a tongue, she zaid, an' wit enough to use en, when 'twer fit. an' in the dusk, a-ridèn round drough okford, who d'ye think we vound but sam ageän, a-gwäin vrom feäir astride his broken-winded meäre. an' zoo, a-hettèn her, he tried to keep up clwose by ouer zide: but when we come to haÿward-brudge, our poll gi'ed dick a meänèn nudge, an' wi' a little twitch our meäre flung out her lags so lights a heäre, an' left poor sammy's skin an' bwones behind, a-kickèn o' the stwones. martin's tide. come, bring a log o' cleft wood, jack, an' fling en on ageän the back, an' zee the outside door is vast,-- the win' do blow a cwoldish blast. come, so's! come, pull your chairs in roun' avore the vire; an' let's zit down, an' keep up martin's-tide, vor i shall keep it up till i do die. 'twer martinmas, and ouer feäir, when jeäne an' i, a happy peäir, vu'st walk'd, a-keepèn up the tide, among the stan'ens, zide by zide; an' thik day twel'month, never faïlèn, she gi'ed me at the chancel raïlèn a heart--though i do sound her praise-- as true as ever beät in staÿs. how vast the time do goo! do seem but yesterday,--'tis lik' a dream! ah, s[=o]'s! 'tis now zome years agoo you vu'st knew me, an' i knew you; an' we've a-had zome bits o' fun, by winter vire an' zummer zun. aye; we've a-prowl'd an' rigg'd about lik' cats, in harm's way mwore than out, an' busy wi' the tricks we plaÿ'd in fun, to outwit chap or maïd. an' out avore the bleäzèn he'th, our naïsy tongues, in winter me'th, 'v a-shook the warmèn-pan, a-hung bezide us, till his cover rung. there, 'twer but tother day thik chap, our robert, wer a child in lap; an' poll's two little lags hung down vrom thik wold chair a span vrom groun', an' now the saucy wench do stride about wi' steps o' dree veet wide. how time do goo! a life do seem as 'twer a year; 'tis lik' a dream! guy faux's night. guy faux's night, dost know, we chaps, a-putten on our woldest traps, went up the highest o' the knaps, an' meäde up such a vier! an' thou an' tom wer all we miss'd, vor if a sarpent had a-hiss'd among the rest in thy sprack vist, our fun 'd a-been the higher. we chaps at hwome, an' will our cousin, took up a half a lwoad o' vuzzen; an' burn'd a barrel wi' a dozen o' faggots, till above en the fleämes, arisèn up so high 's the tun, did snap, an' roar, an' ply, lik' vier in an' oven. an' zome wi' hissèn squibs did run, to paÿ off zome what they'd a-done, an' let em off so loud's a gun ageän their smokèn polls; an' zome did stir their nimble pags wi' crackers in between their lags, while zome did burn their cwoats to rags, or wes'cots out in holes. an' zome o'm's heads lost half their locks, an' zome o'm got their white smock-frocks jist fit to vill the tinder-box, wi' half the backs o'm off; an' dick, that all o'm vell upon, vound woone flap ov his cwoat-taïl gone, an' tother jist a-hangèn on, a-zweal'd so black's a snoff. [gothic: eclogue.] the common a-took in. _thomas an' john._ thomas. good morn t'ye, john. how b'ye? how b'ye? zoo you be gwaïn to market, i do zee. why, you be quite a-lwoaded wi' your geese. john. ees, thomas, ees. why, i'm a-gettèn rid ov ev'ry goose an' goslèn i've a-got: an' what is woose, i fear that i must zell my little cow. thomas. how zoo, then, john? why, what's the matter now? what, can't ye get along? b'ye run a-ground? an' can't paÿ twenty shillèns vor a pound? what can't ye put a lwoaf on shelf? john. ees, now; but i do fear i shan't 'ithout my cow. no; they do mëan to teäke the moor in, i do hear, an' 'twill be soon begun upon; zoo i must zell my bit o' stock to-year, because they woon't have any groun' to run upon. thomas. why, what d'ye tell o'? i be very zorry to hear what they be gwaïn about; but yet i s'pose there'll be a 'lotment vor ye, when they do come to mark it out. john. no; not vor me, i fear. an' if there should, why 'twoulden be so handy as 'tis now; vor 'tis the common that do do me good, the run for my vew geese, or vor my cow. thomas. ees, that's the job; why 'tis a handy thing to have a bit o' common, i do know, to put a little cow upon in spring, the while woone's bit ov orcha'd grass do grow. john. aye, that's the thing, you zee. now i do mow my bit o' grass, an' meäke a little rick; an' in the zummer, while do grow, my cow do run in common vor to pick a bleäde or two o' grass, if she can vind em, vor tother cattle don't leäve much behind em. zoo in the evenèn, we do put a lock o' nice fresh grass avore the wicket; an' she do come at vive or zix o'clock, as constant as the zun, to pick it. an' then, bezides the cow, why we do let our geese run out among the emmet hills; an' then when we do pluck em, we do get vor zeäle zome veathers an' zome quills; an' in the winter we do fat em well, an' car em to the market vor to zell to gentlevo'ks, vor we don't oft avvword to put a goose a-top ov ouer bwoard; but we do get our feäst,--vor we be eäble to clap the giblets up a-top o' teäble. thomas. an' i don't know o' many better things, than geese's heads and gizzards, lags an' wings. john. an' then, when i ha' nothèn else to do, why i can teäke my hook an' gloves, an' goo to cut a lot o' vuzz and briars vor hetèn ovens, or vor lightèn viers. an' when the childern be too young to eärn a penny, they can g'out in zunny weather, an' run about, an' get together a bag o' cow-dung vor to burn. thomas. 'tis handy to live near a common; but i've a-zeed, an' i've a-zaid, that if a poor man got a bit o' bread, they'll try to teäke it vrom en. but i wer twold back tother day, that they be got into a way o' lettèn bits o' groun' out to the poor. john. well, i do hope 'tis true, i'm sure; an' i do hope that they will do it here, or i must goo to workhouse, i do fear. [gothic: eclogue.] two farms in woone. _robert an' thomas._ robert. you'll lose your meäster soon, then, i do vind; he's gwaïn to leäve his farm, as i do larn, at miëlmas; an' i be zorry vor'n. what, is he then a little bit behind? thomas. o no! at miëlmas his time is up, an' thik there sly wold fellow, farmer tup, a-fearèn that he'd get a bit o' bread, 'v a-been an' took his farm here over's head. robert. how come the squire to treat your meäster zoo? thomas. why, he an' meäster had a word or two. robert. is farmer tup a-gwaïn to leäve his farm? he han't a-got noo young woones vor to zwarm. poor over-reachèn man! why to be sure he don't want all the farms in parish, do er? thomas. why ees, all ever he can come across, last year, you know, he got away the eäcre or two o' ground a-rented by the beäker, an' what the butcher had to keep his hoss; an' vo'k do beänhan' now, that meäster's lot will be a-drowd along wi' what he got. robert. that's it. in theäse here pleäce there used to be eight farms avore they wer a-drowd together, an' eight farm-housen. now how many be there? why after this, you know there'll be but dree. thomas. an' now they don't imploy so many men upon the land as work'd upon it then, vor all they midden crop it worse, nor stock it. the lan'lord, to be sure, is into pocket; vor half the housen beën down, 'tis clear, don't cost so much to keep em up, a-near. but then the jobs o' work in wood an' morter do come i 'spose, you know, a little shorter; an' many that wer little farmers then, be now a-come all down to leäb'rèn men; an' many leäb'rèn men, wi' empty hands, do live lik' drones upon the worker's lands. robert. aye, if a young chap, woonce, had any wit to try an' scrape together zome vew pound, to buy some cows an' teäke a bit o' ground, he mid become a farmer, bit by bit. but, hang it! now the farms be all so big, an' bits o' groun' so skeä'ce, woone got no scope; if woone could seäve a poun', woone couldden hope to keep noo live stock but a little pig. thomas. why here wer vourteen men, zome years agoo, a-kept a-drashèn half the winter drough; an' now, woone's drashels be'n't a bit o' good. they got machines to drashy wi', plague teäke em! an' he that vu'st vound out the way to meäke em, i'd drash his busy zides vor'n if i could! avore they took away our work, they ought to meäke us up the bread our leäbour bought. robert. they hadden need meäke poor men's leäbour less, vor work a'ready is uncommon skeä'ce. thomas. ah! robert! times be badish vor the poor; an' worse will come, i be a-fear'd, if moore in theäse year's almanick do tell us right. robert. why then we sartainly must starve. good night! winter the vrost. come, run up hwome wi' us to night, athirt the vield a-vroze so white, where vrosty sheädes do lie below the winter ricks a-tipp'd wi' snow, an' lively birds, wi' waggèn taïls, do hop upon the icy raïls, an' rime do whiten all the tops o' bush an' tree in hedge an' copse, in wind's a-cuttèn keen. come, maïdens, come: the groun's a-vroze too hard to-night to spweil your clothes. you got noo pools to waddle drough, nor clay a-pullèn off your shoe: an' we can trig ye at the zide, to keep ye up if you do slide: zoo while there's neither wet nor mud, 's the time to run an' warm your blood, in winds a-cuttèn keen. vor young men's hearts an' maïden's eyes don't vreeze below the cwoldest skies, while they in twice so keen a blast can wag their brisk lim's twice so vast! though vier-light, a-flick'rèn red drough vrosty window-peänes, do spread vrom wall to wall, vrom he'th to door, vor us to goo an' zit avore, vrom winds a-cuttèn keen. a bit o' fun. we thought you woulden leäve us quite so soon as what you did last night; our fun jist got up to a height as you about got hwome. the friskèn chaps did skip about, an' cou'se the maïdens in an' out, a-meäkèn such a randy-rout, you coulden hear a drum. an' tom, a-springèn after bet blind-vwolded, whizz'd along, an' het poor grammer's zide, an' overzet her chair, at blind-man's buff; an' she, poor soul, as she did vall, did show her snags o' teeth an' squall, an' what, she zaid, wer wo'se than all, she shatter'd all her snuff. an' bet, a-hoppèn back vor fear o' tom, struck uncle zomewhere near, an' meäde his han' spill all his beer right down her poll an' back; an' joe, in middle o' the din, slipt out a bit, an' soon come in wi' all below his dapper chin a-jumpèn in a zack. an' in a twinklèn tother chaps jist hung en to a crook wi' straps, an' meäde en bear the maïdens' slaps, an' prickens wi' a pin. an' jim, a-catchèn poll, poor chap, in back-house in the dark, vell slap athirt a tub o' barm,--a trap she set to catch en in. an' then we zot down out o' breath, an' meäde a circle roun' the he'th, a-keepèn up our harmless me'th, till supper wer a-come. an' after we'd a-had zome prog, all tother chaps begun to jog, wi' sticks to lick a thief or dog, to zee the maïdens hwome. fannys be'th-day. how merry, wi' the cider cup, we kept poor fanny's be'th-day up! an' how our busy tongues did run an' hands did wag, a-meäkèn fun! what plaÿsome anticks zome [=o]'s done! an' how, a-reelèn roun' an' roun', we beät the merry tuèn down, while music wer a-soundèn! the maïdens' eyes o' black an' blue did glisten lik' the mornèn dew; an' while the cider-mug did stand a-hissèn by the bleäzèn brand, an' uncle's pipe wer in his hand, how little he or we did think how peäle the zettèn stars did blink while music wer a-soundèn. an' fanny's last young _teen_ begun, poor maïd, wi' thik day's risèn zun, an' we all wish'd her many mwore long years wi' happiness in store; an' as she went an' stood avore the vier, by her father's zide, her mother dropp'd a tear o' pride while music wer a-soundèn. an' then we did all kinds o' tricks wi' han'kerchiefs, an' strings, an' sticks: an' woone did try to overmatch another wi' zome cunnèn catch, while tothers slyly tried to hatch zome geäme; but yet, by chap an' maïd. the dancèn wer the mwost injaÿ'd, while music wer a-soundèn. the briskest chap ov all the lot wer tom, that danc'd hizzelf so hot, he doff'd his cwoat an' jump'd about, wi' girt new shirt-sleeves all a-strout, among the maïdens screamèn out, a-thinkèn, wi' his strides an' stamps, he'd squot their veet wi' his girt clamps, while music wer a-soundèn. then up jump'd uncle vrom his chair, an' pull'd out aunt to meäke a peäir; an' off he zet upon his tooe, so light's the best that beät a shoe, wi' aunt a-crièn "let me goo:" while all ov us did laugh so loud, we drown'd the tuèn o' the croud, while music wer a-soundèn. a-comèn out o' passage, nan, wi' pipes an' cider in her han', an' watchèn uncle up so sprack, vorgot her veet, an' vell down smack athirt the house-dog's shaggy back, that wer in passage vor a snooze, beyond the reach o' dancers' shoes, while music wer a-soundèn. what dick an' i did. last week the browns ax'd nearly all the naïghbours to a randy, an' left us out o't, girt an' small, vor all we liv'd so handy; an' zoo i zaid to dick, "we'll trudge, when they be in their fun, min; an' car up zome'hat to the rudge, an' jis' stop up the tun, min." zoo, wi' the ladder vrom the rick, we stole towards the house, an' crope in roun' behind en, lik' a cat upon a mouse. then, lookèn roun', dick whisper'd "how is theäse job to be done, min: why we do want a faggot now, vor stoppèn up the tun, min." "stan' still," i answer'd; "i'll teäke ceäre o' that: why dussen zee the little grindèn stwone out there, below the apple-tree? put up the ladder; in a crack shalt zee that i wull run, min, an' teäke en up upon my back, an' soon stop up the tun, min." zoo up i clomb upon the thatch, an' clapp'd en on; an' slided right down ageän, an' run drough hatch, behind the hedge, an' hided. the vier that wer clear avore, begun to spweil their fun, min; the smoke all roll'd toward the door, vor i'd a-stopp'd the tun, min. the maïdens cough'd or stopp'd their breath, the men did hauk an' spet; the wold vo'k bundled out from he'th wi' eyes a-runnèn wet. "'t'ool choke us all," the wold man cried, "whatever's to be done, min? why zome'hat is a-vell inside o' chimney drough the tun, min." then out they scamper'd all, vull run, an' out cried tom, "i think the grindèn-stwone is up on tun, vor i can zee the wink. this is some kindness that the vo'k at woodley have a-done, min; i wish i had em here, i'd poke their numskulls down the tun, min." then off he zet, an' come so quick 's a lamplighter, an' brote the little ladder in vrom rick, to clear the chimney's droat. while i, a-chucklèn at the joke, a-slided down, to run, min, to hidelock, had a-left the vo'k as bad as na'r a tun, min. grammer's shoes. i do seem to zee grammer as she did use vor to show us, at chris'mas, her weddèn shoes, an' her flat spreadèn bonnet so big an' roun' as a girt pewter dish a-turn'd upside down; when we all did draw near in a cluster to hear o' the merry wold soul how she did use to walk an' to dance wi' her high-heel shoes. she'd a gown wi' girt flowers lik' hollyhocks, an' zome stockèns o' gramfer's a-knit wì' clocks, an' a token she kept under lock an' key,-- a small lock ov his heäir off avore 't wer grey. an' her eyes wer red, an' she shook her head, when we'd all a-look'd at it, an' she did use to lock it away wi' her weddèn shoes. she could tell us such teäles about heavy snows, an' o' raïns an' o' floods when the waters rose all up into the housen, an' carr'd awoy all the bridge wi' a man an' his little bwoy; an' o' vog an' vrost, an' o' vo'k a-lost, an' o' peärties at chris'mas, when she did use vor to walk hwome wi' gramfer in high-heel shoes. ev'ry chris'mas she lik'd vor the bells to ring, an' to have in the zingers to heär em zing the wold carols she heärd many years a-gone, while she warm'd em zome cider avore the bron'; an' she'd look an' smile at our dancèn, while she did tell how her friends now a-gone did use to reely wi' her in their high-heel shoes. ah! an' how she did like vor to deck wi' red holly-berries the window an' wold clock's head, an' the clavy wi' boughs o' some bright green leaves, an' to meäke twoast an' eäle upon chris'mas eves; but she's now, drough greäce, in a better pleäce, though we'll never vorget her, poor soul, nor lose gramfer's token ov heäir, nor her weddèn shoes. zunsheen in the winter. the winter clouds, that long did hide the zun, be all a-blown azide, an' in the light, noo longer dim, do sheen the ivy that do clim' the tower's zide an' elem's stim; an' holmen bushes, in between the leafless thorns, be bright an' green to zunsheen o' the winter. the trees, that yesterday did twist in wind's a-drevèn raïn an' mist, do now drow sheädes out, long an' still; but roarèn watervals do vill their whirlèn pools below the hill, where, wi' her païl upon the stile, a-gwaïn a-milkèn jeäne do smile to zunsheen o' the winter. the birds do sheäke, wi' plaÿsome skips, the raïn-drops off the bushes' tips, a-chirripèn wi' merry sound; while over all the grassy ground the wind's a-whirlèn round an' round so softly, that the day do seem mwore lik' a zummer in a dream, than zunsheen in the winter. the wold vo'k now do meet abrode, an' tell o' winter's they've a-know'd; when snow wer long above the groun', or floods broke all the bridges down, or wind unheal'd a half the town,-- the teäles o' wold times long a-gone, but ever dear to think upon, the zunsheen o' their winter. vor now to them noo brook can run, noo hill can feäce the winter zun, noo leaves can vall, noo flow'rs can feäde, noo snow can hide the grasses bleäde, noo vrost can whiten in the sheäde, noo day can come, but what do bring to mind ageän their early spring, that's now a-turn'd to winter. the weepen leady. when, leäte o' nights, above the green by thik wold house, the moon do sheen, a leädy there, a-hangèn low her head, 's a-walkèn to an' fro in robes so white's the driven snow, wi' woone eärm down, while woone do rest all lily-white athirt the breast o' thik poor weepèn leädy. the whirlèn wind an' whis'lèn squall do sheäke the ivy by the wall, an' meäke the plyèn tree-tops rock, but never ruffle her white frock; an' slammèn door an' rattlèn lock, that in thik empty house do sound, do never seem to meäke look round thik ever downcast leädy. a leädy, as the teäle do goo, that woonce liv'd there, an' lov'd too true, wer by a young man cast azide. a mother sad, but not a bride; an' then her father, in his pride an' anger, offer'd woone o' two vull bitter things to undergoo to thik poor weepèn leädy: that she herzelf should leäve his door, to darken it ageän noo mwore; or that her little plaÿsome chile, a-zent away a thousand mile, should never meet her eyes to smile an' plaÿ ageän; till she, in sheäme, should die an' leäve a tarnish'd neäme, a sad vorseäken leädy. "let me be lost," she cried, "the while i do but know vor my poor chile;" an' left the hwome ov all her pride, to wander drough the worold wide, wi' grief that vew but she ha' tried: an' lik' a flow'r a blow ha' broke, she wither'd wi' the deadly stroke, an' died a weepèn leädy. an' she do keep a-comèn on to zee her father dead an' gone, as if her soul could have noo rest avore her teäry cheäk's a-prest by his vorgivèn kiss. zoo blest be they that can but live in love, an' vind a pleäce o' rest above unlik' the weepèn leädy. the happy days when i wer young. in happy days when i wer young, an' had noo ho, an' laugh'd an' zung, the maïd wer merry by her cow, an' men wer merry wi' the plough; but never talk'd, at hwome or out o' doors, o' what's a-talk'd about by many now,--that to despise the laws o' god an' man is wise. wi' daïly health, an' daïly bread, an' thatch above their shelter'd head, they velt noo fear, an' had noo spite, to keep their eyes awake at night; but slept in peace wi' god on high an' man below, an' fit to die. o' grassy meäd an' woody nook, an' waters o' the windèn brook, that sprung below the vu'st dark sky that raïn'd, to run till seas be dry; an' hills a-stannèn on while all the works o' man do rise an' vall; an' trees the toddlèn child do vind at vu'st, an' leäve at last behind; i wish that you could now unvwold the peace an' jäy o' times o' wold; an' tell, when death do still my tongue, o' happy days when i wer young. vrom where wer all this venom brought, to kill our hope an' taïnt our thought? clear brook! thy water coulden bring such venom vrom thy rocky spring; nor could it come in zummer blights, or reävèn storms o' winter nights, or in the cloud an' viry stroke o' thunder that do split the woak. o valley dear! i wish that i 'd a-liv'd in former times, to die wi' all the happy souls that trod thy turf in peäce, an' died to god; or gone wi' them that laugh'd an' zung in happy days when i wer young! in the stillness o' the night. ov all the housen o' the pleäce, there's woone where i do like to call by day or night the best ov all, to zee my fanny's smilèn feäce; an' there the steätely trees do grow, a-rockèn as the win' do blow, while she do sweetly sleep below, in the stillness o' the night. an' there, at evenèn, i do goo a-hoppèn over geätes an' bars, by twinklèn light o' winter stars, when snow do clumper to my shoe; an' zometimes we do slyly catch a chat an hour upon the stratch, an' peärt wi' whispers at the hatch in the stillness o' the night. an' zometimes she do goo to zome young naïghbours' housen down the pleäce, an' i do get a clue to treäce her out, an' goo to zee her hwome; an' i do wish a vield a mile, as she do sweetly chat an' smile along the drove, or at the stile, in the stillness o' the night. the settle an' the girt wood vire. ah! naïghbour john, since i an' you wer youngsters, ev'ry thing is new. my father's vires wer all o' logs o' cleft-wood, down upon the dogs below our clavy, high, an' brode enough to teäke a cart an' lwoad, where big an' little all zot down at bwoth zides, an' bevore, all roun'. an' when i zot among em, i could zee all up ageän the sky drough chimney, where our vo'k did hitch the zalt-box an' the beäcon-vlitch, an' watch the smoke on out o' vier, all up an' out o' tun, an' higher. an' there wer beäcon up on rack, an' pleätes an' dishes on the tack; an' roun' the walls wer heärbs a-stowed in peäpern bags, an' blathers blowed. an' just above the clavy-bwoard wer father's spurs, an' gun, an' sword; an' there wer then, our girtest pride, the settle by the vier zide. ah! gi'e me, if i wer a squier, the settle an' the girt wood vier. but they've a-wall'd up now wi' bricks the vier pleäce vor dogs an' sticks, an' only left a little hole to teäke a little greäte o' coal, so small that only twos or drees can jist push in an' warm their knees. an' then the carpets they do use, b[=e]n't fit to tread wi' ouer shoes; an' chairs an' couches be so neat, you mussen teäke em vor a seat: they be so fine, that vo'k mus' pleäce all over em an' outer ceäse, an' then the cover, when 'tis on, is still too fine to loll upon. ah! gi'e me, if i wer a squier, the settle an' the girt wood vier. carpets, indeed! you coulden hurt the stwone-vloor wi' a little dirt; vor what wer brought in doors by men, the women soon mopp'd out ageän. zoo we did come vrom muck an' mire, an' walk in straïght avore the vier; but now, a man's a-kept at door at work a pirty while, avore he's screäp'd an' rubb'd, an' cleän and fit to goo in where his wife do zit. an' then if he should have a whiff in there, 'twould only breed a miff: he c[=a]nt smoke there, vor smoke woon't goo 'ithin the footy little flue. ah! gi'e me, if i wer a squier, the settle an' the girt wood vier. the carter. o, i be a carter, wi' my whip a-smackèn loud, as by my zide, up over hill, an' down the dip, the heavy lwoad do slowly ride. an' i do haul in all the crops, an' i do bring in vuzz vrom down; an' i do goo vor wood to copse, an' car the corn an' straw to town. an' i do goo vor lime, an' bring hwome cider wi' my sleek-heäir'd team, an' smack my limber whip an' zing, while all their bells do gaïly cheeme. an' i do always know the pleäce to gi'e the hosses breath, or drug; an' ev'ry hoss do know my feäce, an' mind my '_mether ho_! an' _whug_! an' merry haÿ-meäkers do ride vrom vield in zummer wi' their prongs, in my blue waggon, zide by zide upon the reäves, a-zingèn zongs. an' when the vrost do catch the stream, an' oves wi' icicles be hung, my pantèn hosses' breath do steam in white-grass'd vields, a-haulèn dung. an' mine's the waggon fit vor lwoads, an' mine be lwoads to cut a rout; an' mine's a team, in routy rwoads, to pull a lwoaded waggon out. a zull is nothèn when do come behind their lags; an' they do teäke a roller as they would a drum, an' harrow as they would a reäke. o! i be a carter, wi' my whip a-smackèn loud, as by my zide, up over hill, an' down the dip, the heavy lwoad do slowly ride. chris'mas invitation. come down to-morrow night; an' mind, don't leäve thy fiddle-bag behind; we'll sheäke a lag, an' drink a cup o' eäle, to keep wold chris'mas up. an' let thy sister teäke thy eärm, the walk won't do her any harm; there's noo dirt now to spweil her frock, the ground's a-vroze so hard's a rock. you won't meet any stranger's feäce, but only naïghbours o' the pleäce, an' stowe, an' combe; an' two or dree vrom uncle's up at rookery. an' thou wu'lt vind a rwosy feäce, an' peäir ov eyes so black as sloos, the prettiest woones in all the pleäce,-- i'm sure i needen tell thee whose. we got a back-bran', dree girt logs so much as dree ov us can car; we'll put em up athirt the dogs, an' meäke a vier to the bar. an' ev'ry woone shall tell his teäle, an' ev'ry woone shall zing his zong, an' ev'ry woone wull drink his eäle to love an' frien'ship all night long. we'll snap the tongs, we'll have a ball, we'll sheäke the house, we'll lift the ruf, we'll romp an' meäke the maïdens squall, a catchèn o'm at blind-man's buff. zoo come to-morrow night; an' mind, don't leäve thy fiddle-bag behind; we'll sheäke a lag, an' drink a cup o' eäle, to keep wold chris'mas up. keepen up o' chris'mas. an' zoo you didden come athirt, to have zome fun last night: how wer't? vor we'd a-work'd wi' all our might to scour the iron things up bright, an' brush'd an' scrubb'd the house all drough; an' brought in vor a brand, a plock o' wood so big's an uppèn-stock, an' hung a bough o' misseltoo, an' ax'd a merry friend or two, to keepèn up o' chris'mas. an' there wer wold an' young; an' bill, soon after dark, stalk'd up vrom mill. an' when he wer a-comèn near, he whissled loud vor me to hear; then roun' my head my frock i roll'd, an' stood in orcha'd like a post, to meäke en think i wer a ghost. but he wer up to't, an' did scwold to vind me stannèn in the cwold, a keepèn up o' chris'mas. we plaÿ'd at forfeits, an' we spun the trencher roun', an' meäde such fun! an' had a geäme o' dree-ceärd loo, an' then begun to hunt the shoe. an' all the wold vo'k zittèn near, a-chattèn roun' the vier pleäce, did smile in woone another's feäce. an' sheäke right hands wi' hearty cheer, an' let their left hands spill their beer, a keepèn up o' chris'mas. zitten out the wold year. why, raïn or sheen, or blow or snow, i zaid, if i could stand so's, i'd come, vor all a friend or foe, to sheäke ye by the hand, so's; an' spend, wi' kinsvo'k near an' dear, a happy evenèn, woonce a year, a-zot wi' me'th avore the he'th to zee the new year in, so's. there's jim an' tom, a-grown the size o' men, girt lusty chaps, so's, an' fanny wi' her sloo-black eyes, her mother's very dap's, so's; an' little bill, so brown's a nut, an' poll a gigglèn little slut, i hope will shoot another voot the year that's comèn in, so's. an' there, upon his mother's knee, so peärt do look about, so's, the little woone ov all, to zee his vu'st wold year goo out, so's an' zoo mid god bless all o's still, gwaïn up or down along the hill, to meet in glee ageän to zee a happy new year in, so's. the wold clock's han' do softly steal up roun' the year's last hour, so's; zoo let the han'-bells ring a peal, lik' them a-hung in tow'r, so's. here, here be two vor tom, an' two vor fanny, an' a peäir vor you; we'll meäke em swing, an' meäke em ring, the merry new year in, so's. tom, mind your time there; you be wrong. come, let your bells all sound, so's: a little clwoser, poll; ding, dong! there, now 'tis right all round, so's. the clock's a-strikèn twelve, d'ye hear? ting, ting, ding, dong! farewell, wold year! 'tis gone, 'tis gone!-- goo on, goo on, an' ring the new woone in, so's! woak wer good enough woonce. ees: now mahogany's the goo, an' good wold english woak won't do. i wish vo'k always mid avvword hot meals upon a woakèn bwoard, as good as thik that took my cup an' trencher all my growèn up. ah! i do mind en in the hall, a-reachèn all along the wall, wi' us at father's end, while tother did teäke the maïdens wi' their mother; an' while the risèn steam did spread in curlèn clouds up over head, our mouths did wag, an' tongues did run, to meäke the maïdens laugh o' fun. a woaken bedstead, black an' bright, did teäke my weary bwones at night, where i could stratch an' roll about wi' little fear o' vallèn out; an' up above my head a peäir ov ugly heads a-carv'd did steäre, an' grin avore a bright vull moon a'most enough to frighten woone. an' then we had, vor cwoats an' frocks, woak cwoffers wi' their rusty locks an' neämes in naïls, a-left behind by kinsvo'k dead an' out o' mind; zoo we did get on well enough wi' things a-meäde ov english stuff. but then, you know, a woaken stick wer cheap, vor woaken trees wer thick. when poor wold gramfer green wer young, he zaid a squirrel mid a-sprung along the dell, vrom tree to tree, vrom woodcomb all the way to lea; an' woak wer all vo'k did avvword, avore his time, vor bed or bwoard. lullaby. the rook's nest do rock on the tree-top where vew foes can stand; the martin's is high, an' is deep in the steep cliff o' zand. but thou, love, a-sleepèn where vootsteps mid come to thy bed, hast father an' mother to watch thee an' shelter thy head. lullaby, lilybrow. lie asleep; blest be thy rest. an' zome birds do keep under ruffèn their young vrom the storm, an' zome wi' nest-hoodèns o' moss and o' wool, do lie warm. an' we wull look well to the houseruf that o'er thee mid leäk, an' the blast that mid beät on thy winder shall not smite thy cheäk. lullaby, lilibrow. lie asleep; blest be thy rest. meary-ann's child. meary-ann wer alwone wi' her beäby in eärms, in her house wi' the trees over head, vor her husban' wer out in the night an' the storms, in his business a-tweilèn vor bread; an' she, as the wind in the elems did roar, did grievy vor robert all night out o' door. an' her kinsvo'k an' naï'bours did zay ov her chile, (under the high elem tree), that a prettier never did babble or smile up o' top ov a proud mother's knee; an' his mother did toss en, an' kiss en, an' call en her darlèn, an' life, an' her hope, an' her all. but she vound in the evenèn the chile werden well, (under the dark elem tree), an' she thought she could gi'e all the worold to tell, vor a truth what his aïlèn mid be; an' she thought o'en last in her praÿers at night, an' she look'd at en last as she put out the light. an' she vound en grow wo'se in the dead o' the night, (under the dark elem tree), an' she press'd en ageän her warm bosom so tight, an' she rock'd en so sorrowfully; an' there laid a-nestlèn the poor little bwoy, till his struggles grew weak, an' his cries died awoy. an' the moon wer a-sheenèn down into the pleäce, (under the dark elem tree), an' his mother could zee that his lips an' his feäce wer so white as cleän axen could be; an' her tongue wer a-tied an' her still heart did zwell, till her senses come back wi' the vu'st tear that vell. never mwore can she veel his warm feäce in her breast, (under the green elem tree), vor his eyes be a-shut, an' his hands be at rest, an' he's now vrom his païn a-zet free; vor his soul, we do know, is to heaven a-vled, where noo païn is a-known, an' noo tears be a-shed. [gothic: eclogue.] father come hwome. _john, wife, an' child._ child. o mother, mother! be the teäties done? here's father now a-comèn down the track, hes got his nitch o' wood upon his back, an' such a speäker in en! i'll be bound, he's long enough to reach vrom ground up to the top ov ouer tun; 'tis jist the very thing vor jack an' i to goo a-colepecksèn wi' by an' by. wife. the teäties must be ready pretty nigh; do teäke woone up upon the fork' an' try. the ceäke upon the vier, too, 's a-burnèn, i be afeärd: do run an' zee, an' turn en. john. well, mother! here i be woonce mwore, at hwome. wife. ah! i be very glad you be a-come. you be a-tired an' cwold enough, i s'pose; zit down an' rest your bwones, an' warm your nose. john. why i be nippy: what is there to eat? wife. your supper's nearly ready. i've a got some teäties here a-doèn in the pot; i wish wi' all my heart i had some meat. i got a little ceäke too, here, a-beäken o'n upon the vier. 'tis done by this time though. he's nice an' moist; vor when i wer a-meäken o'n i stuck some bits ov apple in the dough. child. well, father; what d'ye think? the pig got out this mornèn; an' avore we zeed or heärd en, he run about, an' got out into geärden, an' routed up the groun' zoo wi' his snout! john. now only think o' that! you must contrive to keep en in, or else he'll never thrive. child. an' father, what d'ye think? i voun' to-day the nest where thik wold hen ov our's do lay: 'twer out in orcha'd hedge, an' had vive aggs. wife. lo'k there: how wet you got your veet an' lags! how did ye get in such a pickle, jahn? john. i broke my hoss, an' been a-fwo'ced to stan' all's day in mud an' water vor to dig, an' meäde myzelf so wetshod as a pig. child. father, teäke off your shoes, then come, and i will bring your wold woones vor ye, nice an' dry. wife. an' have ye got much hedgèn mwore to do? john. enough to last vor dree weeks mwore or zoo. wife. an' when y'ave done the job you be about, d'ye think you'll have another vound ye out? john. o ees, there'll be some mwore: vor after that, i got a job o' trenchèn to goo at; an' then zome trees to shroud, an' wood to vell,-- zoo i do hope to rub on pretty well till zummer time; an' then i be to cut the wood an' do the trenchèn by the tut. child. an' nex' week, father, i'm a-gwaïn to goo a-pickèn stwones, d'ye know, vor farmer true. wife. an' little jack, you know, 's a-gwaïn to eärn a penny too, a-keepèn birds off corn. john. o brave! what wages do 'e meän to gi'e? wife. she dreppence vor a day, an' twopence he. john. well, polly; thou must work a little spracker when thou bist out, or else thou wu'ten pick a dungpot lwoad o' stwones up very quick. child. oh! yes i shall. but jack do want a clacker: an' father, wull ye teäke an' cut a stick or two to meäke his hut. john. you wench! why you be always up a-baggèn. i be too tired now to-night, i'm sure, to zet a-doèn any mwore: zoo i shall goo up out o' the way o' the waggon. [gothic: eclogue.] a ghost. _jem an' dick._ jem. this is a darkish evenèn; b'ye a-feärd o' zights? theäse leäne's a-haunted, i've a heärd. dick. no, i be'nt much a-feär'd. if vo'k don't strive to over-reach me while they be alive, i don't much think the dead wull ha' the will to come back here to do me any ill. an' i've a-been about all night, d'ye know, vrom candle-lightèn till the cock did crow; but never met wi' nothèn bad enough to be much wo'se than what i be myzuf; though i, lik' others, have a-heärd vo'k zay the girt house is a-haunted, night an' day. jem. aye; i do mind woone winter 'twer a-zaid the farmer's vo'k could hardly sleep a-bed, they heärd at night such scuffèns an' such jumpèns, such ugly naïses an' such rottlèn thumpèns. dick. aye, i do mind i heärd his son, young sammy, tell how the chairs did dance an' doors did slammy; he stood to it--though zome vo'k woulden heed en-- he didden only hear the ghost, but zeed en; an', hang me! if i han't a'most a-shook, to hear en tell what ugly sheäpes it took. did zometimes come vull six veet high, or higher, in white, he zaid, wi' eyes lik' coals o' vier; an' zometimes, wi' a feäce so peäle as milk, a smileless leädy, all a-deck'd in silk. his heäir, he zaid, did use to stand upright, so stiff's a bunch o' rushes, wi' his fright. jem. an' then you know that zome'hat is a-zeed down there in leäne, an' over in the meäd, a-comèn zometimes lik' a slinkèn hound, or rollèn lik' a vleece along the ground. an' woonce, when gramfer wi' his wold grey meäre wer ridèn down the leäne vrom shroton feäir, it roll'd so big's a pack ov wool across the road just under en, an' leäm'd his hoss. dick. aye; did ye ever hear--vo'k zaid 'twer true-- o' what bevell jack hine zome years agoo? woone vrosty night, d'ye know, at chris'mas tide, jack, an' another chap or two bezide, 'd a-been out, zomewhere up at tother end o' parish, to a naïghbour's house to spend a merry hour, an' mid a-took a cup or two o' eäle a-keepèn chris'mas up; zoo i do lot 'twer leäte avore the peärty 'd a-burnt their bron out; i do lot, avore they thought o' turnèn out o' door 'twer mornèn, vor their friendship then wer hearty. well; clwose ageän the vootpath that do leäd vrom higher parish over withy-meäd, there's still a hollow, you do know: they tried there, in former times, to meäke a cattle-pit, but gie'd it up, because they coulden get the water any time to bide there. zoo when the merry fellows got just overright theäse lwonesome spot, jack zeed a girt big house-dog wi' a collar, a-stannèn down in thik there hollor. lo'k there, he zaïd, there's zome girt dog a-prowlèn: i'll just goo down an' gi'e'n a goodish lick or two wi' theäse here groun'-ash stick, an' zend the shaggy rascal hwome a-howlèn. zoo there he run, an' gi'ed en a good whack wi' his girt ashen stick a-thirt his back; an', all at woonce, his stick split right all down in vower pieces; an' the pieces vled out ov his hand all up above his head, an' pitch'd in vower corners o' the groun'. an' then he velt his han' get all so num', he coulden veel a vinger or a thum'; an' after that his eärm begun to zwell, an' in the night a-bed he vound the skin o't peelèn off all round. 'twer near a month avore he got it well. jem. that wer vor hettèn [=o]'n. he should a let en alwone d'ye zee: 'twer wicked vor to het en. sundry pieces. a zong. o jenny, don't sobby! vor i shall be true; noo might under heaven shall peärt me vrom you. my heart will be cwold, jenny, when i do slight the zwell o' thy bosom, thy eyes' sparklèn light. my kinsvo'k would faïn zee me teäke vor my meäte a maïd that ha' wealth, but a maïd i should heäte; but i'd sooner leäbour wi' thee vor my bride, than live lik' a squier wi' any bezide. vor all busy kinsvo'k, my love will be still a-zet upon thee lik' the vir in the hill; an' though they mid worry, an' dreaten, an' mock, my head's in the storm, but my root's in the rock. zoo, jenny, don't sobby! vor i shall be true; noo might under heaven shall peärt me vrom you. my heart will be cwold, jenny, when i do slight the zwell o' thy bosom, thy eyes' sparklèn light. the maid vor my bride. ah! don't tell o' maïdens! the woone vor my bride is little lik' too many maïdens bezide,-- not brantèn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind to think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind. she's straïght an' she's slender, but not over tall, wi' lim's that be lightsome, but not over small; the goodness o' heaven do breathe in her feäce, an' a queen, to be steätely, must walk wi' her peäce. her frocks be a-meäde all becomèn an' plaïn, an' cleän as a blossom undimm'd by a staïn; her bonnet ha' got but two ribbons, a-tied up under her chin, or let down at the zide. when she do speak to woone, she don't steäre an' grin; there's sense in her looks, vrom her eyes to her chin, an' her words be so kind, an' her speech is so meek, as her eyes do look down a-beginnèn to speak. her skin is so white as a lily, an' each ov her cheäks is so downy an' red as a peach; she's pretty a-zittèn; but oh! how my love do watch her to madness when woonce she do move. an' when she do walk hwome vrom church drough the groun', wi' woone eärm in mine, an' wi' woone a-hung down, i do think, an' do veel mwore o' sheäme than o' pride, that do meäke me look ugly to walk by her zide. zoo don't talk o' maïden's! the woone vor my bride is but little lik' too many maïdens bezide,-- not brantèn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind to think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind. the hwomestead. if i had all the land my zight can overlook vrom chalwell hill, vrom sherborn left to blanvord right, why i could be but happy still. an' i be happy wi' my spot o' freehold ground an' mossy cot, an' shoulden get a better lot if i had all my will. my orcha'd's wide, my trees be young; an' they do bear such heavy crops, their boughs, lik' onion-rwopes a-hung, be all a-trigg'd to year, wi' props. i got some geärden groun' to dig, a parrock, an' a cow an' pig; i got zome cider vor to swig, an' eäle o' malt an' hops. i'm landlord o' my little farm, i'm king 'ithin my little pleäce; i don't break laws, an' don't do harm, an' bent a-feär'd o' noo man's feäce. when i'm a-cover'd wi' my thatch, noo man do deäre to lift my latch; where honest han's do shut the hatch, there fear do leäve the pleäce. my lofty elem trees do screen my brown-ruf'd house, an' here below, my geese do strut athirt the green, an' hiss an' flap their wings o' snow; as i do walk along a rank ov apple trees, or by a bank, or zit upon a bar or plank, to see how things do grow. the farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter. no, no! i ben't a-runnèn down the pretty maïden's o' the town, nor wishèn o'm noo harm; but she that i would marry vu'st, to sheäre my good luck or my crust, 's a-bred up at a farm. in town, a maïd do zee mwore life, an' i don't under-reäte her; but ten to woone the sprackest wife 's a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter. vor she do veed, wi' tender ceäre, the little woones, an' peärt their heäir, an' keep em neat an' pirty; an' keep the saucy little chaps o' bwoys in trim wi' dreats an' slaps, when they be wild an' dirty. zoo if you'd have a bus'lèn wife, an' childern well look'd after, the maïd to help ye all drough life 's a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter. an' she can iorn up an' vwold a book o' clothes wï' young or wold, an' zalt an' roll the butter; an' meäke brown bread, an' elder wine, an' zalt down meat in pans o' brine, an' do what you can put her. zoo if you've wherewi', an' would vind a wife wo'th lookèn [=a]'ter, goo an' get a farmer in the mind to gi'e ye his woldest d[=a]'ter. her heart's so innocent an' kind, she idden thoughtless, but do mind her mother an' her duty; an' livèn blushes, that do spread upon her healthy feäce o' red, do heighten all her beauty; so quick's a bird, so neat's a cat, so cheerful in her neätur, the best o' maïdens to come at 's a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter. uncle out o' debt an' out o' danger. ees; uncle had thik small hwomestead, the leäzes an' the bits o' mead, besides the orcha'd in his prime, an' copse-wood vor the winter time. his wold black meäre, that draw'd his cart, an' he, wer seldom long apeärt; vor he work'd hard an' païd his woy, an' zung so litsom as a bwoy, as he toss'd an' work'd, an' blow'd an' quirk'd, "i'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, an' i can feäce a friend or stranger; i've a vist vor friends, an' i'll vind a peäir vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meäre." his meäre's long vlexy vetlocks grow'd down roun' her hoofs so black an' brode; her head hung low, her taïl reach'd down a-bobbèn nearly to the groun'. the cwoat that uncle mwostly wore wer long behind an' straïght avore, an' in his shoes he had girt buckles, an' breeches button'd round his huckles; an' he zung wi' pride, by's wold meäre's zide, "i'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, an' i can feäce a friend or stranger; i've a vist vor friends, an' i'll vind a peäir vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." an' he would work,--an' lwoad, an' shoot, an' spur his heaps o' dung or zoot; or car out haÿ, to sar his vew milch cows in corners dry an' lew; or dreve a zyve, or work a pick, to pitch or meäke his little rick; or thatch en up wi' straw or zedge, or stop a shard, or gap, in hedge; an' he work'd an' flung his eärms, an' zung "i'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, an' i can feäce a friend or stranger; i've a vist vor friends, an' i'll vind a peäir vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." an' when his meäre an' he'd a-done their work, an' tired ev'ry bwone, he zot avore the vire, to spend his evenèn wi' his wife or friend; an' wi' his lags out-stratch'd vor rest, an' woone hand in his wes'coat breast, while burnèn sticks did hiss an' crack, an' fleämes did bleäzy up the back, there he zung so proud in a bakky cloud, "i'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, an' i can feäce a friend or stranger; i've a vist vor friends, an' i'll vind a peäir vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." from market how he used to ride, wi' pot's a-bumpèn by his zide wi' things a-bought--but not vor trust, vor what he had he païd vor vu'st; an' when he trotted up the yard, the calves did bleäry to be sar'd, an' pigs did scoat all drough the muck, an' geese did hiss, an' hens did cluck; an' he zung aloud, so pleased an' proud, "i'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, an' i can feäce a friend or stranger; i've a vist vor friends, an' i'll vind a peäir vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." when he wer joggèn hwome woone night vrom market, after candle-light, (he mid a-took a drop o' beer, or midden, vor he had noo fear,) zome ugly, long-lagg'd, herrèn ribs, jump'd out an' ax'd en vor his dibs; but he soon gi'ed en such a mawlèn, that there he left en down a-sprawlèn, while he jogg'd along wi' his own wold zong, "i'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, an' i can feäce a friend or stranger; i've a vist vor friends, an' i'll vind a peäir vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." the church an' happy zunday. ah! ev'ry day mid bring a while o' eäse vrom all woone's ceäre an' tweil, the welcome evenèn, when 'tis sweet vor tired friends wi' weary veet, but litsome hearts o' love, to meet; an' yet while weekly times do roll, the best vor body an' vor soul 's the church an' happy zunday. vor then our loosen'd souls do rise wi' holy thoughts beyond the skies, as we do think o' _him_ that shed his blood vor us, an' still do spread his love upon the live an' dead; an' how he gi'ed a time an' pleäce to gather us, an' gi'e us greäce,-- the church an' happy zunday. there, under leänen mossy stwones, do lie, vorgot, our fathers' bwones, that trod this groun' vor years agoo, when things that now be wold wer new; an' comely maïdens, mild an' true, that meäde their sweet-hearts happy brides, an' come to kneel down at their zides at church o' happy zundays. 'tis good to zee woone's naïghbours come out drough the churchyard, vlockèn hwome, as woone do nod, an' woone do smile, an' woone do toss another's chile; an' zome be sheäken han's, the while poll's uncle, chuckèn her below her chin, do tell her she do grow, at church o' happy zundays. zoo while our blood do run in vaïns o' livèn souls in theäsum plaïns, mid happy housen smoky round the church an' holy bit o' ground; an' while their weddèn bells do sound, oh! mid em have the meäns o' greäce, the holy day an' holy pleäce, the church an' happy zunday. the wold waggon. the girt wold waggon uncle had, when i wer up a hardish lad, did stand, a-screen'd vrom het an' wet, in zummer at the barken geäte, below the elems' spreädèn boughs, a-rubb'd by all the pigs an' cows. an' i've a-clom his head an' zides, a-riggèn up or jumpèn down a-plaÿèn, or in happy rides along the leäne or drough the groun', an' many souls be in their greäves, that rod' together on his reäves; an' he, an' all the hosses too, 'v a-ben a-done vor years agoo. upon his head an' taïl wer pinks, a-païnted all in tangled links; his two long zides wer blue,--his bed bent slightly upward at the head; his reäves rose upward in a bow above the slow hind-wheels below. vour hosses wer a-kept to pull the girt wold waggon when 'twer vull; the black meäre _smiler_, strong enough to pull a house down by herzuf, so big, as took my widest strides to straddle halfway down her zides; an' champèn _vi'let_, sprack an' light, that foam'd an' pull'd wi' all her might: an' _whitevoot_, leäzy in the treäce, wi' cunnèn looks an' show-white feäce; bezides a baÿ woone, short-taïl _jack_, that wer a treäce-hoss or a hack. how many lwoads o' vuzz, to scald the milk, thik waggon have a-haul'd! an' wood vrom copse, an' poles vor raïls. an' bayèns wi' their bushy taïls; an' loose-ear'd barley, hangèn down outzide the wheels a'móst to groun', an' lwoads o' haÿ so sweet an' dry, a-builded straïght, an' long, an' high; an' haÿ-meäkers, a-zittèn roun' the reäves, a-ridèn hwome vrom groun', when jim gi'ed jenny's lips a-smack, an' jealous dicky whipp'd his back, an' maïdens scream'd to veel the thumps a-gi'ed by trenches an' by humps. but he, an' all his hosses too, 'v a-ben a-done vor years agoo. the drÈven o' the common.[b] in the common by our hwome there wer freely-open room, vor our litty veet to roam by the vuzzen out in bloom. that wi' prickles kept our lags vrom the skylark's nest ov aggs; while the peewit wheel'd around wi' his cry up over head, or he sped, though a-limpèn, o'er the ground. there we heärd the whickr'èn meäre wi' her vaïce a-quiv'rèn high; where the cow did loudly bleäre by the donkey's vallèn cry. while a-stoopèn man did zwing his bright hook at vuzz or ling free o' fear, wi' wellglov'd hands, o' the prickly vuzz he vell'd, then sweet-smell'd as it died in faggot bands. when the haÿward drove the stock in a herd to zome oone pleäce, thither vo'k begun to vlock, each to own his beästes feäce. while the geese, bezide the stream, zent vrom gapèn bills a scream, an' the cattle then avound, without right o' greäzen there, went to bleäre braÿ or whicker in the pound. [footnote b: the driving of the common was by the _hayward_ who, whenever he thought fit, would drive all the cattle into a corner and impound all heads belonging to owners without a right of commonage for them, so that they had to ransom them by a fine.] the common a-took in. oh! no, poll, no! since they've a-took the common in, our lew wold nook don't seem a-bit as used to look when we had runnèn room; girt banks do shut up ev'ry drong, an' stratch wi' thorny backs along where we did use to run among the vuzzen an' the broom. ees; while the ragged colts did crop the nibbled grass, i used to hop the emmet-buts, vrom top to top, so proud o' my spry jumps: wi' thee behind or at my zide, a-skippèn on so light an' wide 's thy little frock would let thee stride, among the vuzzy humps. ah while the lark up over head did twitter, i did search the red thick bunch o' broom, or yollow bed o' vuzzen vor a nest; an' thou di'st hunt about, to meet wi' strawberries so red an' sweet, or clogs or shoes off hosses veet, or wild thyme vor thy breast; or when the cows did run about a-stung, in zummer, by the stout, or when they plaÿ'd, or when they foüght, di'st stand a-lookèn on: an' where white geese, wi' long red bills, did veed among the emmet-hills, there we did goo to vind their quills alongzide o' the pon'. what fun there wer among us, when the haÿward come, wi' all his men, to drève the common, an' to pen strange cattle in the pound; the cows did bleäre, the men did shout an' toss their eärms an' sticks about, an' vo'ks, to own their stock, come out vrom all the housen round. a wold friend. oh! when the friends we us'd to know, 'v a-been a-lost vor years; an' when zome happy day do come, to show their feäzen to our eyes ageän, do meäke us look behind, john, do bring wold times to mind, john, do meäke hearts veel, if they be steel, all warm, an' soft, an' kind, john. when we do lose, still gaÿ an' young, a vaïce that us'd to call woone's neäme, an' after years ageän his tongue do sound upon our ears the seäme, do kindle love anew, john, do wet woone's eyes wi' dew, john, as we do sheäke, vor friendship's seäke, his vist an' vind en true, john. what tender thoughts do touch woone's soul, when we do zee a meäd or hill where we did work, or plaÿ, or stroll, an' talk wi' vaïces that be still; 'tis touchèn vor to treäce, john, wold times drough ev'ry pleäce, john; but that can't touch woone's heart so much, as zome wold long-lost feäce, john. the rwose that deck'd her breast. poor jenny wer her robert's bride two happy years, an' then he died; an' zoo the wold vo'k meäde her come, vorseäken, to her maïden hwome. but jenny's merry tongue wer dum'; an' round her comely neck she wore a murnèn kerchif, where avore the rwose did deck her breast. she walk'd alwone, wi' eye-balls wet, to zee the flow'rs that she'd a-zet; the lilies, white's her maïden frocks, the spike, to put 'ithin her box, wi' columbines an' hollyhocks; the jilliflow'r an' noddèn pink, an' rwose that touch'd her soul to think ov woone that deck'd her breast. vor at her weddèn, just avore her maïden hand had yet a-wore a wife's goold ring, wi' hangèn head she walk'd along thik flower-bed, where stocks did grow, a-staïned wi' red, an' meärygoolds did skirt the walk, an' gather'd vrom the rwose's stalk a bud to deck her breast. an' then her cheäk, wi' youthvul blood wer bloomèn as the rwoses bud; but now, as she wi' grief do pine, 'tis peäle's the milk-white jessamine. but robert have a-left behine a little beäby wi' his feäce, to smile, an' nessle in the pleäce where the rwose did deck her breast. nanny's cow. ov all the cows, among the rest wer woone that nanny lik'd the best; an' after milkèn us'd to stan' a-veedèn o' her, vrom her han', wi' grass or haÿ; an' she know'd ann, an' in the evenèn she did come the vu'st, a-beätèn üp roun' hwome vor ann to come an' milk her. her back wer hollor as a bow, her lags wer short, her body low; her head wer small, her horns turn'd in avore her feäce so sharp's a pin: her eyes wer vull, her ears wer thin, an' she wer red vrom head to taïl, an' didden start nor kick the païl, when nanny zot to milk her. but losses zoon begun to vall on nanny's fàther, that wi' all his tweil he voun', wi' breakèn heart, that he mus' leäve his ground, an' peärt wi' all his beäst an' hoss an' cart; an', what did touch en mwost, to zell the red cow nanny lik'd so well, an' lik'd vor her to milk her. zalt tears did run vrom nanny's eyes, to hear her restless father's sighs. but as vor me, she mid be sure i wont vorzeäke her now she's poor, vor i do love her mwore an' mwore; an' if i can but get a cow an' parrock, i'll vulvil my vow, an' she shall come an' milk her. the shep'erd bwoy. when the warm zummer breeze do blow over the hill, an' the vlock's a-spread over the ground; when the vaïce o' the busy wold sheep dog is still, an' the sheep-bells do tinkle all round; where noo tree vor a sheäde but the thorn is a-vound, there, a zingèn a zong, or a-whislèn among the sheep, the young shep'erd do bide all day long. when the storm do come up wi' a thundery cloud that do shut out the zunlight, an' high over head the wild thunder do rumble so loud, an' the lightnèn do flash vrom the sky, where noo shelter's a-vound but his hut, that is nigh, there out ov all harm, in the dry an' the warm, the poor little shep'erd do smile at the storm. when the cwold winter win' do blow over the hill, an' the hore-vrost do whiten the grass, an' the breath o' the no'th is so cwold, as to chill the warm blood ov woone's heart as do pass; when the ice o' the pond is so slipp'ry as glass, there, a-zingèn a zong, or a-whislèn among the sheep, the poor shep'erd do bide all day long. when the shearèn's a-come, an' the shearers do pull in the sheep, hangèn back a-gwaïn in, wi' their roun' zides a-heavèn in under their wool, to come out all a-clipp'd to the skin; when the feästèn, an' zingèn, an fun do begin, vor to help em, an' sheäre all their me'th an' good feäre, the poor little shep'erd is sure to be there. hope a-left behind. don't try to win a maïden's heart, to leäve her in her love,--'tis wrong: 'tis bitter to her soul to peärt wi' woone that is her sweetheart long. a maïd's vu'st love is always strong; an' if do faïl, she'll linger on, wi' all her best o' pleasure gone, an' hope a-left behind her. thy poor lost jenny wer a-grow'd so kind an' thoughtvul vor her years, when she did meet wi' vo'k a-know'd the best, her love did speak in tears. she walk'd wi' thee, an' had noo fears o' thy unkindness, till she zeed herzelf a-cast off lik' a weed, an' hope a-left behind her. thy slight turn'd peäle her cherry lip; her sorrow, not a-zeed by eyes, wer lik' the mildew, that do nip a bud by darksome midnight skies. the day mid come, the zun mid rise, but there's noo hope o' day nor zun; the storm ha' blow'd, the harm's a-done, an' hope's a-left behind her. the time will come when thou wouldst gi'e the worold vor to have her smile, or meet her by the parrock tree, or catch her jumpèn off the stile; thy life's avore thee vor a while, but thou wilt turn thy mind in time, an' zee the deèd as 'tis,--a crime, an' hope a-left behind thee. zoo never win a maïden's heart, but her's that is to be thy bride, an' plaÿ drough life a manly peärt, an' if she's true when time ha' tried her mind, then teäke her by thy zide. true love will meäke thy hardships light, true love will meäke the worold bright, when hope's a-left behind thee. a good father. no; mind thy father. when his tongue is keen, he's still thy friend, john, vor wolder vo'k should warn the young how wickedness will end, john; an' he do know a wicked youth would be thy manhood's beäne, an' zoo would bring thee back ageän 'ithin the ways o' truth. an' mind en still when in the end his leäbour's all a-done, john, an' let en vind a steadvast friend in thee his thoughtvul son, john; vor he did win what thou didst lack avore couldst work or stand, an' zoo, when time do num' his hand, then pay his leäbour back. an' when his bwones be in the dust, then honour still his neäme, john; an' as his godly soul wer just, let thine be voun' the seäme, john. be true, as he wer true, to men, an' love the laws o' god; still tread the road that he've a-trod, an' live wi' him ageän. the beam in grenley church. in church at grenley woone mid zee a beam vrom wall to wall; a tree that's longer than the church is wide, an' zoo woone end o'n's drough outside,-- not cut off short, but bound all round wi' lead, to keep en seäfe an' sound. back when the builders vu'st begun the church,--as still the teäle do run,-- a man work'd wi' em; no man knew who 'twer, nor whither he did goo. he wer as harmless as a chile, an' work'd 'ithout a frown or smile, till any woaths or strife did rise to overcast his sparklèn eyes: an' then he'd call their minds vrom strife, to think upon another life. he wer so strong, that all alwone he lifted beams an' blocks o' stwone, that others, with the girtest païns, could hardly wag wi' bars an' chaïns; an' yet he never used to staÿ o' zaturdays, to teäke his paÿ. woone day the men wer out o' heart, to have a beam a-cut too short; an' in the evenèn, when they shut off work, they left en where 'twer put; an' while dumb night went softly by towárds the vi'ry western sky, a-lullèn birds, an' shuttèn up the deäisy an' the butter cup, they went to lay their heavy heads an' weary bwones upon their beds. an' when the dewy mornèn broke, an' show'd the worold, fresh awoke, their godly work ageän, they vound the beam they left upon the ground a-put in pleäce, where still do bide, an' long enough to reach outzide. but he unknown to tother men wer never there at work ageän: zoo whether he mid be a man or angel, wi' a helpèn han', or whether all o't wer a dream, they didden deäre to cut the beam. the vaÏces that be gone. when evenèn sheädes o' trees do hide a body by the hedge's zide, an' twitt'rèn birds, wi' plaÿsome flight, do vlee to roost at comèn night, then i do saunter out o' zight in orcha'd, where the pleäce woonce rung wi' laughs a-laugh'd an' zongs a-zung by vaïces that be gone. there's still the tree that bore our swing, an' others where the birds did zing; but long-leav'd docks do overgrow the groun' we trampled heäre below, wi' merry skippèns to an' fro bezide the banks, where jim did zit a-plaÿèn o' the clarinit to vaïces that be gone. how mother, when we us'd to stun her head wi' all our naïsy fun, did wish us all a-gone vrom hwome: an' now that zome be dead, an' zome a-gone, an' all the pleäce is dum', how she do wish, wi' useless tears, to have ageän about her ears the vaïces that be gone. vor all the maïdens an' the bwoys but i, be marri'd off all woys, or dead an' gone; but i do bide at hwome, alwone, at mother's zide, an' often, at the evenèn-tide, i still do saunter out, wi' tears, down drough the orcha'd, where my ears do miss the vaïces gone. poll. when out below the trees, that drow'd their scraggy lim's athirt the road, while evenèn zuns, a'móst a-zet, gi'ed goolden light, but little het, the merry chaps an' maïdens met, an' look'd to zomebody to neäme their bit o' fun, a dance or geäme, 'twer poll they cluster'd round. an' after they'd a-had enough o' snappèn tongs, or blind-man's buff, o' winter nights, an' went an' stood avore the vire o' bleäzen wood, though there wer maïdens kind an' good, though there wer maïdens feäir an' tall, 'twer poll that wer the queen o'm all, an' poll they cluster'd round. an' when the childern used to catch a glimpse o' poll avore the hatch, the little things did run to meet their friend wi' skippèn tott'rèn veet an' thought noo other kiss so sweet as hers; an' nwone could vind em out such geämes to meäke em jump an' shout, as poll they cluster'd round. an' now, since she've a-left em, all the pleäce do miss her, girt an' small. in vaïn vor them the zun do sheen upon the lwonesome rwoad an' green; their zwing do hang vorgot between the leänen trees, vor they've a-lost the best o' maïdens, to their cost, the maïd they cluster'd round. looks a-know'd avore. while zome, a-gwaïn from pleäce to pleäce, do daily meet wi' zome new feäce, when my day's work is at an end, let me zit down at hwome, an' spend a happy hour wi' zome wold friend, an' by my own vire-zide rejaïce in zome wold naïghbour's welcome vaïce, an' looks i know'd avore, john. why is it, friends that we've a-met by zuns that now ha' long a-zet, or winter vires that bleäzed for wold an' young vo'k, now vor ever cwold, be met wi' jaÿ that can't be twold? why, 'tis because they friends have all our youthvul spring ha' left our fall,-- the looks we know'd avore, john. 'tis lively at a feäir, among the chattèn, laughèn, shiften drong, when wold an' young, an' high an' low, do streamy round, an' to an' fro; but what new feäce that we don't know, can ever meäke woone's warm heart dance among ten thousan', lik' a glance o' looks we know'd avore, john. how of'en have the wind a-shook the leaves off into yonder brook, since vu'st we two, in youthvul strolls, did ramble roun' them bubblèn shoals! an' oh! that zome o' them young souls, that we, in jaÿ, did plaÿ wi' then could come back now, an' bring ageän the looks we know'd avore, john. so soon's the barley's dead an' down, the clover-leaf do rise vrom groun', an' wolder feäzen do but goo to be a-vollow'd still by new; but souls that be a-tried an' true shall meet ageän beyond the skies, an' bring to woone another's eyes the looks they know'd avore, john. the music o' the dead. when music, in a heart that's true, do kindle up wold loves anew, an' dim wet eyes, in feäirest lights, do zee but inward fancy's zights; when creepèn years, wi' with'rèn blights, 'v a-took off them that wer so dear, how touchèn 'tis if we do hear the tuèns o' the dead, john. when i, a-stannèn in the lew o' trees a storm's a-beätèn drough, do zee the slantèn mist a-drove by spitevul winds along the grove, an' hear their hollow sounds above my shelter'd head, do seem, as i do think o' zunny days gone by. lik' music vor the dead, john. last night, as i wer gwaïn along the brook, i heärd the milk-maïd's zong a-ringèn out so clear an' shrill along the meäds an' roun' the hill. i catch'd the tuèn, an' stood still to hear 't; 'twer woone that jeäne did zing a-vield a-milkèn in the spring,-- sweet music o' the dead, john. don't tell o' zongs that be a-zung by young chaps now, wi' sheämeless tongue: zing me wold ditties, that would start the maïden's tears, or stir my heart to teäke in life a manly peärt,-- the wold vo'k's zongs that twold a teäle, an' vollow'd round their mugs o' eäle, the music o' the dead, john. the pleÄce a teÄle's a-twold o'. why tidden vields an' runnèn brooks, nor trees in spring or fall; an' tidden woody slopes an' nooks, do touch us mwost ov all; an' tidden ivy that do cling by housen big an' wold, o, but this is, after all, the thing,-- the pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'. at burn, where mother's young friends know'd the vu'st her maïden neäme, the zunny knaps, the narrow road an' green, be still the seäme; the squier's house, an' ev'ry ground that now his son ha' zwold, o, an' ev'ry wood he hunted round 's a pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'. the maïd a-lov'd to our heart's core, the dearest of our kin, do meäke us like the very door where they went out an' in. 'tis zome'hat touchèn that bevel poor flesh an' blood o' wold, o, do meäke us like to zee so well the pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'. when blushèn jenny vu'st did come to zee our poll o' nights, an' had to goo back leätish hwome, where vo'k did zee the zights, a-chattèn loud below the sky so dark, an' winds so cwold, o, how proud wer i to zee her by the pleäce the teäle's a-twold o'. zoo whether 'tis the humpy ground that wer a battle viel', or mossy house, all ivy-bound, an' vallèn down piece-meal; or if 'tis but a scraggy tree, where beauty smil'd o' wold, o, how dearly i do like to zee the pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'. aunt's tantrums. why ees, aunt anne's a little staïd, but kind an' merry, poor wold maïd! if we don't cut her heart wi' slights, she'll zit an' put our things to rights, upon a hard day's work, o' nights; but zet her up, she's jis' lik' vier, an' woe betide the woone that's nigh 'er. when she is in her tantrums. she'll toss her head, a-steppèn out such strides, an' fling the païls about; an' slam the doors as she do goo, an' kick the cat out wi' her shoe, enough to het her off in two. the bwoys do bundle out o' house, a-lassen they should get a towse, when aunt is in her tantrums. she whurr'd, woone day, the wooden bowl in such a veag at my poor poll; it brush'd the heäir above my crown, an' whizz'd on down upon the groun', an' knock'd the bantam cock right down, but up he sprung, a-teäkèn flight wi' tothers, cluckèn in a fright, vrom aunt in such a tantrum! but dick stole in, an' reach'd en down the biggest blather to be voun', an' crope an' put en out o' zight avore the vire, an' plimm'd en tight an crack'd en wi' the slice thereright she scream'd, an' bundled out o' house, an' got so quiet as a mouse,-- it frighten'd off her tantrum. the stwonÈn pworch. a new house! ees, indeed! a small straïght, upstart thing, that, after all, do teäke in only half the groun' the wold woone did avore 'twer down; wi' little windows straïght an' flat, not big enough to zun a-cat, an' dealèn door a-meäde so thin, a puff o' wind would blow en in, where woone do vind a thing to knock so small's the hammer ov a clock, that wull but meäke a little click about so loud's a clock do tick! gi'e me the wold house, wi' the wide an' lofty-lo'ted rooms inside; an' wi' the stwonèn pworch avore the naïl-bestudded woaken door, that had a knocker very little less to handle than a bittle, that het a blow that vled so loud drough house as thunder drough a cloud. an' meäde the dog behind the door growl out so deep's a bull do roar. in all the house, o' young an' wold, there werden woone but could a-twold when he'd noo wish to seek abrode mwore jaÿ than thik wold pworch bestow'd! for there, when yollow evenèn shed his light ageän the elem's head, an' gnots did whiver in the zun, an' uncle's work wer all a-done, his whiffs o' meltèn smoke did roll above his bendèn pipe's white bowl, while he did chat, or, zittèn dumb, injaÿ his thoughts as they did come. an' jimmy, wi' his crowd below his chin, did dreve his nimble bow in tuèns vor to meäke us spring a-reelèn, or in zongs to zing, an' there, between the dark an' light, zot poll by willy's zide at night a-whisp'rèn, while her eyes did zwim in jaÿ avore the twilight dim; an' when (to know if she wer near) aunt call'd, did cry, "ees, mother; here." no, no; i woulden gi'e thee thanks vor fine white walls an' vloors o' planks, nor doors a-päinted up so fine. if i'd a wold grey house o' mine, gi'e me vor all it should be small, a stwonèn pworch instead [=o]'t all. farmer's sons. ov all the chaps a-burnt so brown by zunny hills an' hollors, ov all the whindlèn chaps in town wi' backs so weak as rollers, there's narn that's half so light o' heart, (i'll bet, if thou't zay "done," min,) an' narn that's half so strong an' smart, 's a merry farmer's son, min. he'll fling a stwone so true's a shot, he'll jump so light's a cat; he'll heave a waïght up that would squot a weakly fellow flat. he wont gi'e up when things don't faÿ, but turn em into fun, min; an' what's hard work to zome, is plaÿ avore a farmer's son, min. his bwony eärm an' knuckly vist ('tis best to meäke a friend o't) would het a fellow, that's a-miss'd, half backward wi' the wind o't. wi' such a chap at hand, a maïd would never goo a nun, min; she'd have noo call to be afraïd bezide a farmer's son, min. he'll turn a vurrow, drough his langth, so straïght as eyes can look, or pitch all day, wi' half his strangth, at ev'ry pitch a pook; an' then goo vower mile, or vive, to vind his friends in fun, min, vor maïden's be but dead alive 'ithout a farmer's son, min. zoo jaÿ be in his heart so light, an' manly feäce so brown; an' health goo wi' en hwome at night, vrom meäd, or wood, or down. o' rich an' poor, o' high an' low, when all's a-said an' done, min, the smartest chap that i do know, 's a workèn farmer's son, min. jeÄne. we now mid hope vor better cheer, my smilèn wife o' twice vive year. let others frown, if thou bist near wi' hope upon thy brow, jeäne; vor i vu'st lov'd thee when thy light young sheäpe vu'st grew to woman's height; i loved thee near, an' out o' zight, an' i do love thee now, jeäne. an' we've a-trod the sheenèn bleäde ov eegrass in the zummer sheäde, an' when the leäves begun to feäde wi' zummer in the weäne, jeäne; an' we've a-wander'd drough the groun' o' swayèn wheat a-turnèn brown, an' we've a-stroll'd together roun' the brook an' drough the leäne, jeane. an' nwone but i can ever tell ov all thy tears that have a-vell when trials meäde thy bosom zwell, an' nwone but thou o' mine, jeäne; an' now my heart, that heav'd wi' pride back then to have thee at my zide, do love thee mwore as years do slide, an' leäve them times behine, jeäne. the dree woaks. by the brow o' thik hangèn i spent all my youth, in the house that did peep out between the dree woaks, that in winter avworded their lewth, an' in zummer their sheäde to the green; an' there, as in zummer we play'd at our geämes, we [=e]ach own'd a tree, vor we wer but dree, an' zoo the dree woaks wer a-call'd by our neämes. an' two did grow scraggy out over the road, an' they wer call'd jimmy's an' mine; an' tother wer jeännet's, much kindlier grow'd, wi' a knotless an' white ribbèd rine. an' there, o' fine nights avore gwäin in to rest, we did dance, vull o' life, to the sound o' the fife, or plaÿ at some geäme that poor jeännet lik'd best. zoo happy wer we by the woaks o' the green, till we lost sister jeännet, our pride; vor when she wer come to her last blushèn _teen_, she suddenly zicken'd an' died. an' avore the green leaves in the fall wer gone by, the lightnèn struck dead her woaken tree's head, an' left en a-stripp'd to the wintery sky. but woone ov his eäcorns, a-zet in the fall, come up the spring after, below the trees at her head-stwone 'ithin the church-wall, an' mother, to see how did grow, shed a tear; an' when father an' she wer bwoth dead, there they wer laid deep, wi' their jeännet, to sleep, wi' her at his zide, an' her tree at her head. an' vo'k do still call the wold house the dree woaks, vor thik is a-reckon'd that's down, as mother, a-neämèn her childern to vo'ks, meäde dree when but two wer a-voun'; an' zaid that hereafter she knew she should zee why god, that's above, vound fit in his love to strike wi' his han' the poor maïd an' her tree. the hwomestead a-vell into hand. the house where i wer born an' bred, did own his woaken door, john, when vu'st he shelter'd father's head, an' gramfer's long avore, john. an' many a ramblèn happy chile, an' chap so strong an' bwold, an' bloomèn maïd wi' plaÿsome smile, did call their hwome o' wold thik ruf so warm, a kept vrom harm by elem trees that broke the storm. an' in the orcha'd out behind, the apple-trees in row, john, did swaÿ wi' moss about their rind their heads a-noddèn low, john. an' there, bezide zome groun' vor corn, two strips did skirt the road; in woone the cow did toss her horn, while tother wer a-mow'd, in june, below the lofty row ov trees that in the hedge did grow. a-workèn in our little patch o' parrock, rathe or leäte, john, we little ho'd how vur mid stratch the squier's wide esteäte, john. our hearts, so honest an' so true, had little vor to fear; vor we could pay up all their due an' gi'e a friend good cheer at hwome, below the lofty row o' trees a-swaÿèn to an' fro. an' there in het, an' there in wet, we tweil'd wi' busy hands, john; vor ev'ry stroke o' work we het, did better our own lands, john. but after me, ov all my kin, not woone can hold em on; vor we can't get a life put in vor mine, when i'm a-gone vrom thik wold brown thatch ruf, a-boun' by elem trees a-growèn roun'. ov eight good hwomes, where, i can mind vo'k liv'd upon their land, john, but dree be now a-left behind; the rest ha' vell in hand, john, an' all the happy souls they ved be scatter'd vur an' wide. an' zome o'm be a-wantèn bread, zome, better off, ha' died, noo mwore to ho, vor homes below the trees a-swaÿen to an' fro. an' i could leäd ye now all round the parish, if i would, john, an' show ye still the very ground where vive good housen stood, john in broken orcha'ds near the spot, a vew wold trees do stand; but dew do vall where vo'k woonce zot about the burnèn brand in housen warm, a-kept vrom harm by elems that did break the storm. the guide post. why thik wold post so long kept out, upon the knap, his eärms astrout, a-zendèn on the weary veet by where the dree cross roads do meet; an' i've a-come so much thik woy, wi' happy heart, a man or bwoy, that i'd a-meäde, at last, a'móst a friend o' thik wold guidèn post. an' there, wi' woone white eärm he show'd, down over bridge, the leyton road; wi' woone, the leäne a-leädèn roun' by bradlinch hill, an' on to town; an' wi' the last, the way to turn drough common down to rushiburn,-- the road i lik'd to goo the mwost ov all upon the guidèn post. the leyton road ha' lofty ranks ov elem trees upon his banks; the woone athirt the hill do show us miles o' hedgy meäds below; an' he to rushiburn is wide wi' strips o' green along his zide, an' ouer brown-ruf'd house a-móst in zight o' thik wold guidèn post. an' when the haÿ-meäkers did zwarm o' zummer evenèns out vrom farm. the merry maïdens an' the chaps, a-peärtèn there wi' jokes an' slaps, did goo, zome woone way off, an' zome another, all a-zingèn hwome; vor vew o'm had to goo, at mwost, a mile beyond the guidèn post. poor nanny brown, woone darkish night, when he'd a-been a-païnted white, wer frighten'd, near the gravel pits, so dead's a hammer into fits, a-thinkèn 'twer the ghost she know'd did come an' haunt the leyton road; though, after all, poor nanny's ghost turn'd out to be the guidèn post. gwain to feÄir. to morrow stir so brisk's you can, an' get your work up under han'; vor i an' jim, an' poll's young man, shall goo to feäir; an' zoo, if you wull let us gi'e ye a eärm along the road, or in the zwarm o' vo'k, we'll keep ye out o' harm, an' gi'e ye a feäirèn too. we won't stay leäte there, i'll be boun'; we'll bring our sheädes off out o' town a mile, avore the zun is down, if he's a sheenèn clear. zoo when your work is all a-done, your mother can't but let ye run an' zee a little o' the fun, there's nothèn there to fear. jeÄne o' grenley mill. when in happy times we met, then by look an' deed i show'd, how my love wer all a-zet in the smiles that she bestow'd. she mid have, o' left an' right, maïdens feäirest to the zight; i'd a-chose among em still, pretty jeäne o' grenley mill. she wer feäirer, by her cows in her work-day frock a-drest, than the rest wi' scornvul brows all a-flantèn in their best. gaÿ did seem, at feäst or feäir, zights that i had her to sheäre; gaÿ would be my own heart still, but vor jeäne o' grenley mill. jeäne--a-checkèn ov her love-- leän'd to woone that, as she guess'd, stood in worldly wealth above me she know'd she lik'd the best. he wer wild, an' soon run drough all that he'd a-come into, heartlessly a-treatèn ill pretty jeäne o' grenley mill. oh! poor jenny! thou'st a tore hopèn love vrom my poor heart, losèn vrom thy own small store, all the better, sweeter peärt. hearts a-slighted must vorseäke slighters, though a-doom'd to break; i must scorn, but love thee still, pretty jeäne o' grenley mill. oh! if ever thy soft eyes could ha' turn'd vrom outward show, to a lover born to rise when a higher woone wer low; if thy love, when zoo a-tried, could ha' stood ageän thy pride, how should i ha' lov'd thee still, pretty jeäne o' grenley mill. the bells ov alderburnham. while now upon the win' do zwell the church-bells' evenèn peal, o, along the bottom, who can tell how touch'd my heart do veel, o. to hear ageän, as woonce they rung in holidays when i wer young, wi' merry sound a-ringèn round, the bells ov alderburnham. vor when they rung their gaÿest peals o' zome sweet day o' rest, o, we all did ramble drough the viels, a-dress'd in all our best, o; an' at the bridge or roarèn weir, or in the wood, or in the gleäre ov open ground, did hear ring round the bells ov alderburnham. they bells, that now do ring above the young brides at church-door, o, woonce rung to bless their mother's love, when they were brides avore, o. an' sons in tow'r do still ring on the merry peals o' fathers gone, noo mwore to sound, or hear ring round, the bells ov alderburnham. ov happy peäirs, how soon be zome a-wedded an' a-peärted! vor woone ov jaÿ, what peals mid come to zome o's broken-hearted! the stronger mid the sooner die, the gaÿer mid the sooner sigh; an' who do know what grief's below the bells ov alderburnham! but still 'tis happiness to know that there's a god above us; an' he, by day an' night, do ho vor all ov us, an' love us, an' call us to his house, to heal our hearts, by his own zunday peal ov bells a-rung vor wold an' young, the bells ov alderburnham. the girt wold house o' mossy stwone. the girt wold house o' mossy stwone, up there upon the knap alwone, had woonce a bleäzèn kitchèn-vier, that cook'd vor poor-vo'k an' a squier. the very last ov all the reäce that liv'd the squier o' the pleäce, died off when father wer a-born, an' now his kin be all vorlorn vor ever,--vor he left noo son to teäke the house o' mossy stwone. an' zoo he vell to other hands, an' gramfer took en wi' the lands: an' there when he, poor man, wer dead, my father shelter'd my young head. an' if i wer a squier, i should like to spend my life, an' die in thik wold house o' mossy stwone, up there upon the knap alwone. don't talk ov housen all o' brick, wi' rockèn walls nine inches thick, a-trigg'd together zide by zide in streets, wi' fronts a straddle wide, wi' yards a-sprinkled wi' a mop, too little vor a vrog to hop; but let me live an' die where i can zee the ground, an' trees, an' sky. the girt wold house o' mossy stwone had wings vor either sheäde or zun: woone where the zun did glitter drough, when vu'st he struck the mornèn dew; woone feäced the evenèn sky, an' woone push'd out a pworch to zweaty noon: zoo woone stood out to break the storm, an' meäde another lew an' warm. an' there the timber'd copse rose high, where birds did build an' heäres did lie, an' beds o' grægles in the lew, did deck in maÿ the ground wi' blue. an' there wer hills an' slopèn grounds, that they did ride about wi' hounds; an' drough the meäd did creep the brook wi' bushy bank an' rushy nook, where perch did lie in sheädy holes below the alder trees, an' shoals o' gudgeon darted by, to hide theirzelves in hollows by the zide. an' there by leänes a-windèn deep, wer mossy banks a-risèn steep; an' stwonèn steps, so smooth an' wide, to stiles an' vootpaths at the zide. an' there, so big's a little ground, the geärden wer a-wall'd all round: an' up upon the wall wer bars a-sheäped all out in wheels an' stars, vor vo'k to walk, an' look out drough vrom trees o' green to hills o' blue. an' there wer walks o' peävement, broad enough to meäke a carriage-road, where steätely leädies woonce did use to walk wi' hoops an' high-heel shoes, when yonder hollow woak wer sound, avore the walls wer ivy-bound, avore the elems met above the road between em, where they drove their coach all up or down the road a-comèn hwome or gwaïn abroad. the zummer aïr o' theäse green hill 'v a-heav'd in bosoms now all still, an' all their hopes an' all their tears be unknown things ov other years. but if, in heaven, souls be free to come back here; or there can be an e'thly pleäce to meäke em come to zee it vrom a better hwome,-- then what's a-twold us mid be right, that still, at dead o' tongueless night, their gauzy sheäpes do come an' glide by vootways o' their youthvul pride. an' while the trees do stan' that grow'd vor them, or walls or steps they know'd do bide in pleäce, they'll always come to look upon their e'thly hwome. zoo i would always let alwone the girt wold house o' mossy stwone: i woulden pull a wing o'n down, to meäke ther speechless sheädes to frown; vor when our souls, mid woonce become lik' their's, all bodiless an' dumb, how good to think that we mid vind zome thought vrom them we left behind, an' that zome love mid still unite the hearts o' blood wi' souls o' light. zoo, if 'twer mine, i'd let alwone the girt wold house o' mossy stwone. a witch. there's thik wold hag, moll brown, look zee, jus' past! i wish the ugly sly wold witch would tumble over into ditch; i woulden pull her out not very vast. no, no. i don't think she's a bit belied, no, she's a witch, aye, molly's evil-eyed. vor i do know o' many a-withrèn blight a-cast on vo'k by molly's mutter'd spite; she did, woone time, a dreadvul deäl o' harm to farmer gruff's vo'k, down at lower farm. vor there, woone day, they happened to offend her, an' not a little to their sorrow, because they woulden gi'e or lend her zome'hat she come to bag or borrow; an' zoo, they soon began to vind that she'd agone an' left behind her evil wish that had such pow'r, that she did meäke their milk an' eäle turn zour, an' addle all the aggs their vowls did lay; they coulden vetch the butter in the churn, an' all the cheese begun to turn all back ageän to curds an' whey; the little pigs, a-runnèn wi' the zow, did zicken, zomehow, noobody know'd how, an' vall, an' turn their snouts towárd the sky. an' only gi'e woone little grunt, and die; an' all the little ducks an' chickèn wer death-struck out in yard a-pickèn their bits o' food, an' vell upon their head, an' flapp'd their little wings an' drapp'd down dead. they coulden fat the calves, they woulden thrive; they coulden seäve their lambs alive; their sheep wer all a-coath'd, or gi'ed noo wool; the hosses vell away to skin an' bwones, an' got so weak they coulden pull a half a peck o' stwones: the dog got dead-alive an' drowsy, the cat vell zick an' woulden mousy; an' every time the vo'k went up to bed, they wer a-hag-rod till they wer half dead. they us'd to keep her out o' house, 'tis true, a-naïlèn up at door a hosses shoe; an' i've a-heärd the farmer's wife did try to dawk a needle or a pin in drough her wold hard wither'd skin, an' draw her blood, a-comèn by: but she could never vetch a drap, for pins would ply an' needless snap ageän her skin; an' that, in coo'se, did meäke the hag bewitch em woo'se. [gothic: eclogue.] the times. _john an' tom._ john. well, tom, how be'st? zoo thou'st a-got thy neäme among the leaguers, then, as i've a heärd. tom. aye, john, i have, john; an' i ben't afeärd to own it. why, who woulden do the seäme? we shant goo on lik' this long, i can tell ye. bread is so high an' wages be so low, that, after workèn lik' a hoss, you know, a man can't eärn enough to vill his belly. john. ah! well! now there, d'ye know, if i wer sure that theäsem men would gi'e me work to do all drough the year, an' always pay me mwore than i'm a-eärnèn now, i'd jein em too. if i wer sure they'd bring down things so cheap, that what mid buy a pound o' mutton now would buy the hinder quarters, or the sheep, or what wull buy a pig would buy a cow: in short, if they could meäke a shillèn goo in market just so vur as two, why then, d'ye know, i'd be their man; but, hang it! i don't think they can. tom. why ees they can, though you don't know't, an' theäsem men can meäke it clear. why vu'st they'd zend up members ev'ry year to parli'ment, an' ev'ry man would vote; vor if a fellow midden be a squier, he mid be just so fit to vote, an' goo to meäke the laws at lon'on, too, as many that do hold their noses higher. why shoulden fellows meäke good laws an' speeches a-dressed in fusti'n cwoats an' cord'roy breeches? or why should hooks an' shovels, zives an' axes, keep any man vrom votèn o' the taxes? an' when the poor've a-got a sheäre in meäkèn laws, they'll teäke good ceäre to meäke some good woones vor the poor. do stan' by reason, john; because the men that be to meäke the laws, will meäke em vor theirzelves, you mid be sure. john. ees, that they wull. the men that you mid trust to help you, tom, would help their own zelves vu'st. tom. aye, aye. but we would have a better plan o' votèn, than the woone we got. a man, as things be now, d'ye know, can't goo an' vote ageän another man, but he must know't. we'll have a box an' balls, vor votèn men to pop their hands 'ithin, d'ye know; an' then, if woone don't happen vor to lik' a man, he'll drop a little black ball vrom his han', an' zend en hwome ageän. he woon't be led to choose a man to teäke away his bread. john. but if a man you midden like to 'front, should chance to call upon ye, tom, zome day, an' ax ye vor your vote, what could ye zay? why if you woulden answer, or should grunt or bark, he'd know you'd meän "i won't." to promise woone a vote an' not to gi'e't, is but to be a liar an' a cheat. an' then, bezides, when he did count the balls, an' vind white promises a-turn'd half black; why then he'd think the voters all a pack o' rogues together,--ev'ry woone o'm false. an' if he had the power, very soon perhaps he'd vall upon em, ev'ry woone. the times be pinchèn me, so well as you, but i can't tell what ever they can do. tom. why meäke the farmers gi'e their leäbourèn men mwore wages,--half or twice so much ageän as what they got. john. but, thomas, you can't meäke a man pay mwore away than he can teäke. if you do meäke en gi'e, to till a vield, so much ageän as what the groun' do yield, he'll shut out farmèn--or he'll be a goose-- an' goo an' put his money out to use. wages be low because the hands be plenty; they mid be higher if the hands wer skenty. leäbour, the seäme's the produce o' the yield, do zell at market price--jist what 'till yield. thou wouldsten gi'e a zixpence, i do guess, vor zix fresh aggs, if zix did zell for less. if theäsem vo'k could come an' meäke mwore lands, if they could teäke wold england in their hands an' stratch it out jist twice so big ageän, they'd be a-doèn some'hat vor us then. tom. but if they wer a-zent to parli'ment to meäke the laws, dost know, as i've a-zaid, they'd knock the corn-laws on the head; an' then the landlards must let down their rent, an' we should very soon have cheaper bread: farmers would gi'e less money vor their lands. john. aye, zoo they mid, an' prices mid be low'r vor what their land would yield; an' zoo their hands would be jist where they wer avore. an' if theäse men wer all to hold together, they coulden meäke new laws to change the weather! they ben't so mighty as to think o' frightenèn the vrost an' raïn, the thunder an' the lightenèn! an' as vor me, i don't know what to think o' them there fine, big-talkèn, cunnèn, strange men, a-comèn down vrom lon'on. why they don't stint theirzelves, but eat an' drink the best at public-house where they do staÿ; they don't work gratis, they do get their paÿ. they woulden pinch theirzelves to do us good, nor gi'e their money vor to buy us food. d'ye think, if we should meet em in the street zome day in lon'on, they would stand a treat? tom. they be a-païd, because they be a-zent by corn-law vo'k that be the poor man's friends, to tell us all how we mid gaïn our ends, a-zendèn peäpers up to parli'ment. john. ah! teäke ceäre how dost trust em. dost thou know the funny feäble o' the pig an' crow? woone time a crow begun to strut an' hop about some groun' that men'd a-been a-drillèn wi' barley or some wheat, in hopes o' villèn wi' good fresh corn his empty crop. but lik' a thief, he didden like the païns o' workèn hard to get en a vew graïns; zoo while the sleeky rogue wer there a-huntèn, wi' little luck, vor corns that mid be vound a-peckèn vor, he heärd a pig a-gruntèn just tother zide o' hedge, in tother ground. "ah!" thought the cunnèn rogue, an' gi'ed a hop, "ah! that's the way vor me to vill my crop; aye, that's the plan, if nothèn don't defeät it. if i can get thik pig to bring his snout in here a bit an' turn the barley out, why, hang it! i shall only have to eat it." wi' that he vled up straïght upon a woak, an' bowèn, lik' a man at hustèns, spoke: "my friend," zaid he, "that's poorish livèn vor ye in thik there leäze. why i be very zorry to zee how they hard-hearted vo'k do sarve ye. you can't live there. why! do they meän to starve ye?" "ees," zaid the pig, a-gruntèn, "ees; what wi' the hosses an' the geese, there's only docks an' thissles here to chaw. instead o' livèn well on good warm straw, i got to grub out here, where i can't pick enough to meäke me half an ounce o' flick." "well," zaid the crow, "d'ye know, if you'll stan' that, you mussen think, my friend, o' gettèn fat. d'ye want some better keep? vor if you do, why, as a friend, i be a-come to tell ye, that if you'll come an' jus' get drough theäse gap up here, why you mid vill your belly. why, they've a-been a-drillèn corn, d'ye know, in theäse here piece o' groun' below; an' if you'll just put in your snout, an' run en up along a drill, why, hang it! you mid grub it out, an' eat, an' eat your vill. their idden any fear that vo'k mid come, vor all the men be jist a-gone in hwome." the pig, believèn ev'ry single word that wer a-twold en by the cunnèn bird wer only vor his good, an' that 'twer true, just gi'ed a grunt, an' bundled drough, an' het his nose, wi' all his might an' maïn, right up a drill, a-routèn up the graïn; an' as the cunnèn crow did gi'e a caw a-praisèn [=o]'n, oh! he did veel so proud! an' work'd, an' blow'd, an' toss'd, an' ploughed the while the cunnèn crow did vill his maw. an' after workèn till his bwones did eäche, he soon begun to veel that he should never get a meal, unless he dined on dirt an' stwones. "well," zaid the crow, "why don't ye eat?" "eat what, i wonder!" zaid the heäiry plougher. a-brislèn up an' lookèn rather zour; "i don't think dirt an' flints be any treat." "well," zaid the crow, "why you be blind. what! don't ye zee how thick the corn do lie among the dirt? an' don't ye zee how i do pick up all that you do leäve behind? i'm zorry that your bill should be so snubby." "no," zaid the pig, "methinks that i do zee my bill will do uncommon well vor thee, vor thine wull peck, an' mine wull grubby." an' just wi' this a-zaid by mister flick to mister crow, wold john the farmer's man come up, a-zwingèn in his han' a good long knotty stick, an' laid it on, wi' all his might, the poor pig's vlitches, left an' right; while mister crow, that talk'd so fine o' friendship, left the pig behine, an' vled away upon a distant tree, vor pigs can only grub, but crows can vlee. tom. aye, thik there teäle mid do vor childern's books: but you wull vind it hardish for ye to frighten me, john, wi' a storry o' silly pigs an' cunnèn rooks. if we be grubbèn pigs, why then, i s'pose, the farmers an' the girt woones be the crows. john. 'tis very odd there idden any friend to poor-vo'k hereabout, but men mus' come to do us good away from tother end ov england! han't we any frien's near hwome? i mus' zay, thomas, that 'tis rather odd that strangers should become so very civil,-- that ouer vo'k be childern o' the devil, an' other vo'k be all the vo'k o' god! if we've a-got a friend at all, why who can tell--i'm sure thou cassen-- but that the squier, or the pa'son, mid be our friend, tom, after all? the times be hard, 'tis true! an' they that got his blessèns, shoulden let theirzelves vorget how 'tis where the vo'k do never zet a bit o' meat within their rusty pot. the man a-zittèn in his easy chair to flesh, an' vowl, an' vish, should try to speäre the poor theäse times, a little vrom his store; an' if he don't, why sin is at his door. tom. ah! we won't look to that; we'll have our right,-- if not by feäir meäns, then we wull by might. we'll meäke times better vor us; we'll be free ov other vo'k an' others' charity. john. ah! i do think you mid as well be quiet; you'll meäke things wo'se, i'-ma'-be, by a riot. you'll get into a mess, tom, i'm afeärd; you'll goo vor wool, an' then come hwome a-sheär'd. poems of rural life. second collection. blackmwore maidens. the primrwose in the sheäde do blow, the cowslip in the zun, the thyme upon the down do grow, the clote where streams do run; an' where do pretty maïdens grow an' blow, but where the tow'r do rise among the bricken tuns, in blackmwore by the stour. if you could zee their comely gaït, an' prettÿ feäces' smiles, a-trippèn on so light o' waïght, an' steppèn off the stiles; a-gwaïn to church, as bells do swing an' ring 'ithin the tow'r, you'd own the pretty maïdens' pleäce is blackmwore by the stour. if you vrom wimborne took your road, to stower or paladore, an' all the farmers' housen show'd their daughters at the door; you'd cry to bachelors at hwome-- "here, come: 'ithin an hour you'll vind ten maïdens to your mind, in blackmwore by the stour." an' if you look'd 'ithin their door, to zee em in their pleäce, a-doèn housework up avore their smilèn mother's feäce; you'd cry--"why, if a man would wive an' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r, then let en look en out a wife in blackmwore by the stour." as i upon my road did pass a school-house back in maÿ, there out upon the beäten grass wer maïdens at their plaÿ; an' as the pretty souls did tweil an' smile, i cried, "the flow'r o' beauty, then, is still in bud in blackmwore by the stour." my orcha'd in linden lea. 'ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleäded, by the woak tree's mossy moot, the sheenèn grass-bleädes, timber-sheäded, now do quiver under voot; an' birds do whissle over head, an' water's bubblèn in its bed, an' there vor me the apple tree do leän down low in linden lea. when leaves that leätely wer a-springèn now do feäde 'ithin the copse, an' païnted birds do hush their zingèn up upon the timber's tops; an' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnèn red, in cloudless zunsheen, over head, wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree do leän down low in linden lea. let other vo'k meäke money vaster in the aïr o' dark-room'd towns, i don't dread a peevish meäster; though noo man do heed my frowns, i be free to goo abrode, or teäke ageän my hwomeward road to where, vor me, the apple tree do leän down low in linden lea. bishop's caundle. at peace day, who but we should goo to caundle vor an' hour or two: as gaÿ a day as ever broke above the heads o' caundle vo'k, vor peace, a-come vor all, did come to them wi' two new friends at hwome. zoo while we kept, wi' nimble peäce, the wold dun tow'r avore our feäce, the aïr, at last, begun to come wi' drubbèns ov a beäten drum; an' then we heärd the horns' loud droats plaÿ off a tuen's upper notes; an' then ageän a-risèn cheärm vrom tongues o' people in a zwarm: an' zoo, at last, we stood among the merry feäces o' the drong. an' there, wi' garlands all a-tied in wreaths an' bows on every zide, an' color'd flags, a fluttrèn high an' bright avore the sheenèn sky, the very guide-post wer a-drest wi' posies on his eärms an' breast. at last, the vo'k zwarm'd in by scores an' hundreds droo the high barn-doors, to dine on english feäre, in ranks, a-zot on chairs, or stools, or planks, by bwoards a-reachèn, row an' row, wi' cloths so white as driven snow. an' while they took, wi' merry cheer, their pleäces at the meat an' beer, the band did blow an' beät aloud their merry tuèns to the crowd; an' slowly-zwingèn flags did spread their hangèn colors over head. an' then the vo'k, wi' jaÿ an' pride, stood up in stillness, zide by zide, wi' downcast heads, the while their friend rose up avore the teäble's end, an' zaid a timely greäce, an' blest the welcome meat to every guest. an' then arose a mingled naïse o' knives an' pleätes, an' cups an' traÿs, an' tongues wi' merry tongues a-drown'd below a deaf'nèn storm o' sound. an' zoo, at last, their worthy host stood up to gi'e em all a twoast, that they did drink, wi' shouts o' glee, an' whirlèn eärms to dree times dree. an' when the bwoards at last wer beäre ov all the cloths an' goodly feäre, an' froth noo longer rose to zwim within the beer-mugs sheenèn rim, the vo'k, a-streamèn drough the door, went out to geämes they had in store an' on the blue-reäv'd waggon's bed, above his vower wheels o' red, musicians zot in rows, an' plaÿ'd their tuèns up to chap an' maïd, that beät, wi' plaÿsome tooes an' heels, the level ground in nimble reels. an' zome ageän, a-zet in line, an' startèn at a given sign, wi' outreach'd breast, a-breathèn quick droo op'nèn lips, did nearly kick their polls, a-runnèn sich a peäce, wi' streamèn heäir, to win the reäce. an' in the house, an' on the green, an' in the shrubb'ry's leafy screen, on ev'ry zide we met sich lots o' smilèn friends in happy knots, that i do think, that drough the feäst in caundle, vor a day at leäst, you woudden vind a scowlèn feäce or dumpy heart in all the pleäce. hay meaken--nunchen time. _anne an' john a-ta'kèn o't._ a. back here, but now, the jobber john come by, an' cried, "well done, zing on, i thought as i come down the hill, an' heärd your zongs a-ringèn sh'ill, who woudden like to come, an' fling a peäir o' prongs where you did zing?" j. aye, aye, he woudden vind it plaÿ, to work all day a-meäkèn haÿ, or pitchèn o't, to eärms a-spread by lwoaders, yards above his head, 't'ud meäke en wipe his drippèn brow. a. or else a-reäken after plow. j. or workèn, wi' his nimble pick, a-stiffled wi' the haÿ, at rick. a. our company would suit en best, when we do teäke our bit o' rest, at nunch, a-gather'd here below the sheäde theäse wide-bough'd woak do drow, where hissèn froth mid rise, an' float in horns o' eäle, to wet his droat. j. aye, if his zwellèn han' could drag a meat-slice vrom his dinner bag. 't'ud meäke the busy little chap look rather glum, to zee his lap wi' all his meal ov woone dry croust, an' vinny cheese so dry as doust. a. well, i don't grumble at my food, 'tis wholesome, john, an' zoo 'tis good. j. whose reäke is that a-lyèn there? do look a bit the woo'se vor wear. a. oh! i mus' get the man to meäke a tooth or two vor thik wold reäke, 'tis leäbour lost to strik a stroke wi' him, wi' half his teeth a-broke. j. i should ha' thought your han' too fine to break your reäke, if i broke mine. a. the ramsclaws thin'd his wooden gum o' two teeth here, an' here were zome that broke when i did reäke a patch o' groun' wi' jimmy, vor a match: an' here's a gap ov woone or two a-broke by simon's clumsy shoe, an' when i gi'ed his poll a poke, vor better luck, another broke. in what a veag have you a-swung your pick, though, john? his stem's a-sprung. j. when i an' simon had a het o' pookèn, yonder, vor a bet, the prongs o'n gi'ed a tump a poke, an' then i vound the stem a-broke, bût they do meäke the stems o' picks o' stuff so brittle as a kicks. a. there's poor wold jeäne, wi' wrinkled skin, a-tellèn, wi' her peakèd chin, zome teäle ov her young days, poor soul. do meäke the young-woones smile. 'tis droll. what is it? stop, an' let's goo near. i do like theäse wold teäles. let's hear. a father out, an' mother hwome. the snow-white clouds did float on high in shoals avore the sheenèn sky, an' runnèn weäves in pon' did cheäse each other on the water's feäce, as hufflèn win' did blow between the new-leav'd boughs o' sheenèn green. an' there, the while i walked along the path, drough leäze, above the drong, a little maïd, wi' bloomèn feäce, went on up hill wi' nimble peäce, a-leänèn to the right-han' zide, to car a basket that did ride, a-hangèn down, wi' all his heft, upon her elbow at her left. an' yet she hardly seem'd to bruise the grass-bleädes wi' her tiny shoes, that pass'd each other, left an' right. in steps a'most too quick vor zight. but she'd a-left her mother's door a-bearèn vrom her little store her father's welcome bit o' food, where he wer out at work in wood; an' she wer bless'd wi' mwore than zwome-- a father out, an' mother hwome. an' there, a-vell'd 'ithin the copse, below the timber's new-leav'd tops, wer ashèn poles, a-castèn straïght, on primrwose beds, their langthy waïght; below the yollow light, a-shed drough boughs upon the vi'let's head, by climèn ivy, that did reach, a sheenèn roun' the dead-leav'd beech. an' there her father zot, an' meäde his hwomely meal bezide a gleäde; while she, a-croopèn down to ground, did pull the flowers, where she vound the droopèn vi'let out in blooth, or yollow primrwose in the lewth, that she mid car em proudly back, an' zet em on her mother's tack; vor she wer bless'd wi' mwore than zwome-- a father out, an' mother hwome. a father out, an' mother hwome, be blessèns soon a-lost by zome; a-lost by me, an' zoo i pray'd they mid be speär'd the little maïd. riddles. _anne an' joey a-ta'ken._ a. a plague! theäse cow wont stand a bit, noo sooner do she zee me zit ageän her, than she's in a trot, a-runnèn to zome other spot. j. why 'tis the dog do sceäre the cow, he worried her a-vield benow. a. goo in, ah! _liplap_, where's your taïl! j. he's off, then up athirt the raïl. your cow there, anne's a-come to hand a goodish milcher. a. if she'd stand, but then she'll steäre an' start wi' fright to zee a dumbledore in flight. last week she het the païl a flought, an' flung my meal o' milk half out. j. ha! ha! but anny, here, what lout broke half your small païl's bottom out? a. what lout indeed! what, do ye own the neäme? what dropp'd en on a stwone? j. hee! hee! well now he's out o' trim wi' only half a bottom to en; could you still vill en' to the brim an' yit not let the milk run drough en? a. aye, as for nonsense, joe, your head do hold it all so tight's a blather, but if 'tis any good, do shed it all so leäky as a lather. could you vill païls 'ithout a bottom, yourself that be so deeply skill'd? j. well, ees, i could, if i'd a-got em inside o' bigger woones a-vill'd. a. la! that _is_ zome'hat vor to hatch! here answer me theäse little catch. down under water an' o' top o't i went, an' didden touch a drop o't, j. not when at mowèn time i took an' pull'd ye out o' longmeäd brook, where you'd a-slidder'd down the edge an' zunk knee-deep bezide the zedge, a-tryèn to reäke out a clote. a. aye i do hear your chucklèn droat when i athirt the brudge did bring zome water on my head vrom spring. then under water an' o' top o't, wer i an' didden touch a drop o't. j. o lauk! what thik wold riddle still, why that's as wold as duncliffe hill; "a two-lagg'd thing do run avore an' run behind a man, an' never run upon his lags though on his lags do stan'." what's that? i don't think you do know. there idden sich a thing to show. not know? why yonder by the stall 's a wheel-barrow bezide the wall, don't he stand on his lags so trim, an' run on nothèn but his wheels wold rim. a. there's _horn_ vor goodman's eye-zight seäke; there's _horn_ vor goodman's mouth to teäke; there's _horn_ vor goodman's ears, as well as _horn_ vor goodman's nose to smell-- what _horns_ be they, then? do your hat hold wit enough to tell us that? j. oh! _horns_! but no, i'll tell ye what, my cow is hornless, an' she's _knot_. a. _horn_ vor the _mouth's_ a hornèn cup. j. an' eäle's good stuff to vill en up. a. an' _horn_ vor _eyes_ is horn vor light, vrom goodman's lantern after night; _horn_ vor the _ears_ is woone to sound vor hunters out wi' ho'se an' hound; but _horn_ that vo'k do buy to smell o' is _hart's-horn_. j. is it? what d'ye tell o' how proud we be, vor ben't we smart? aye, _horn_ is _horn_, an' hart is hart. well here then, anne, while we be at it, 's a ball vor you if you can bat it. on dree-lags, two-lags, by the zide o' vower-lags, woonce did zit wi' pride, when vower-lags, that velt a prick, vrom zix-lags, het two lags a kick. an' two an' dree-lags vell, all vive, slap down, zome dead an' zome alive. a. teeh! heeh! what have ye now then, joe, at last, to meäke a riddle o'? j. your dree-lagg'd stool woone night did bear up you a milkèn wi' a peäir; an' there a zix-lagg'd stout did prick your vow'r-lagg'd cow, an meäke her kick, a-hettèn, wi' a pretty pat, your stool an' you so flat's a mat. you scrambled up a little dirty, but i do hope it didden hurt ye. a. you hope, indeed! a likely ceäse, wi' thik broad grin athirt your feäce you saucy good-vor-nothèn chap, i'll gi'e your grinnèn feäce a slap, your drawlèn tongue can only run to turn a body into fun. j. oh! i woont do 't ageän. oh dear! till next time, anny. oh my ear! oh! anne, why you've a-het my hat 'ithin the milk, now look at that. a. do sar ye right, then, i don't ceäre. i'll thump your noddle,--there--there--there. day's work a-done. and oh! the jaÿ our rest did yield, at evenèn by the mossy wall, when we'd a-work'd all day a-vield, while zummer zuns did rise an' vall; as there a-lettèn goo all frettèn, an' vorgettèn all our tweils, we zot among our childern's smiles. an' under skies that glitter'd white, the while our smoke, arisèn blue, did melt in aiër, out o' zight, above the trees that kept us lew; wer birds a-zingèn, tongues a-ringèn, childern springèn, vull o' jaÿ, a-finishèn the day in plaÿ. an' back behind, a-stannèn tall, the cliff did sheen to western light; an' while avore the water-vall, a-rottlèn loud, an' foamèn white. the leaves did quiver, gnots did whiver, by the river, where the pool, in evenèn aïr did glissen cool. an' childern there, a-runnèn wide, did plaÿ their geämes along the grove, vor though to us 'twer jaÿ to bide at rest, to them 'twer jaÿ to move. the while my smilèn jeäne, beguilèn, all my tweilèn, wi' her ceäre, did call me to my evenèn feäre. light or sheÄde. a maÿtide's evenèn wer a-dyèn, under moonsheen, into night, wi' a streamèn wind a-sighèn by the thorns a-bloomèn white. where in sheäde, a-zinkèn deeply, wer a nook, all dark but lew, by a bank, arisèn steeply, not to let the win' come drough. should my love goo out, a-showèn all her smiles, in open light; or, in lewth, wi' wind a-blowèn, staÿ in darkness, dim to zight? staÿ in sheäde o' bank or wallèn, in the warmth, if not in light; words alwone vrom her a-vallèn, would be jaÿ vor all the night. the waggon a-stooded. _dree o'm a-ta'kèn o't._ ( ) well, here we be, then, wi' the vu'st poor lwoad o' vuzz we brought, a-stoodèd in the road. ( ) the road, george, no. there's na'r a road. that's wrong. if we'd a road, we mid ha' got along. ( ) noo road! ees 'tis, the road that we do goo. ( ) do goo, george, no. the pleäce we can't get drough. ( ) well, there, the vu'st lwoad we've a-haul'd to day is here a-stoodèd in theäse bed o' clay. here's rotten groun'! an' how the wheels do cut! the little woone's a-zunk up to the nut. ( ) an' yeet this rotten groun' don't reach a lug. ( ) well, come, then, gi'e the plow another tug. ( ) they meäres wull never pull the waggon out, a-lwoaded, an' a-stoodèd in thik rout. ( ) we'll try. come, _smiler_, come! c'up, _whitevoot_, gee! ( ) white-voot wi' lags all over mud! hee! hee! ( ) 'twoon't wag. we shall but snap our gear, an' overstraïn the meäres. 'twoon't wag, 'tis clear. ( ) that's your work, william. no, in coo'se, 'twoon't wag. why did ye dr[=e]ve en into theäse here quag? the vore-wheels be a-zunk above the nuts. ( ) what then? i coulden leäve the beäten track, to turn the waggon over on the back ov woone o' theäsem wheel-high emmet-butts. if you be sich a dr[=e]ver, an' do know't, you dr[=e]ve the plow, then; but you'll overdrow 't. ( ) i dr[=e]ve the plow, indeed! oh! ees, what, now the wheels woont wag, then, _i_ mid dr[=e]ve the plow! we'd better dig away the groun' below the wheels. ( ) there's na'r a speäde to dig wi'. ( ) an' teäke an' cut a lock o' frith, an' drow upon the clay. ( ) nor hook to cut a twig wi'. ( ) oh! here's a bwoy a-comèn. here, my lad, dost know vor a'r a speäde, that can be had? (b) at father's. ( ) well, where's that? (bwoy) at sam'el riddick's. ( ) well run, an' ax vor woone. fling up your heels, an' mind: a speäde to dig out theäsem wheels, an' hook to cut a little lock o' widdicks. ( ) why, we shall want zix ho'ses, or a dozen, to pull the waggon out, wi' all theäse vuzzen. ( ) well, we mus' lighten en; come, jeämes, then, hop upon the lwoad, an' jus' fling off the top. ( ) if i can clim' en; but 'tis my consaït, that i shall overzet en wi' my waïght. ( ) you overzet en! no, jeämes, he won't vall, the lwoad's a-built so firm as any wall. ( ) here! lend a hand or shoulder vor my knee or voot. i'll scramble to the top an' zee what i can do. well, here i be, among the fakkets, vor a bit, but not vor long. heigh, george! ha! ha! why this wull never stand. your firm 's a wall, is all so loose as zand; 'tis all a-come to pieces. oh! teäke ceäre! ho! i'm a-vallèn, vuzz an' all! haë! there! ( ) lo'k there, thik fellor is a-vell lik' lead, an' half the fuzzen wi 'n, heels over head! there's all the vuzz a-lyèn lik' a staddle, an' he a-deäb'd wi' mud. oh! here's a caddle! ( ) an' zoo you soon got down zome vuzzen, jimmy. ( ) ees, i do know 'tis down. i brought it wi' me. ( ) your lwoad, george, wer a rather slick-built thing, but there, 'twer prickly vor the hands! did sting? ( ) oh! ees, d'ye teäke me vor a nincompoop, no, no. the lwoad wer up so firm's a rock, but two o' theäsem emmet-butts would knock the tightest barrel nearly out o' hoop. ( ) oh! now then, here 's the bwoy a-bringèn back the speäde. well done, my man. that idder slack. ( ) well done, my lad, sha't have a ho'se to ride when thou'st a meäre. (bwoy) next never's-tide. ( ) now let's dig out a spit or two o' clay, a-vore the little wheels; oh! so's, i can't pull up my heels, i be a-stogg'd up over shoe. ( ) come, william, dig away! why you do spuddle a'most so weak's a child. how you do muddle! gi'e me the speäde a-bit. a pig would rout it out a'most so nimbly wi' his snout. ( ) oh! so's, d'ye hear it, then. how we can thunder! how big we be, then george! what next i wonder? ( ) now, william, gi'e the waggon woone mwore twitch, the wheels be free, an' 'tis a lighter nitch. ( ) come, _smiler_, gee! c'up, _white-voot_. ( ) that wull do. ( ) do wag. ( ) do goo at last. ( ) well done. 'tis drough. ( ) now, william, till you have mwore ho'ses' lags, don't dr[=e]ve the waggon into theäsem quags. ( ) you build your lwoads up tight enough to ride. ( ) i can't do less, d'ye know, wi' you vor guide. gwaÏn down the steps vor water. while zuns do roll vrom east to west to bring us work, or leäve us rest, there down below the steep hill-zide, drough time an' tide, the spring do flow; an' mothers there, vor years a-gone, lik' daughters now a-comèn on, to bloom when they be weak an' wan, went down the steps vor water. an' what do yonder ringers tell a-ringèn changes, bell by bell; or what's a-show'd by yonder zight o' vo'k in white, upon the road, but that by john o' woodleys zide, there's now a-blushèn vor his bride, a pretty maïd that vu'st he spied, gwaïn down the steps vor water. though she, 'tis true, is feäir an' kind, there still be mwore a-left behind; so cleän 's the light the zun do gi'e, so sprack 's a bee when zummer's bright; an' if i've luck, i woont be slow to teäke off woone that i do know, a-trippèn gaïly to an' fro, upon the steps vor water. her father idden poor--but vew in parish be so well to do; vor his own cows do swing their taïls behind his païls, below his boughs: an' then ageän to win my love, why, she's as hwomely as a dove, an' don't hold up herzelf above gwaïn down the steps vor water. gwaïn down the steps vor water! no! how handsome it do meäke her grow. if she'd be straïght, or walk abrode, to tread her road wi' comely gaït, she coulden do a better thing to zet herzelf upright, than bring her pitcher on her head, vrom spring upon the steps, wi' water. no! don't ye neäme in woone seäme breath wi' bachelors, the husband's he'th; the happy pleäce, where vingers thin do pull woone's chin, or pat woone's feäce. but still the bleäme is their's, to slight their happiness, wi' such a zight o' maïdens, mornèn, noon, an' night, a-gwaïn down steps vor water. ellen brine ov allenburn. noo soul did hear her lips complaïn, an' she's a-gone vrom all her païn, an' others' loss to her is gaïn for she do live in heaven's love; vull many a longsome day an' week she bore her aïlèn, still, an' meek; a-workèn while her strangth held on, an' guidèn housework, when 'twer gone. vor ellen brine ov allenburn, oh! there be souls to murn. the last time i'd a-cast my zight upon her feäce, a-feäded white, wer in a zummer's mornèn light in hall avore the smwold'rèn vier, the while the childern beät the vloor, in plaÿ, wi' tiny shoes they wore, an' call'd their mother's eyes to view the feät's their little limbs could do. oh! ellen brine ov allenburn, they childern now mus' murn. then woone, a-stoppèn vrom his reäce, went up, an' on her knee did pleäce his hand, a-lookèn in her feäce, an' wi' a smilèn mouth so small, he zaid, "you promised us to goo to shroton feäir, an' teäke us two!" she heärd it wi' her two white ears, an' in her eyes there sprung two tears, vor ellen brine ov allenburn did veel that they mus' murn. september come, wi' shroton feäir, but ellen brine wer never there! a heavy heart wer on the meäre their father rod his hwomeward road. 'tis true he brought zome feärèns back, vor them two childern all in black; but they had now, wi' plaÿthings new, noo mother vor to shew em to, vor ellen brine ov allenburn would never mwore return. the motherless child. the zun'd a-zet back tother night, but in the zettèn pleäce the clouds, a-redden'd by his light, still glow'd avore my feäce. an' i've a-lost my meäry's smile, i thought; but still i have her chile, zoo like her, that my eyes can treäce the mother's in her daughter's feäce. o little feäce so near to me, an' like thy mother's gone; why need i zay sweet night cloud, wi' the glow o' my lost day, thy looks be always dear to me. the zun'd a-zet another night; but, by the moon on high, he still did zend us back his light below a cwolder sky. my meäry's in a better land i thought, but still her chile's at hand, an' in her chile she'll zend me on her love, though she herzelf's a-gone. o little chile so near to me, an' like thy mother gone; why need i zay, sweet moon, the messenger vrom my lost day, thy looks be always dear to me. the leÄdy's tower. an' then we went along the gleädes o' zunny turf, in quiv'rèn sheädes, a-windèn off, vrom hand to hand, along a path o' yollow zand, an' clomb a stickle slope, an' vound an open patch o' lofty ground, up where a steätely tow'r did spring, so high as highest larks do zing. "oh! meäster collins," then i zaid, a-lookèn up wi' back-flung head; vor who but he, so mild o' feäce, should teäke me there to zee the pleäce. "what is it then theäse tower do meän, a-built so feäir, an' kept so cleän?" "ah! me," he zaid, wi' thoughtvul feäce, "'twer grief that zet theäse tower in pleäce. the squier's e'thly life's a-blest wi' gifts that mwost do teäke vor best; the lofty-pinion'd rufs do rise to screen his head vrom stormy skies; his land's a-spreadèn roun' his hall, an' hands do leäbor at his call; the while the ho'se do fling, wi' pride, his lofty head where he do guide; but still his e'thly jaÿ's a-vled, his woone true friend, his wife, is dead. zoo now her happy soul's a-gone, an' he in grief's a-ling'rèn on, do do his heart zome good to show his love to flesh an' blood below. an' zoo he rear'd, wi' smitten soul, theäse leädy's tower upon the knowl. an' there you'll zee the tow'r do spring twice ten veet up, as roun's a ring, wi' pillars under mwolded eäves, above their heads a-carv'd wi' leaves; an' have to peäce, a-walkèn round his voot, a hunderd veet o' ground. an' there, above his upper wall, a roundèd tow'r do spring so tall 's a springèn arrow shot upright, a hunderd giddy veet in height. an' if you'd like to straïn your knees a-climèn up above the trees, to zee, wi' slowly wheelèn feäce, the vur-sky'd land about the pleäce, you'll have a flight o' steps to wear vor forty veet, up steäir by steäir, that roun' the risèn tow'r do wind, like withwind roun' the saplèn's rind, an' reach a landèn, wi' a seat, to rest at last your weary veet, 'ithin a breast be-screenèn wall, to keep ye vrom a longsome vall. an' roun' the windèn steäirs do spring aïght stwonèn pillars in a ring, a-reachèn up their heavy strangth drough forty veet o' slender langth, to end wi' carvèd heads below the broad-vloor'd landèn's aïry bow. aïght zides, as you do zee, do bound the lower buildèn on the ground, an' there in woone, a two-leav'd door do zwing above the marble vloor: an' aÿe, as luck do zoo betide our comèn, wi' can goo inside. the door is oben now. an' zoo the keeper kindly let us drough. there as we softly trod the vloor o' marble stwone, 'ithin the door, the echoes ov our vootsteps vled out roun' the wall, and over head; an' there a-païnted, zide by zide, in memory o' the squier's bride, in zeven païntèns, true to life, wer zeven zights o' wedded life." then meäster collins twold me all the teäles a-païntèd roun' the wall; an' vu'st the bride did stan' to plight her weddèn vow, below the light a-shootèn down, so bright's a fleäme, in drough a churches window freäme. an' near the bride, on either hand, you'd zee her comely bridemaïds stand, wi' eyelashes a-bent in streäks o' brown above their bloomèn cheäks: an' sheenèn feäir, in mellow light, wi' flowèn heäir, an' frocks o' white. "an' here," good meäster collins cried, "you'll zee a creädle at her zide, an' there's her child, a-lyèn deep 'ithin it, an' a-gone to sleep, wi' little eyelashes a-met in fellow streäks, as black as jet; the while her needle, over head, do nimbly leäd the snow-white thread, to zew a robe her love do meäke wi' happy leäbor vor his seäke. "an' here a-geän's another pleäce, where she do zit wi' smilèn feäce, an' while her bwoy do leän, wi' pride, ageän her lap, below her zide, her vinger tip do leäd his look to zome good words o' god's own book. "an' next you'll zee her in her pleäce, avore her happy husband's feäce, as he do zit, at evenèn-tide, a-restèn by the vier-zide. an' there the childern's heads do rise wi' laughèn lips, an' beamèn eyes, above the bwoard, where she do lay her sheenèn tacklèn, wi' the tea. "an' here another zide do show her vinger in her scizzars' bow avore two daughters, that do stand, wi' leärnsome minds, to watch her hand a-sheäpèn out, wi' skill an' ceäre, a frock vor them to zew an' wear. "then next you'll zee her bend her head above her aïlèn husband's bed, a-fannèn, wi' an inward praÿ'r, his burnèn brow wi' beäten aïr; the while the clock, by candle light, do show that 'tis the dead o' night. "an' here ageän upon the wall, where we do zee her last ov all, her husband's head's a-hangèn low, 'ithin his hands in deepest woe. an' she, an angel ov his god, do cheer his soul below the rod, a-liftèn up her han' to call his eyes to writèn on the wall, as white as is her spotless robe, 'hast thou rememberèd my servant job?' "an' zoo the squier, in grief o' soul, built up the tower upon the knowl." fatherhood. let en zit, wi' his dog an' his cat, wi' their noses a-turn'd to the vier, an' have all that a man should desire; but there idden much reädship in that. whether vo'k mid have childern or no, wou'dden meäke mighty odds in the maïn; they do bring us mwore jaÿ wi' mwore ho, an' wi' nwone we've less jaÿ wi' less païn we be all lik' a zull's idle sheäre out, an' shall rust out, unless we do wear out, lik' do-nothèn, rue-nothèn, dead alive dumps. as vor me, why my life idden bound to my own heart alwone, among men; i do live in myzelf, an' ageän in the lives o' my childern all round: i do live wi' my bwoy in his plaÿ, an' ageän wi' my maïd in her zongs; an' my heart is a-stirr'd wi' their jaÿ, an' would burn at the zight o' their wrongs. i ha' nine lives, an' zoo if a half o'm do cry, why the rest o'm mid laugh all so plaÿvully, jaÿvully, happy wi' hope. tother night i come hwome a long road, when the weather did sting an' did vreeze; an' the snow--vor the day had a-snow'd-- wer avroze on the boughs o' the trees; an' my tooes an' my vingers wer num', an' my veet wer so lumpy as logs, an' my ears wer so red's a cock's cwom'; an' my nose wer so cwold as a dog's; but so soon's i got hwome i vorgot where my limbs wer a-cwold or wer hot, when wi' loud cries an' proud cries they coll'd me so cwold. vor the vu'st that i happen'd to meet come to pull my girtcwoat vrom my eärm, an' another did rub my feäce warm, an' another hot-slipper'd my veet; while their mother did cast on a stick, vor to keep the red vier alive; an' they all come so busy an' thick as the bees vlee-èn into their hive, an' they meäde me so happy an' proud, that my heart could ha' crow'd out a-loud; they did tweil zoo, an' smile zoo, an' coll me so cwold. as i zot wi' my teacup, at rest, there i pull'd out the taÿs i did bring; men a-kickèn, a-wagg'd wi' a string, an' goggle-ey'd dolls to be drest; an' oh! vrom the childern there sprung such a charm when they handled their taÿs, that vor pleasure the bigger woones wrung their two hands at the zight o' their jaÿs; as the bwoys' bigger vaïces vell in wi' the maïdens a-titterèn thin, an' their dancèn an' prancèn, an' little mouth's laughs. though 'tis hard stripes to breed em all up, if i'm only a-blest vrom above, they'll meäke me amends wi' their love, vor their pillow, their pleäte, an' their cup; though i shall be never a-spweil'd wi' the sarvice that money can buy; still the hands ov a wife an' a child be the blessèns ov low or ov high; an' if there be mouths to be ved, he that zent em can zend me their bread, an' will smile on the chile that's a-new on the knee. the maid o' newton. in zummer, when the knaps wer bright in cool-aïr'd evenèn's western light, an' haÿ that had a-dried all day, did now lie grey, to dewy night; i went, by happy chance, or doom, vrom broadwoak hill, athirt to coomb, an' met a maïd in all her bloom: the feaïrest maïd o' newton. she bore a basket that did ride so light, she didden leän azide; her feäce wer oval, an' she smil'd so sweet's a child, but walk'd wi' pride. i spoke to her, but what i zaid i didden know; wi' thoughts a-vled, i spoke by heart, an' not by head, avore the maïd o' newton. i call'd her, oh! i don't know who, 'twer by a neäme she never knew; an' to the heel she stood upon, she then brought on her hinder shoe, an' stopp'd avore me, where we met, an' wi' a smile woone can't vorget, she zaid, wi' eyes a-zwimmèn wet, "no, i be woone o' newton." then on i rambled to the west, below the zunny hangèn's breast, where, down athirt the little stream, the brudge's beam did lie at rest: but all the birds, wi' lively glee, did chirp an' hop vrom tree to tree, as if it wer vrom pride, to zee goo by the maïd o' newton. by fancy led, at evenèn's glow, i woonce did goo, a-rovèn slow, down where the elèms, stem by stem, do stan' to hem the grove below; but after that, my veet vorzook the grove, to seek the little brook at coomb, where i mid zometimes look, to meet the maïd o' newton. childhood. aye, at that time our days wer but vew, an' our lim's wer but small, an' a-growèn; an' then the feäir worold wer new, an' life wer all hopevul an' gaÿ; an' the times o' the sproutèn o' leaves, an' the cheäk-burnèn seasons o' mowèn, an' bindèn o' red-headed sheaves, wer all welcome seasons o' jaÿ. then the housen seem'd high, that be low, an' the brook did seem wide that is narrow, an' time, that do vlee, did goo slow, an' veelèns now feeble wer strong, an' our worold did end wi' the neämes ov the sha'sbury hill or bulbarrow; an' life did seem only the geämes that we plaÿ'd as the days rolled along. then the rivers, an' high-timber'd lands, an' the zilvery hills, 'ithout buyèn, did seem to come into our hands vrom others that own'd em avore; an' all zickness, an' sorrow, an' need, seem'd to die wi' the wold vo'k a-dyèn, an' leäve us vor ever a-freed vrom evils our vorefathers bore. but happy be childern the while they have elders a-livèn to love em, an' teäke all the wearisome tweil that zome hands or others mus' do; like the low-headed shrubs that be warm, in the lewth o' the trees up above em, a-screen'd vrom the cwold blowèn storm that the timber avore em must rue. meÄry's smile. when mornèn winds, a-blowèn high, do zweep the clouds vrom all the sky, an' laurel-leaves do glitter bright, the while the newly broken light do brighten up, avore our view, the vields wi' green, an' hills wi' blue; what then can highten to my eyes the cheerful feäce ov e'th an' skies, but meäry's smile, o' morey's mill, my rwose o' mowy lea. an' when, at last, the evenèn dews do now begin to wet our shoes; an' night's a-ridèn to the west, to stop our work, an' gi'e us rest, oh! let the candle's ruddy gleäre but brighten up her sheenèn heäir; or else, as she do walk abroad, let moonlight show, upon the road, my meäry's smile, o' morey's mill, my rwose o' mowy lea. an' o! mid never tears come on, to wash her feäce's blushes wan, nor kill her smiles that now do plaÿ like sparklèn weäves in zunny maÿ; but mid she still, vor all she's gone vrom souls she now do smile upon, show others they can vind woone jaÿ to turn the hardest work to plaÿ. my meäry's smile, o' morey's mill, my rwose o' mowy lea. meÄry wedded. the zun can zink, the stars mid rise, an' woods be green to sheenèn skies; the cock mid crow to mornèn light, an' workvo'k zing to vallèn night; the birds mid whissle on the spraÿ, an' childern leäp in merry plaÿ, but our's is now a lifeless pleäce, vor we've a-lost a smilèn feäce-- young meäry meäd o' merry mood, vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded. the dog that woonce wer glad to bear her fondlèn vingers down his heäir, do leän his head ageän the vloor, to watch, wi' heavy eyes, the door; an' men she zent so happy hwome o' zadurdays, do seem to come to door, wi' downcast hearts, to miss wi' smiles below the clematis, young meäry meäd o' merry mood, vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded. when they do draw the evenèn blind, an' when the evenèn light's a-tin'd, the cheerless vier do drow a gleäre o' light ageän her empty chair; an' wordless gaps do now meäke thin their talk where woonce her vaïce come in. zoo lwonesome is her empty pleäce, an' blest the house that ha' the feäce o' meäry meäd, o' merry mood, now she's a-woo'd and wedded. the day she left her father's he'th, though sad, wer kept a day o' me'th, an' dry-wheel'd waggons' empty beds wer left 'ithin the tree-screen'd sheds; an' all the hosses, at their eäse, went snortèn up the flow'ry leäse, but woone, the smartest for the roäd, that pull'd away the dearest lwoad-- young meäry meäd o' merry mood, that wer a-woo'd an' wedded. the stwonen bwoy upon the pillar. wi' smokeless tuns an' empty halls, an' moss a-clingèn to the walls, in ev'ry wind the lofty tow'rs do teäke the zun, an' bear the show'rs; an' there, 'ithin a geät a-hung, but vasten'd up, an' never swung, upon the pillar, all alwone, do stan' the little bwoy o' stwone; 's a poppy bud mid linger on, vorseäken, when the wheat's a-gone. an' there, then, wi' his bow let slack, an' little quiver at his back, drough het an' wet, the little chile vrom day to day do stan' an' smile. when vu'st the light, a-risèn weak, at break o' day, do smite his cheäk, or while, at noon, the leafy bough do cast a sheäde a-thirt his brow, or when at night the warm-breath'd cows do sleep by moon-belighted boughs; an' there the while the rooks do bring their scroff to build their nest in spring, or zwallows in the zummer day do cling their little huts o' clay, 'ithin the raïnless sheädes, below the steadvast arches' mossy bow. or when, in fall, the woak do shed the leaves, a-wither'd, vrom his head, an' western win's, a-blowèn cool, do dreve em out athirt the pool, or winter's clouds do gather dark an' wet, wi' raïn, the elem's bark, you'll zee his pretty smile betwixt his little sheäde-mark'd lips a-fix'd; as there his little sheäpe do bide drough day an' night, an' time an' tide, an' never change his size or dress, nor overgrow his prettiness. but, oh! thik child, that we do vind in childhood still, do call to mind a little bwoy a-call'd by death, long years agoo, vrom our sad he'th; an' i, in thought, can zee en dim the seäme in feäce, the seäme in lim', my heäir mid whiten as the snow, my limbs grow weak, my step wear slow, my droopèn head mid slowly vall above the han'-staff's glossy ball, an' yeet, vor all a wid'nèn span ov years, mid change a livèn man, my little child do still appear to me wi' all his childhood's gear, 'ithout a beard upon his chin, 'ithout a wrinkle in his skin, a-livèn on, a child the seäme in look, an' sheäpe, an' size, an' neäme. the young that died in beauty. if souls should only sheen so bright in heaven as in e'thly light, an' nothèn better wer the ceäse, how comely still, in sheäpe an' feäce, would many reach thik happy pleäce,-- the hopeful souls that in their prime ha' seem'd a-took avore their time-- the young that died in beauty. but when woone's lim's ha' lost their strangth a-tweilèn drough a lifetime's langth, an' over cheäks a-growèn wold the slowly-weästen years ha' rolled, the deep'nèn wrinkle's hollow vwold; when life is ripe, then death do call vor less ov thought, than when do vall on young vo'ks in their beauty. but pinèn souls, wi' heads a-hung in heavy sorrow vor the young, the sister ov the brother dead, the father wi' a child a-vled, the husband when his bride ha' laid her head at rest, noo mwore to turn, have all a-vound the time to murn vor youth that died in beauty. an' yeet the church, where praÿer do rise vrom thoughtvul souls, wi' downcast eyes. an' village greens, a-beät half beäre by dancers that do meet, an' weär such merry looks at feäst an' feäir, do gather under leàtest skies, their bloomèn cheäks an' sparklèn eyes, though young ha' died in beauty. but still the dead shall mwore than keep the beauty ov their eärly sleep; where comely looks shall never weär uncomely, under tweil an' ceäre. the feäir at death be always feäir, still feäir to livers' thought an' love, an' feäirer still to god above, than when they died in beauty. fair emily ov yarrow mill. dear yarrowham, 'twer many miles vrom thy green meäds that, in my walk, i met a maïd wi' winnèn smiles, that talk'd as vo'k at hwome do talk; an' who at last should she be vound, ov all the souls the sky do bound, but woone that trod at vu'st thy groun' fair emily ov yarrow mill. but thy wold house an' elmy nook, an' wall-screen'd geärden's mossy zides, thy grassy meäds an' zedgy brook, an' high-bank'd leänes, wi' sheädy rides, wer all a-known to me by light ov eärly days, a-quench'd by night, avore they met the younger zight ov emily ov yarrow mill. an' now my heart do leäp to think o' times that i've a-spent in plaÿ, bezide thy river's rushy brink, upon a deäizybed o' maÿ; i lov'd the friends thy land ha' bore, an' i do love the paths they wore, an' i do love thee all the mwore, vor emily ov yarrow mill. when bright above the e'th below the moon do spread abroad his light, an' aïr o' zummer nights do blow athirt the vields in plaÿsome flight, 'tis then delightsome under all the sheädes o' boughs by path or wall, but mwostly thine when they do vall on emily ov yarrow mill. the scud. aye, aye, the leäne wi' flow'ry zides a-kept so lew, by hazzle-wrides, wi' beds o' graegles out in bloom, below the timber's windless gloon an' geäte that i've a-swung, an' rod as he's a-hung, when i wer young, in woakley coomb. 'twer there at feäst we all did pass the evenèn on the leänezide grass, out where the geäte do let us drough, below the woak-trees in the lew, in merry geämes an' fun that meäde us skip an' run, wi' burnèn zun, an' sky o' blue. but still there come a scud that drove the titt'rèn maïdens vrom the grove; an' there a-left wer flow'ry mound, 'ithout a vaïce, 'ithout a sound, unless the aïr did blow, drough ruslèn leaves, an' drow, the raïn drops low, upon the ground. i linger'd there an' miss'd the naïse; i linger'd there an' miss'd our jaÿs; i miss'd woone soul beyond the rest; the maïd that i do like the best. vor where her vaïce is gaÿ an' where her smiles do plaÿ, there's always jaÿ vor ev'ry breast. vor zome vo'k out abroad ha' me'th, but nwone at hwome bezide the he'th; an' zome ha' smiles vor strangers' view; an' frowns vor kith an' kin to rue; but her sweet vaïce do vall, wi' kindly words to all, both big an' small, the whole day drough. an' when the evenèn sky wer peäle, we heärd the warblèn nightèngeäle, a-drawèn out his lwonesome zong, in windèn music down the drong; an' jenny vrom her he'th, come out, though not in me'th, but held her breath, to hear his zong. then, while the bird wi' oben bill did warble on, her vaïce wer still; an' as she stood avore me, bound in stillness to the flow'ry mound, "the bird's a jaÿ to zome," i thought, "but when he's dum, her vaïce will come, wi' sweeter sound." minden house. 'twer when the vo'k wer out to hawl a vield o' haÿ a day in june, an' when the zun begun to vall toward the west in afternoon, woone only wer a-left behind to bide indoors, at hwome, an' mind the house, an' answer vo'k avore the geäte or door,--young fanny deäne. the aïr 'ithin the geärden wall wer deadly still, unless the bee did hummy by, or in the hall the clock did ring a-hettèn dree, an' there, wi' busy hands, inside the iron ceäsement, oben'd wide, did zit an' pull wi' nimble twitch her tiny stitch, young fanny deäne. as there she zot she heärd two blows a-knock'd upon the rumblèn door, an' laid azide her work, an' rose, an' walk'd out feäir, athirt the vloor; an' there, a-holdèn in his hand his bridled meäre, a youth did stand, an' mildly twold his neäme and pleäce avore the feäce o' fanny deäne. he twold her that he had on hand zome business on his father's zide, but what she didden understand; an' zoo she ax'd en if he'd ride out where her father mid be vound, bezide the plow, in cowslip ground; an' there he went, but left his mind back there behind, wi' fanny deäne. an' oh! his hwomeward road wer gaÿ in aïr a-blowèn, whiff by whiff, while sheenèn water-weäves did plaÿ an' boughs did swaÿ above the cliff; vor time had now a-show'd en dim the jaÿ it had in store vor him; an' when he went thik road ageän his errand then wer fanny deäne. how strangely things be brought about by providence, noo tongue can tell, she minded house, when vo'k wer out, an' zoo mus' bid the house farewell; the bees mid hum, the clock mid call the lwonesome hours 'ithin the hall, but in behind the woaken door, there's now noo mwore a fanny deäne. the lovely maÏd ov elwell meÄd. a maïd wi' many gifts o' greäce, a maïd wi' ever-smilèn feäce, a child o' yours my chilhood's pleäce, o leänèn lawns ov allen; 's a-walkèn where your stream do flow, a-blushèn where your flowers do blow, a-smilèn where your zun do glow, o leänèn lawns ov allen. an' good, however good's a-waïgh'd, 's the lovely maïd ov elwell meäd. an' oh! if i could teäme an' guide the winds above the e'th, an' ride as light as shootèn stars do glide, o leänèn lawns ov allen, to you i'd teäke my daily flight, drough dark'nèn aïr in evenèn's light, an' bid her every night "good night," o leänèn lawns ov allen. vor good, however good's a-waïgh'd, 's the lovely maïd ov elwell meäd. an' when your hedges' slooes be blue, by blackberries o' dark'nèn hue, an' spiders' webs behung wi' dew, o leänèn lawns ov allen avore the winter aïr's a-chill'd, avore your winter brook's a-vill'd avore your zummer flow'rs be kill'd, o leänèn lawns ov allen; i there would meet, in white arraÿ'd, the lovely maïd ov elwell meäd. for when the zun, as birds do rise, do cast their sheädes vrom autum' skies, a-sparklèn in her dewy eyes, o leänèn lawns ov allen then all your mossy paths below the trees, wi' leaves a-vallèn slow, like zinkèn fleäkes o' yollow snow, o leänèn lawns ov allen. would be mwore teäkèn where they straÿ'd the lovely maïd ov elwell meäd. our fathers' works. ah! i do think, as i do tread theäse path, wi' elems overhead, a-climèn slowly up vrom bridge, by easy steps, to broadwoak ridge, that all theäse roads that we do bruise wi' hosses' shoes, or heavy lwoads; an' hedges' bands, where trees in row do rise an' grow aroun' the lands, be works that we've a-vound a-wrought by our vorefathers' ceäre an' thought. they clear'd the groun' vor grass to teäke the pleäce that bore the bremble breäke, an' draïn'd the fen, where water spread, a-lyèn dead, a beäne to men; an' built the mill, where still the wheel do grind our meal, below the hill; an' turn'd the bridge, wi' arch a-spread, below a road, vor us to tread. they vound a pleäce, where we mid seek the gifts o' greäce vrom week to week; an' built wi' stwone, upon the hill, a tow'r we still do call our own; with bells to use, an' meäke rejaïce, wi' giant vaïce, at our good news: an' lifted stwones an' beams to keep the raïn an' cwold vrom us asleep. zoo now mid nwone ov us vorget the pattern our vorefathers zet; but each be fäin to underteäke some work to meäke vor others' gaïn, that we mid leäve mwore good to sheäre, less ills to bear, less souls to grieve, an' when our hands do vall to rest, it mid be vrom a work a-blest. the wold vo'k dead. my days, wi' wold vo'k all but gone, an' childern now a-comèn on, do bring me still my mother's smiles in light that now do show my chile's; an' i've a-sheär'd the wold vo'ks' me'th, avore the burnèn chris'mas he'th, at friendly bwoards, where feäce by feäce, did, year by year, gi'e up its pleäce, an' leäve me here, behind, to tread the ground a-trod by wold vo'k dead. but wold things be a-lost vor new, an' zome do come, while zome do goo: as wither'd beech-tree leaves do cling among the nesh young buds o' spring; an' frettèn worms ha' slowly wound, droo beams the wold vo'k lifted sound, an' trees they planted little slips ha' stems that noo two eärms can clips; an' grey an' yollow moss do spread on buildèns new to wold vo'k dead. the backs of all our zilv'ry hills, the brook that still do dreve our mills, the roads a-climèn up the brows o' knaps, a-screen'd by meäple boughs, wer all a-mark'd in sheäde an' light avore our wolder fathers' zight, in zunny days, a-gied their hands for happy work, a-tillèn lands, that now do yield their childern bread till they do rest wi' wold vo'k dead. but livèn vo'k, a-grievèn on, wi' lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone, do zee their goodness, but do vind all else a-stealèn out o' mind; as air do meäke the vurthest land look feäirer than the vield at hand, an' zoo, as time do slowly pass, so still's a sheäde upon the grass, its wid'nèn speäce do slowly shed a glory roun' the wold vo'k dead. an' what if good vo'ks' life o' breath is zoo a-hallow'd after death, that they mid only know above, their times o' faïth, an' jaÿ, an' love, while all the evil time ha' brought 's a-lost vor ever out o' thought; as all the moon that idden bright, 's a-lost in darkness out o' zight; and all the godly life they led is glory to the wold vo'k dead. if things be zoo, an' souls above can only mind our e'thly love, why then they'll veel our kindness drown the thoughts ov all that meäde em frown. an' jaÿ o' jaÿs will dry the tear o' sadness that do trickle here, an' nothèn mwore o' life than love, an' peace, will then be know'd above. do good, vor that, when life's a-vled, is still a pleasure to the dead. culver dell and the squire. there's noo pleäce i do like so well, as elem knap in culver dell, where timber trees, wi' lofty shouds, did rise avore the western clouds; an' stan' ageän, wi' veathery tops, a-swayèn up in north-hill copse. an' on the east the mornèn broke above a dewy grove o' woak: an' noontide shed its burnèn light on ashes on the southern height; an' i could vind zome teäles to tell, o' former days in culver dell. an' all the vo'k did love so well the good wold squire o' culver dell, that used to ramble drough the sheädes o' timber, or the burnèn gleädes, an' come at evenèn up the leäze wi' red-eär'd dogs bezide his knees. an' hold his gun, a-hangèn drough his eärmpit, out above his tooe. wi' kindly words upon his tongue, vor vo'k that met en, wold an' young, vor he did know the poor so well 's the richest vo'k in culver dell. an' while the woäk, wi' spreadèn head, did sheäde the foxes' verny bed; an' runnèn heäres, in zunny gleädes, did beät the grasses' quiv'rèn' bleädes; an' speckled pa'tridges took flight in stubble vields a-feädèn white; or he could zee the pheasant strut in sheädy woods, wi' païnted cwoat; or long-tongued dogs did love to run among the leaves, bezide his gun; we didden want vor call to dwell at hwome in peace in culver dell. but now i hope his kindly feäce is gone to vind a better pleäce; but still, wi' vo'k a-left behind he'll always be a-kept in mind, vor all his springy-vooted hounds ha' done o' trottèn round his grounds, an' we have all a-left the spot, to teäke, a-scatter'd, each his lot; an' even father, lik' the rest, ha' left our long vorseäken nest; an' we should vind it sad to dwell, ageän at hwome in culver dell. the aïry mornèns still mid smite our windows wi' their rwosy light, an' high-zunn'd noons mid dry the dew on growèn groun' below our shoe; the blushèn evenèn still mid dye, wi' viry red, the western sky; the zunny spring-time's quicknèn power mid come to oben leaf an' flower; an' days an' tides mid bring us on woone pleasure when another's gone. but we must bid a long farewell to days an' tides in culver dell. our be'thplace. how dear's the door a latch do shut, an' geärden that a hatch do shut, where vu'st our bloomèn cheäks ha' prest the pillor ov our childhood's rest; or where, wi' little tooes, we wore the paths our fathers trod avore; or clim'd the timber's bark aloft, below the zingèn lark aloft, the while we heärd the echo sound drough all the ringèn valley round. a lwonesome grove o' woak did rise, to screen our house, where smoke did rise, a-twistèn blue, while yeet the zun did langthen on our childhood's fun; an' there, wi' all the sheäpes an' sounds o' life, among the timber'd grounds, the birds upon their boughs did zing, an' milkmaïds by their cows did zing, wi' merry sounds, that softly died, a-ringèn down the valley zide. by river banks, wi' reeds a-bound, an' sheenèn pools, wi' weeds a-bound, the long-neck'd gander's ruddy bill to snow-white geese did cackle sh'ill; an' stridèn peewits heästen'd by, o' tiptooe wi' their screamèn cry; an' stalkèn cows a-lowèn loud, an' struttèn cocks a-crowèn loud, did rouse the echoes up to mock their mingled sounds by hill an' rock. the stars that clim'd our skies all dark, above our sleepèn eyes all dark, an' zuns a-rollèn round to bring the seasons on, vrom spring to spring, ha' vled, wi' never-restèn flight, drough green-bough'd day, an' dark-tree'd night; till now our childhood's pleäces there, be gaÿ wi' other feäces there, an' we ourselves do vollow on our own vorelivers dead an' gone. the window freÄm'd wi' stwone. when pentridge house wer still the nest o' souls that now ha' better rest, avore the viër burnt to ground his beams an' walls, that then wer sound, 'ithin a naïl-bestudded door, an' passage wi' a stwonèn vloor, there spread the hall, where zun-light shone in drough a window freäm'd wi' stwone. a clavy-beam o' sheenèn woak did span the he'th wi' twistèn smoke, where fleämes did shoot in yollow streaks, above the brands, their flashèn peaks; an' aunt did pull, as she did stand o'-tip-tooe, wi' her lifted hand, a curtain feäded wi' the zun, avore the window freäm'd wi' stwone. when hwome-ground grass, below the moon, wer damp wi' evenèn dew in june, an' aunt did call the maïdens in vrom walkèn, wi' their shoes too thin, they zot to rest their litty veet upon the window's woaken seat, an' chatted there, in light that shone in drough the window freäm'd wi' stwone. an' as the seasons, in a ring, roll'd slowly roun' vrom spring to spring, an' brought em on zome holy-tide, when they did cast their tools azide; how glad it meäde em all to spy in stwonylands their friends draw nigh, as they did know em all by neäme out drough the window's stwonèn freäme. o evenèn zun, a-ridèn drough the sky, vrom sh'oton hill o' blue, to leäve the night a-broodèn dark at stalbridge, wi' its grey-wall'd park; small jaÿ to me the vields do bring, vor all their zummer birds do zing, since now thy beams noo mwore do fleäme in drough the window's stwonèn freäme. the water-spring in the leane. oh! aye! the spring 'ithin the leäne, a-leäden down to lyddan brook; an' still a-nesslèn in his nook, as weeks do pass, an' moons do weäne. nwone the drier, nwone the higher, nwone the nigher to the door where we did live so long avore. an' oh! what vo'k his mossy brim ha' gathered in the run o' time! the wife a-blushèn in her prime; the widow wi' her eyezight dim; maïdens dippèn, childern sippèn, water drippèn, at the cool dark wallèn ov the little pool. behind the spring do lie the lands my father till'd, vrom spring to spring, awäitèn on vor time to bring the crops to paÿ his weary hands. wheat a-growèn, beäns a-blowèn, grass vor mowèn, where the bridge do leäd to ryall's on the ridge. but who do know when liv'd an' died the squier o' the mwoldrèn hall; that lined en wi' a stwonèn wall, an' steän'd so cleän his wat'ry zide? we behind en, now can't vind en, but do mind en, an' do thank his meäker vor his little tank. the poplars. if theäse day's work an' burnèn sky 'v'a-zent hwome you so tired as i, let's zit an' rest 'ithin the screen o' my wold bow'r upon the green; where i do goo myself an' let the evenèn aiër cool my het, when dew do wet the grasses bleädes, a-quiv'rèn in the dusky sheädes. there yonder poplar trees do plaÿ soft music, as their heads do swaÿ, while wind, a-rustlèn soft or loud, do stream ageän their lofty sh'oud; an' seem to heal the ranklèn zore my mind do meet wi' out o' door, when i've a-bore, in downcast mood, zome evil where i look'd vor good. o' they two poplars that do rise so high avore our naïghbours' eyes, a-zet by gramfer, hand by hand, wi' grammer, in their bit o' land; the woone upon the western zide wer his, an' woone wer grammer's pride, an' since they died, we all do teäke mwore ceäre o'm vor the wold vo'k's seäke. an' there, wi' stems a-growèn tall avore the houses mossy wall, the while the moon ha' slowly past the leafy window, they've a-cast their sheädes 'ithin the window peäne; while childern have a-grown to men, an' then ageän ha' left their beds, to bear their childern's heavy heads. the linden on the lawn. no! jenny, there's noo pleäce to charm my mind lik' yours at woakland farm, a-peärted vrom the busy town, by longsome miles ov aïry down, where woonce the meshy wall did gird your flow'ry geärden, an' the bird did zing in zummer wind that stirr'd the spreädèn linden on the lawn. an' now ov all the trees wi' sheädes a-wheelèn round in blackmwore gleädes, there's noo tall poplar by the brook, nor elem that do rock the rook, nor ash upon the shelvèn ledge, nor low-bough'd woak bezide the hedge, nor withy up above the zedge, so dear's thik linden on the lawn. vor there, o' zummer nights, below the wall, we zot when aïr did blow, an' sheäke the dewy rwose a-tied up roun' the window's stwonèn zide. an' while the carter rod' along a-zingèn, down the dusky drong, there you did zing a sweeter zong below the linden on the lawn. an' while your warbled ditty wound drough plaÿsome flights o' mellow sound, the nightèngeäle's sh'ill zong, that broke the stillness ov the dewy woak, rung clear along the grove, an' smote to sudden stillness ev'ry droat; as we did zit, an' hear it float below the linden on the lawn. where dusky light did softly vall 'ithin the stwonèn-window'd hall, avore your father's blinkèn eyes, his evenèn whiff o' smoke did rise, an' vrom the bedroom window's height your little john, a-cloth'd in white, an' gwaïn to bed, did cry "good night" towards the linden on the lawn. but now, as dobbin, wi' a nod vor ev'ry heavy step he trod, did bring me on, to-night, avore the geäbled house's pworchèd door, noo laughèn child a-cloth'd in white, look'd drough the stwonèn window's light, an' noo vaïce zung, in dusky night, below the linden on the lawn. an' zoo, if you should ever vind my kindness seem to grow less kind, an' if upon my clouded feäce my smile should yield a frown its pleäce, then, jenny, only laugh an' call my mind 'ithin the geärden wall, where we did plaÿ at even-fall, below the linden on the lawn. our abode in arby wood. though ice do hang upon the willows out bezide the vrozen brook, an' storms do roar above our pillows, drough the night, 'ithin our nook; our evenèn he'th's a-glowèn warm, drough wringèn vrost, an' roarèn storm, though winds mid meäke the wold beams sheäke, in our abode in arby wood. an' there, though we mid hear the timber creake avore the windy raïn; an' climèn ivy quiver, limber, up ageän the window peäne; our merry vaïces then do sound, in rollèn glee, or dree-vaïce round; though wind mid roar, 'ithout the door, ov our abode in arby wood. slow to come, quick agone. ah! there's a house that i do know besouth o' yonder trees, where northern winds can hardly blow but in a softest breeze. an' there woonce sounded zongs an' teäles vrom vaïce o' maïd or youth, an' sweeter than the nightèngeäle's above the copses lewth. how swiftly there did run the brooks, how swift wer winds in flight, how swiftly to their roost the rooks did vlee o'er head at night. though slow did seem to us the peäce o' comèn days a-head, that now do seem as in a reäce wi' aïr-birds to ha' vled. the vier-zide. 'tis zome vo'ks jaÿ to teäke the road, an' goo abro'd, a-wand'rèn wide, vrom shere to shere, vrom pleäce to pleäce, the swiftest peäce that vo'k can ride. but i've a jaÿ 'ithin the door, wi' friends avore the vier-zide. an' zoo, when winter skies do lour, an' when the stour's a-rollèn wide, drough bridge-voot raïls, a-païnted white, to be at night the traveller's guide, gi'e me a pleäce that's warm an' dry, a-zittèn nigh my vier-zide. vor where do love o' kith an' kin, at vu'st begin, or grow an' wride, till souls a-lov'd so young, be wold, though never cwold, drough time nor tide but where in me'th their gather'd veet do often meet--the vier-zide. if, when a friend ha' left the land, i shook his hand a-most wet-eyed, i velt too well the ob'nèn door would leäd noo mwore where he did bide an' where i heärd his vaïces sound, in me'th around the vier-zide. as i've a-zeed how vast do vall the mwold'rèn hall, the wold vo'ks pride, where merry hearts wer woonce a-ved wi' daily bread, why i've a-sigh'd, to zee the wall so green wi' mwold, an' vind so cwold the vier-zide. an' chris'mas still mid bring his me'th to ouer he'th, but if we tried to gather all that woonce did wear gay feäces there! ah! zome ha' died, an' zome be gone to leäve wi' gaps o' missèn laps, the vier-zide. but come now, bring us in your hand, a heavy brand o' woak a-dried, to cheer us wi' his het an' light, while vrosty night, so starry-skied, go gather souls that time do speäre to zit an' sheäre our vier-zide. knowlwood. i don't want to sleep abrode, john, i do like my hwomeward road, john; an' like the sound o' knowlwood bells the best. zome would rove vrom pleäce to pleäce, john, zome would goo from feäce to feäce, john, but i be happy in my hwomely nest; an' slight's the hope vor any pleäce bezide, to leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide. where the shelvèn knap do vall, john, under trees a-springèn tall, john; 'tis there my house do show his sheenèn zide, wi' his walls vor ever green, john, under ivy that's a screen, john, vrom wet an' het, an' ev'ry changèn tide, an' i do little ho vor goold or pride, to leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide. there the bendèn stream do flow, john, by the mossy bridge's bow, john; an' there the road do wind below the hill; there the miller, white wi' meal, john, deafen'd wi' his foamy wheel, john, do stan' o' times a-lookèn out o' mill: the while 'ithin his lightly-sheäken door. his wheatèn flour do whitèn all his floor. when my daily work's a-done, john, at the zettèn o' the zun, john, an' i all day 've a-plaÿ'd a good man's peärt, i do vind my ease a-blest, john, while my conscience is at rest, john; an' while noo worm's a-left to fret my heart; an' who vor finer hwomes o' restless pride, would pass the plaïn abode where peace do bide? by a windor in the west, john, there upon my fiddle's breast, john, the strings do sound below my bow's white heäir; while a zingèn drush do swaÿ, john, up an' down upon a spraÿ, john, an' cast his sheäde upon the window square; vor birds do know their friends, an' build their nest, an' love to roost, where they can live at rest. out o' town the win' do bring, john, peals o' bells when they do ring, john, an' roun' me here, at hand, my ear can catch the maïd a-zingèn by the stream, john, or carter whislèn wi' his team, john, or zingèn birds, or water at the hatch; an' zoo wi' sounds o' vaïce, an' bird an' bell, noo hour is dull 'ithin our rwosy dell. an' when the darksome night do hide, john, land an' wood on ev'ry zide, john; an' when the light's a-burnèn on my bwoard, then vor pleasures out o' door, john, i've enough upon my vloor, john: my jenny's lovèn deed, an' look, an' word, an' we be lwoth, lik' culvers zide by zide, to leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide. hallowed pleÄces. at woodcombe farm, wi' ground an' tree hallow'd by times o' youthvul glee, at chris'mas time i spent a night wi' feäces dearest to my zight; an' took my wife to tread, woonce mwore, her maïden hwome's vorseäken vloor, an' under stars that slowly wheel'd aloft, above the keen-aïr'd vield, while night bedimm'd the rus'lèn copse, an' darken'd all the ridges' tops, the hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young. there, on the he'th's well-hetted ground, hallow'd by times o' zittèn round, the brimvul mug o' cider stood an' hiss'd avore the bleäzèn wood; an' zome, a-zittèn knee by knee, did tell their teäles wi' hearty glee, an' others gamboll'd in a roar o' laughter on the stwonèn vloor; an' while the moss o' winter-tide clung chilly roun' the house's zide, the hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young. there, on the pworches bench o' stwone, hallow'd by times o' youthvul fun, we laugh'd an' sigh'd to think o' neämes that rung there woonce, in evenèn geämes; an' while the swaÿèn cypress bow'd, in chilly wind, his darksome sh'oud an' honeyzuckles, beäre o' leäves, still reach'd the window-sheädèn eaves up where the clematis did trim the stwonèn arches mossy rim, the hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young. there, in the geärden's wall-bound square, hallow'd by times o' strollèn there, the winter wind, a-hufflèn loud, did swaÿ the pear-tree's leafless sh'oud, an' beät the bush that woonce did bear the damask rwose vor jenny's heäir; an' there the walk o' peävèn stwone that burn'd below the zummer zun, struck icy-cwold drough shoes a-wore by maïdens vrom the hetted vloor in hall, a-hung wi' holm, where rung vull many a tongue o' wold an' young. there at the geäte that woonce wer blue hallow'd by times o' passèn drough, light strawmotes rose in flaggèn flight, a-floated by the winds o' night, where leafy ivy-stems did crawl in moonlight on the windblown wall, an' merry maïdens' vaïces vled in echoes sh'ill, vrom wall to shed, as shiv'rèn in their frocks o' white they come to bid us there "good night," vrom hall, a-hung wi' holm, that rung wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young. there in the narrow leäne an' drong hallow'd by times o' gwaïn along, the lofty ashes' leafless sh'ouds rose dark avore the clear-edged clouds, the while the moon, at girtest height, bespread the pooly brook wi' light, an' as our child, in loose-limb'd rest, lay peäle upon her mother's breast, her waxen eyelids seal'd her eyes vrom darksome trees, an' sheenèn skies, an' halls a-hung wi' holm, that rung wi' many a tongue, o' wold an' young. the wold wall. here, jeäne, we vu'st did meet below the leafy boughs, a-swingèn slow, avore the zun, wi' evenèn glow, above our road, a-beamèn red; the grass in zwath wer in the meäds, the water gleam'd among the reeds in aïr a-steälèn roun' the hall, where ivy clung upon the wall. ah! well-a-day! o wall adieu! the wall is wold, my grief is new. an' there you walk'd wi' blushèn pride, where softly-wheelèn streams did glide, drough sheädes o' poplars at my zide, an' there wi' love that still do live, your feäce did wear the smile o' youth, the while you spoke wi' age's truth, an' wi' a rwosebud's mossy ball, i deck'd your bosom vrom the wall. ah! well-a-day! o wall adieu! the wall is wold, my grief is new. but now when winter's raïn do vall, an' wind do beät ageän the hall, the while upon the wat'ry wall in spots o' grey the moss do grow; the ruf noo mwore shall overspread the pillor ov our weary head, nor shall the rwose's mossy ball behang vor you the house's wall. ah! well-a-day! o wall adieu! the wall is wold, my grief is new. bleÄke's house in blackmwore. john bleäke he had a bit o' ground come to en by his mother's zide; an' after that, two hunderd pound his uncle left en when he died; "well now," cried john, "my mind's a-bent to build a house, an' paÿ noo rent." an' meäry gi'ed en her consent. "do, do,"--the maïdens cried "true, true,"--his wife replied. "done, done,--a house o' brick or stwone," cried merry bleäke o' blackmwore. then john he call'd vor men o' skill, an' builders answer'd to his call; an' met to reckon, each his bill; vor vloor an' window, ruf an' wall. an' woone did mark it on the groun', an' woone did think, an' scratch his crown, an' reckon work, an' write it down: "zoo, zoo,"--woone treädesman cried, "true, true,"--woone mwore replied. "aye, aye,--good work, an' have good paÿ," cried merry bleäke o' blackmwore. the work begun, an' trowels rung, an' up the brickèn wall did rise, an' up the slantèn refters sprung, wi' busy blows, an' lusty cries! an' woone brought planks to meäke a vloor, an' woone did come wi' durns or door, an' woone did zaw, an' woone did bore, "brick, brick,--there down below, quick, quick,--why b'ye so slow?" "lime, lime,--why we do weäste the time, vor merry bleäke o' blackmwore." the house wer up vrom groun' to tun, an' thatch'd ageän the raïny sky, wi' windows to the noonday zun, where rushy stour do wander by. in coo'se he had a pworch to screen the inside door, when win's wer keen, an' out avore the pworch, a green. "here! here!"--the childern cried: "dear! dear!"--the wife replied; "there, there,--the house is perty feäir," cried merry bleäke o' blackmwore. then john he ax'd his friends to warm his house, an' they, a goodish batch, did come alwone, or eärm in eärm, all roads, a-meäkèn vor his hatch: an' there below the clavy beam the kettle-spout did zing an' steam; an' there wer ceäkes, an' tea wi' cream. "lo! lo!"--the women cried; "ho! ho!"--the men replied; "health, health,--attend ye wi' your wealth, good merry bleäke o' blackmwore." then john, a-praïs'd, flung up his crown, all back a-laughèn in a roar. they praïs'd his wife, an' she look'd down a-simperèn towards the vloor. then up they sprung a-dancèn reels, an' up went tooes, an' up went heels, a-windèn roun' in knots an' wheels. "brisk, brisk,"--the maïdens cried; "frisk, frisk,"--the men replied; "quick, quick,--there wi' your fiddle-stick," cried merry bleäke o' blackmwore. an' when the morrow's zun did sheen, john bleäke beheld, wi' jaÿ an' pride, his brickèn house, an' pworch, an' green, above the stour's rushy zide. the zwallows left the lwonesome groves, to build below the thatchèn oves, an' robins come vor crumbs o' lwoaves: "tweet, tweet,"--the birds all cried; "sweet, sweet,"--john's wife replied; "dad, dad,"--the childern cried so glad, to merry bleäke o' blackmwore. john bleÄke at hwome at night. no: where the woak do overspread, the grass begloom'd below his head, an' water, under bowèn zedge, a-springèn vrom the river's edge, do ripple, as the win' do blow, an' sparkle, as the sky do glow; an' grey-leav'd withy-boughs do cool, wi' darksome sheädes, the clear-feäced pool, my chimny smoke, 'ithin the lew o' trees is there arisèn blue; avore the night do dim our zight, or candle-light, a-sheenèn bright, do sparkle drough the window. when crumpled leaves o' fall do bound avore the wind, along the ground, an' wither'd bennet-stems do stand a-quiv'rèn on the chilly land; the while the zun, wi' zettèn rim, do leäve the workman's pathway dim; an' sweet-breath'd childern's hangèn heads be laid wi' kisses, on their beds; then i do seek my woodland nest, an' zit bezide my vier at rest, while night's a-spread, where day's a-vled, an' lights do shed their beams o' red, a-sparklèn drough the window. if winter's whistlèn winds do vreeze the snow a-gather'd on the trees, an' sheädes o' poplar stems do vall in moonlight up athirt the wall; an' icicles do hang below the oves, a-glitt'rèn in a row, an' risèn stars do slowly ride above the ruf's upslantèn zide; then i do lay my weary head asleep upon my peaceful bed, when middle-night ha' quench'd the light ov embers bright, an' candles white a-beamèn drough the window. milken time. 'twer when the busy birds did vlee, wi' sheenèn wings, vrom tree to tree, to build upon the mossy lim', their hollow nestes' rounded rim; the while the zun, a-zinkèn low, did roll along his evenèn bow, i come along where wide-horn'd cows, 'ithin a nook, a-screen'd by boughs, did stan' an' flip the white-hoop'd païls wi' heäiry tufts o' swingèn taïls; an' there wer jenny coom a-gone along the path a vew steps on. a-beärèn on her head, upstraïght, her païl, wi' slowly-ridèn waïght, an' hoops a-sheenèn, lily-white, ageän the evenèn's slantèn light; an' zo i took her païl, an' left her neck a-freed vrom all his heft; an' she a-lookèn up an' down, wi' sheäpely head an' glossy crown, then took my zide, an' kept my peäce a-talkèn on wi' smilèn feäce, an' zettèn things in sich a light, i'd faïn ha' heär'd her talk all night; an' when i brought her milk avore the geäte, she took it in to door, an' if her païl had but allow'd her head to vall, she would ha' bow'd, an' still, as 'twer, i had the zight ov her sweet smile droughout the night. when birds be still. vor all the zun do leäve the sky, an' all the sounds o' day do die, an' noo mwore veet do walk the dim vield-path to clim' the stiel's bars, yeet out below the rizèn stars, the dark'nèn day mid leäve behind woone tongue that i shall always vind, a-whisperèn kind, when birds be still. zoo let the day come on to spread his kindly light above my head, wi' zights to zee, an' sounds to hear, that still do cheer my thoughtvul mind; or let en goo, an' leäve behind an' hour to stroll along the gleädes, where night do drown the beeches' sheädes, on grasses' bleädes, when birds be still. vor when the night do lull the sound o' cows a-bleärèn out in ground, the sh'ill-vaïc'd dog do stan' an' bark 'ithin the dark, bezide the road; an' when noo cracklèn waggon's lwoad is in the leäne, the wind do bring the merry peals that bells do ring o ding-dong-ding, when birds be still. zoo teäke, vor me, the town a-drown'd, 'ithin a storm o' rumblèn sound, an' gi'e me vaïces that do speak so soft an' meek, to souls alwone; the brook a-gurglèn round a stwone, an' birds o' day a-zingèn clear, an' leaves, that i mid zit an' hear a-rustlèn near, when birds be still. riden hwome at night. oh! no, i quite injaÿ'd the ride behind wold dobbin's heavy heels, wi' jeäne a-prattlèn at my zide, above our peäir o' spinnèn wheels, as grey-rin'd ashes' swaÿèn tops did creak in moonlight in the copse, above the quiv'rèn grass, a-beät by wind a-blowèn drough the geät. if weary souls did want their sleep, they had a-zent vor sleep the night; vor vo'k that had a call to keep awake, lik' us, there still wer light. an' he that shut the sleepers' eyes, a-waïtèn vor the zun to rise, ha' too much love to let em know the ling'rèn night did goo so slow. but if my wife did catch a zight o' zome queer pollard, or a post, poor soul! she took en in her fright to be a robber or a ghost. a two-stump'd withy, wi' a head, mus' be a man wi' eärms a-spread; an' foam o' water, round a rock, wer then a drownèn leädy's frock. zome staddle stwones to bear a mow, wer dancèn veäries on the lag; an' then a snow-white sheeted cow could only be, she thought, their flag, an owl a-vleèn drough the wood wer men on watch vor little good; an' geätes a slam'd by wind, did goo, she thought, to let a robber drough. but after all, she lik'd the zight o' cows asleep in glitt'rèn dew; an' brooks that gleam'd below the light, an' dim vield paths 'ithout a shoe. an' gaïly talk'd bezide my ears, a-laughèn off her needless fears: or had the childern uppermost in mind, instead o' thief or ghost. an' when our house, wi' open door, did rumble hollow round our heads, she heästen'd up to tother vloor, to zee the childern in their beds; an' vound woone little head awry, wi' woone a-turn'd toward the sky; an' wrung her hands ageän her breast, a-smilèn at their happy rest. zun-zet. where the western zun, unclouded, up above the grey hill-tops, did sheen drough ashes, lofty sh'ouded on the turf bezide the copse, in zummer weather, we together, sorrow-slightèn, work-vorgettèn. gambol'd wi' the zun a-zetten. there, by flow'ry bows o' bramble, under hedge, in ash-tree sheädes, the dun-heaïr'd ho'se did slowly ramble on the grasses' dewy bleädes, zet free o' lwoads, an' stwony rwoads, vorgetvul o' the lashes frettèn, grazèn wi' the zun a-zettèn. there wer rooks a-beätèn by us drough the aïr, in a vlock, an' there the lively blackbird, nigh us, on the meäple bough did rock, wi' ringèn droat, where zunlight smote the yollow boughs o' zunny hedges over western hills' blue edges. waters, drough the meäds a-purlèn, glissen'd in the evenèn's light, an' smoke, above the town a-curlèn, melted slowly out o' zight; an' there, in glooms ov unzunn'd rooms, to zome, wi' idle sorrows frettèn, zuns did set avore their zettèn. we were out in geämes and reäces, loud a-laughèn, wild in me'th, wi' windblown heäir, an' zunbrown'd feäces, leäpen on the high-sky'd e'th, avore the lights wer tin'd o' nights, an' while the gossamer's light nettèn sparkled to the zun a-zettèn. spring. now the zunny aïr's a-blowèn softly over flowers a-growèn; an' the sparklèn light do quiver on the ivy-bough an' river; bleätèn lambs, wi' woolly feäces, now do plaÿ, a-runnèn reäces; an' the springèn lark's a-zingèn, lik' a dot avore the cloud, high above the ashes sh'oud. housèn, in the open brightness, now do sheen in spots o' whiteness; here an' there, on upland ledges, in among the trees an' hedges, where, along by vlocks o' sparrows, chatt'rèn at the ploughman's harrows. dousty rwoaded, errand-lwoaded; jenny, though her cloak is thin, do wish en hwome upon the pin. zoo come along, noo longer heedvul ov the viër, leätely needvul, over grass o' slopèn leäzes, zingèn zongs in zunny breezes; out to work in copse, a-mootèn, where the primrwose is a-shootèn, an in gladness, free o' sadness, in the warmth o' spring vorget leafless winter's cwold an' wet. the zummer hedge. as light do gleäre in ev'ry ground, wi' boughy hedges out a-round a-climmèn up the slopèn brows o' hills, in rows o' sheädy boughs: the while the hawthorn buds do blow as thick as stars, an' white as snow; or cream-white blossoms be a-spread about the guelder-rwoses' head; how cool's the sheäde, or warm's the lewth, bezide a zummer hedge in blooth. when we've a-work'd drough longsome hours, till dew's a-dried vrom dazzlèn flow'rs, the while the climmèn zun ha' glow'd drough mwore than half his daily road: then where the sheädes do slily pass athirt our veet upon the grass, as we do rest by lofty ranks ov elems on the flow'ry banks; how cool's the sheäde, or warm's the lewth, bezide a zummer hedge in blooth. but oh! below woone hedge's zide our jaÿ do come a-most to pride; out where the high-stemm'd trees do stand, in row bezide our own free land, an' where the wide-leav'd clote mid zwim 'ithin our water's rushy rim: an' raïn do vall, an' zuns do burn, an' each in season, and in turn, to cool the sheäde or warm the lewth ov our own zummer hedge in blooth. how soft do sheäke the zummer hedge-- how soft do sway the zummer zedge-- how bright be zummer skies an' zun-- how bright the zummer brook do run; an' feäir the flow'rs do bloom, to feäde behind the swaÿen mower's bleäde; an' sweet be merry looks o' jaÿ, by weäles an' pooks o' june's new haÿ, wi' smilèn age, an laughèn youth, bezide the zummer hedge in blooth. the water crowvoot. o' small-feäc'd flow'r that now dost bloom to stud wi' white the shallow frome, an' leäve the clote to spread his flow'r on darksome pools o' stwoneless stour, when sof'ly-rizèn aïrs do cool the water in the sheenèn pool, thy beds o' snow-white buds do gleam so feäir upon the sky-blue stream, as whitest clouds, a-hangèn high avore the blueness o' the sky; an' there, at hand, the thin-heäir'd cows, in aïry sheädes o' withy boughs, or up bezide the mossy raïls, do stan' an' zwing their heavy taïls, the while the ripplèn stream do flow below the dousty bridge's bow; an' quiv'rèn water-gleams do mock the weäves, upon the sheäded rock; an' up athirt the copèn stwone the laïtren bwoy do leän alwone, a-watchèn, wi' a stedvast look, the vallèn waters in the brook, the while the zand o' time do run an' leäve his errand still undone. an' oh! as long's thy buds would gleam above the softly-slidèn stream, while sparklèn zummer-brooks do run below the lofty-climèn zun, i only wish that thou could'st staÿ vor noo man's harm, an' all men's jaÿ. but no, the waterman 'ull weäde thy water wi' his deadly bleäde, to slay thee even in thy bloom, fair small-feäced flower o' the frome. the lilac. dear lilac-tree, a-spreadèn wide thy purple blooth on ev'ry zide, as if the hollow sky did shed its blue upon thy flow'ry head; oh! whether i mid sheäre wi' thee thy open aïr, my bloomèn tree, or zee thy blossoms vrom the gloom, 'ithin my zunless workèn-room, my heart do leäp, but leäp wi' sighs, at zight o' thee avore my eyes, for when thy grey-blue head do swaÿ in cloudless light, 'tis spring, 'tis maÿ. 'tis spring, 'tis maÿ, as maÿ woonce shed his glowèn light above thy head-- when thy green boughs, wi' bloomy tips, did sheäde my childern's laughèn lips; a-screenèn vrom the noonday gleäre their rwosy cheäks an' glossy heäir; the while their mother's needle sped, too quick vor zight, the snow-white thread, unless her han', wi' lovèn ceäre, did smooth their little heads o' heäir; or wi' a sheäke, tie up anew vor zome wild voot, a slippèn shoe; an' i did leän bezide thy mound ageän the deäsy-dappled ground, the while the woaken clock did tick my hour o' rest away too quick, an' call me off to work anew, wi' slowly-ringèn strokes, woone, two. zoo let me zee noo darksome cloud bedim to-day thy flow'ry sh'oud, but let en bloom on ev'ry spraÿ, drough all the days o' zunny maÿ. the blackbird. 'twer out at penley i'd a-past a zummer day that went too vast, an' when the zettèn zun did spread on western clouds a vi'ry red; the elems' leafy limbs wer still above the gravel-bedded rill, an' under en did warble sh'ill, avore the dusk, the blackbird. an' there, in sheädes o' darksome yews, did vlee the maïdens on their tooes, a-laughèn sh'ill wi' merry feäce when we did vind their hidèn pleäce. 'ithin the loose-bough'd ivys gloom, or lofty lilac, vull in bloom, or hazzle-wrides that gi'ed em room below the zingèn blackbird. above our heads the rooks did vlee to reach their nested elem-tree, an' splashèn vish did rise to catch the wheelèn gnots above the hatch; an' there the miller went along, a-smilèn, up the sheädy drong, but yeet too deaf to hear the zong a-zung us by the blackbird. an' there the sh'illy-bubblèn brook did leäve behind his rocky nook, to run drough meäds a-chill'd wi' dew, vrom hour to hour the whole night drough; but still his murmurs wer a-drown'd by vaïces that mid never sound ageän together on that ground, wi' whislèns o' the blackbird. the slantÈn light o' fall. ah! jeäne, my maïd, i stood to you, when you wer christen'd, small an' light, wi' tiny eärms o' red an' blue, a-hangèn in your robe o' white. we brought ye to the hallow'd stwone, vor christ to teäke ye vor his own, when harvest work wer all a-done, an' time brought round october zun-- the slantèn light o' fall. an' i can mind the wind wer rough, an' gather'd clouds, but brought noo storms, an' you did nessle warm enough, 'ithin your smilèn mother's eärms. the whindlèn grass did quiver light, among the stubble, feäded white, an' if at times the zunlight broke upon the ground, or on the vo'k, 'twer slantèn light o' fall. an' when we brought ye drough the door o' knapton church, a child o' greäce, there cluster'd round a'most a score o' vo'k to zee your tiny feäce. an' there we all did veel so proud, to zee an' op'nèn in the cloud, an' then a stream o' light break drough, a-sheenèn brightly down on you-- the slantèn light o' fall. but now your time's a-come to stand in church, a-blushèn at my zide, the while a bridegroom vrom my hand ha' took ye vor his faïthvul bride. your christèn neäme we gi'd ye here, when fall did cool the weästèn year; an' now, ageän, we brought ye drough the doorway, wi' your surneäme new, in slantèn light o' fall. an' zoo vur, jeäne, your life is feäir, an' god ha' been your steadvast friend, an' mid ye have mwore jaÿ than ceäre, vor ever, till your journey's end. an' i've a-watch'd ye on wi' pride, but now i soon mus' leäve your zide, vor you ha' still life's spring-tide zun, but my life, jeäne, is now a-run to slantèn light o' fall. thissledown. the thissledown by wind's a-roll'd in fall along the zunny plaïn, did catch the grass, but lose its hold, or cling to bennets, but in vaïn. but when it zwept along the grass, an' zunk below the hollow's edge, it lay at rest while winds did pass above the pit-bescreenèn ledge. the plaïn ha' brightness wi' his strife, the pit is only dark at best, there's pleasure in a worksome life, an' sloth is tiresome wi' its rest. zoo, then, i'd sooner beär my peärt, ov all the trials vo'k do rue, than have a deadness o' the heart, wi' nothèn mwore to veel or do. the may-tree. i've a-come by the maÿ-tree all times o' the year, when leaves wer a-springèn, when vrost wer a-stingèn, when cool-winded mornèn did show the hills clear, when night wer bedimmèn the vields vur an' near. when, in zummer, his head wer as white as a sheet, wi' white buds a-zwellèn, an' blossom, sweet-smellèn, while leaves wi' green leaves on his bough-zides did meet, a-sheädèn the deäisies down under our veet. when the zun, in the fall, wer a-wanderèn wan, an' haws on his head did sprinkle en red, or bright drops o' raïn wer a-hung loosely on, to the tips o' the sprigs when the scud wer a-gone. an' when, in the winter, the zun did goo low, an' keen win' did huffle, but never could ruffle the hard vrozen feäce o' the water below, his limbs wer a-fringed wi' the vrost or the snow. lydlinch bells. when skies wer peäle wi' twinklèn stars, an' whislèn aïr a-risèn keen; an' birds did leäve the icy bars to vind, in woods, their mossy screen; when vrozen grass, so white's a sheet, did scrunchy sharp below our veet, an' water, that did sparkle red at zunzet, wer a-vrozen dead; the ringers then did spend an hour a-ringèn changes up in tow'r; vor lydlinch bells be good vor sound, an' liked by all the naïghbours round. an' while along the leafless boughs o' ruslèn hedges, win's did pass, an' orts ov haÿ, a-left by cows, did russle on the vrozen grass, an' maïdens' païls, wi' all their work a-done, did hang upon their vurk, an' they, avore the fleämèn brand, did teäke their needle-work in hand, the men did cheer their heart an hour a-ringèn changes up in tow'r; vor lydlinch bells be good vor sound, an' liked by all the naïghbours round. there sons did pull the bells that rung their mothers' weddèn peals avore, the while their fathers led em young an' blushèn vrom the churches door, an' still did cheem, wi' happy sound, as time did bring the zundays round, an' call em to the holy pleäce vor heav'nly gifts o' peace an' greäce; an' vo'k did come, a-streamèn slow along below the trees in row, while they, in merry peals, did sound the bells vor all the naïghbours round. an' when the bells, wi' changèn peal, did smite their own vo'ks window-peänes, their sof'en'd sound did often steal wi' west winds drough the bagber leänes; or, as the win' did shift, mid goo where woody stock do nessle lew, or where the risèn moon did light the walls o' thornhill on the height; an' zoo, whatever time mid bring to meäke their vive clear vaïces zing, still lydlinch bells wer good vor sound, an' liked by all the naïghbours round. the stage coach. ah! when the wold vo'k went abroad they thought it vast enough, if vow'r good ho'ses beät the road avore the coach's ruf; an' there they zot, a-cwold or hot, an' roll'd along the ground, while the whip did smack on the ho'ses' back, an' the wheels went swiftly round, good so's; the wheels went swiftly round. noo iron raïls did streak the land to keep the wheels in track. the coachman turn'd his vow'r-in-hand, out right, or left, an' back; an' he'd stop avore a man's own door, to teäke en up or down: while the reïns vell slack on the ho'ses' back, till the wheels did rottle round ageän; till the wheels did rottle round. an' there, when wintry win' did blow, athirt the plaïn an' hill, an' the zun wer peäle above the snow, an' ice did stop the mill, they did laugh an' joke wi' cwoat or cloke, so warmly roun' em bound, while the whip did crack on the ho'ses' back, an' the wheels did trundle round, d'ye know; the wheels did trundle round. an' when the rumblèn coach did pass where hufflèn winds did roar, they'd stop to teäke a warmèn glass by the sign above the door; an' did laugh an' joke an' ax the vo'k the miles they wer vrom town, till the whip did crack on the ho'ses back, an' the wheels did truckle roun', good vo'k; the wheels did truckle roun'. an' gaïly rod wold age or youth, when zummer light did vall on woods in leaf, or trees in blooth, or girt vo'ks parkzide wall. an' they thought they past the pleäces vast, along the dousty groun', when the whip did smack on the ho'ses' back, an' the wheels spun swiftly roun'. them days the wheels spun swiftly roun'. wayfearen. the sky wer clear, the zunsheen glow'd on droopèn flowers drough the day, as i did beät the dousty road vrom hinder hills, a-feädèn gray; drough hollows up the hills, vrom knaps along by mills, vrom mills by churches tow'rs, wi' bells that twold the hours to woody dells. an' when the windèn road do guide the thirsty vootman where mid flow the water vrom a rock bezide his vootsteps, in a sheenèn bow; the hand a-hollow'd up do beät a goolden cup, to catch an' drink it, bright an' cool, a-vallèn light 'ithin the pool. zoo when, at last, i hung my head wi' thirsty lips a-burnèn dry, i come bezide a river-bed where water flow'd so blue's the sky; an' there i meäde me up o' coltsvoot leaf a cup, where water vrom his lip o' gray, wer sweet to sip thik burnèn day. but when our work is right, a jaÿ do come to bless us in its traïn, an' hardships ha' zome good to paÿ the thoughtvul soul vor all their päin: the het do sweetèn sheäde, an' weary lim's ha' meäde a bed o' slumber, still an' sound, by woody hill or grassy mound. an' while i zot in sweet delay below an elem on a hill, where boughs a-halfway up did swaÿ in sheädes o' lim's above em still, an' blue sky show'd between the flutt'rèn leäves o' green; i woulden gi'e that gloom an' sheäde vor any room that weälth ha' meäde. but oh! that vo'k that have the roads where weary-vooted souls do pass, would leäve bezide the stwone vor lwoads, a little strip vor zummer grass; that when the stwones do bruise an' burn an' gall our tooes, we then mid cool our veet on beds o' wild-thyme sweet, or deäisy-heads. the leane. they do zay that a travellèn chap have a-put in the newspeäper now, that the bit o' green ground on the knap should be all a-took in vor the plough. he do fancy 'tis easy to show that we can be but stunpolls at best, vor to leäve a green spot where a flower can grow, or a voot-weary walker mid rest. tis hedge-grubbèn, thomas, an' ledge-grubbèn, never a-done while a sov'rèn mwore's to be won. the road, he do zay, is so wide as 'tis wanted vor travellers' wheels, as if all that did travel did ride an' did never get galls on their heels. he would leäve sich a thin strip o' groun', that, if a man's veet in his shoes wer a-burnèn an' zore, why he coulden zit down but the wheels would run over his tooes. vor 'tis meäke money, thomas, an' teäke money, what's zwold an' bought is all that is worthy o' thought. years agoo the leäne-zides did bear grass, vor to pull wi' the geeses' red bills, that did hiss at the vo'k that did pass, or the bwoys that pick'd up their white quills. but shortly, if vower or vive ov our goslèns do creep vrom the agg, they must mwope in the geärden, mwore dead than alive, in a coop, or a-tied by the lag. vor to catch at land, thomas, an' snatch at land, now is the plan; meäke money wherever you can. the childern wull soon have noo pleäce vor to plaÿ in, an' if they do grow, they wull have a thin musheroom feäce, wi' their bodies so sumple as dough. but a man is a-meäde ov a child, an' his limbs do grow worksome by plaÿ; an' if the young child's little body's a-spweil'd, why, the man's wull the sooner decaÿ. but wealth is wo'th now mwore than health is wo'th; let it all goo, if't 'ull bring but a sov'rèn or two. vor to breed the young fox or the heäre, we can gi'e up whole eäcres o' ground, but the greens be a-grudg'd, vor to rear our young childern up healthy an' sound, why, there woont be a-left the next age a green spot where their veet can goo free; an' the goocoo wull soon be committed to cage vor a trespass in zomebody's tree. vor 'tis lockèn up, thomas, an' blockèn up, stranger or brother, men mussen come nigh woone another. woone day i went in at a geäte, wi' my child, where an echo did sound, an' the owner come up, an' did reäte me as if i would car off his ground. but his vield an' the grass wer a-let, an' the damage that he could a-took wer at mwost that the while i did open the geäte i did rub roun' the eye on the hook. but 'tis drevèn out, thomas, an' hevèn out. trample noo grounds, unless you be after the hounds. ah! the squiër o' culver-dell hall wer as diff'rent as light is vrom dark, wi' zome vo'k that, as evenèn did vall, had a-broke drough long grass in his park; vor he went, wi' a smile, vor to meet wi' the trespassers while they did pass, an' he zaid, "i do fear you'll catch cwold in your veet, you've a-walk'd drough so much o' my grass." his mild words, thomas, cut em like swords, thomas, newly a-whet, an' went vurder wi' them than a dreat. the railroad. i took a flight, awhile agoo, along the raïls, a stage or two, an' while the heavy wheels did spin an' rottle, wi' a deafnèn din, in clouds o' steam, the zweepèn traïn did shoot along the hill-bound plaïn, as sheädes o' birds in flight, do pass below em on the zunny grass. an' as i zot, an' look'd abrode on leänen land an' windèn road, the ground a-spread along our flight did vlee behind us out o' zight; the while the zun, our heav'nly guide, did ride on wi' us, zide by zide. an' zoo, while time, vrom stage to stage, do car us on vrom youth to age, the e'thly pleasures we do vind be soon a-met, an' left behind; but god, beholdèn vrom above our lowly road, wi' yearnèn love, do keep bezide us, stage by stage, vrom be'th to youth, vrom youth to age. the railroad. an' while i went 'ithin a traïn, a-ridèn on athirt the plaïn, a-cleären swifter than a hound, on twin-laid rails, the zwimmèn ground; i cast my eyes 'ithin a park, upon a woak wi' grey-white bark, an' while i kept his head my mark, the rest did wheel around en. an' when in life our love do cling the clwosest round zome single thing, we then do vind that all the rest do wheel roun' that, vor vu'st an' best; zoo while our life do last, mid nought but what is good an' feäir be sought, in word or deed, or heart or thought, an' all the rest wheel round it. seats. when starbright maïdens be to zit in silken frocks, that they do wear, the room mid have, as 'tis but fit, a han'some seat vor vo'k so feäir; but we, in zun-dried vield an' wood, ha' seats as good's a goolden chair. vor here, 'ithin the woody drong, a ribbèd elem-stem do lie, a-vell'd in spring, an' stratch'd along a bed o' grægles up knee-high, a sheädy seat to rest, an' let the burnèn het o' noon goo by. or if you'd look, wi' wider scope, out where the gray-tree'd plaïn do spread, the ash bezide the zunny slope, do sheäde a cool-aïr'd deäisy bed, an' grassy seat, wi' spreadèn eaves o' rus'lèn leaves, above your head. an' there the traïn mid come in zight, too vur to hear a-rollèn by, a-breathèn quick, in heästy flight, his breath o' tweil, avore the sky, the while the waggon, wi' his lwoad, do crawl the rwoad a-windèn nigh. or now theäse happy holiday do let vo'k rest their weäry lim's, an' lwoaded hay's a-hangèn gray, above the waggon-wheels' dry rims, the meäd ha' seats in weäles or pooks, by windèn brooks, wi' crumblèn brims. or if you'd gi'e your thoughtvul mind to yonder long-vorseäken hall, then teäke a stwonèn seat behind the ivy on the broken wall, an' learn how e'thly wealth an' might mid clim' their height, an' then mid vall. sound o' water. i born in town! oh no, my dawn o' life broke here beside theäse lawn; not where pent aïr do roll along, in darkness drough the wall-bound drong, an' never bring the goo-coo's zong, nor sweets o' blossoms in the hedge, or bendèn rush, or sheenèn zedge, or sounds o' flowèn water. the aïr that i've a-breath'd did sheäke the draps o' raïn upon the breäke, an' bear aloft the swingèn lark, an' huffle roun' the elem's bark, in boughy grove, an' woody park, an' brought us down the dewy dells, the high-wound zongs o' nightingeäles. an' sounds o' flowèn water. an' when the zun, wi' vi'ry rim, 's a-zinkèn low, an' wearèn dim, here i, a-most too tired to stand, do leäve my work that's under hand in pathless wood or oben land, to rest 'ithin my thatchèn oves, wi' ruslèn win's in leafy groves, an' sounds o' flowèn water. trees be company. when zummer's burnèn het's a-shed upon the droopèn grasses head, a-drevèn under sheädy leaves the workvo'k in their snow-white sleeves, we then mid yearn to clim' the height, where thorns be white, above the vern; an' aïr do turn the zunsheen's might to softer light too weak to burn-- on woodless downs we mid be free, but lowland trees be company. though downs mid show a wider view o' green a-reachèn into blue than roads a-windèn in the glen, an' ringèn wi' the sounds o' men; the thissle's crown o' red an' blue in fall's cwold dew do wither brown, an' larks come down 'ithin the lew, as storms do brew, an' skies do frown-- an' though the down do let us free, the lowland trees be company. where birds do zing, below the zun, in trees above the blue-smok'd tun, an' sheädes o' stems do overstratch the mossy path 'ithin the hatch; if leaves be bright up over head, when maÿ do shed its glitt'rèn light; or, in the blight o' fall, do spread a yollow bed avore our zight-- whatever season it mid be, the trees be always company. when dusky night do nearly hide the path along the hedge's zide, an' dailight's hwomely sounds be still but sounds o' water at the mill; then if noo feäce we long'd to greet could come to meet our lwonesome treäce or if noo peäce o' weary veet, however fleet, could reach its pleäce-- however lwonesome we mid be, the trees would still be company. a pleÄce in zight. as i at work do look aroun' upon the groun' i have in view, to yonder hills that still do rise avore the skies, wi' backs o' blue; 'ithin the ridges that do vall an' rise roun' blackmwore lik' a wall, 'tis yonder knap do teäke my zight vrom dawn till night, the mwost ov all. an' there, in maÿ, 'ithin the lewth o' boughs in blooth, be sheädy walks, an' cowslips up in yollow beds do hang their heads on downy stalks; an' if the weather should be feäir when i've a holiday to speäre, i'll teäke the chance o' gettèn drough an hour or two wi' zome vo'k there. an' there i now can dimly zee the elem-tree upon the mound, an' there meäke out the high-bough'd grove an' narrow drove by redcliff ground; an' there by trees a-risèn tall, the glowèn zunlight now do vall, wi' shortest sheädes o' middle day, upon the gray wold house's wall. an' i can zee avore the sky a-risèn high the churches speer, wi' bells that i do goo to swing, an' like to ring, an' like to hear; an' if i've luck upon my zide, they bells shall sound bwoth loud an' wide, a peal above they slopes o' gray, zome merry day wi' jeäne a bride. gwain to brookwell. at easter, though the wind wer high, we vound we had a zunny sky, an' zoo wold dobbin had to trudge his dousty road by knap an' brudge, an' jog, wi' hangèn vetterlocks a-sheäkèn roun' his heavy hocks, an' us, a lwoad not much too small, a-ridèn out to brookwell hall; an' there in doust vrom dobbin's heels, an' green light-waggon's vower wheels, our merry laughs did loudly sound, in rollèn winds athirt the ground; while sheenèn-ribbons' color'd streäks did flutter roun' the maïdens' cheäks, as they did zit, wi' smilèn lips, a-reachèn out their vinger-tips toward zome teäkèn pleäce or zight that they did shew us, left or right; an' woonce, when jimmy tried to pleäce a kiss on cousin polly's feäce, she push'd his hat, wi' wicked leers, right off above his two red ears, an' there he roll'd along the groun' wi' spreadèn brim an' rounded crown, an' vound, at last, a cowpon's brim, an' launch'd hizzelf, to teäke a zwim; an' there, as jim did run to catch his neäked noddle's bit o' thatch, to zee his straïnèns an' his strides, we laugh'd enough to split our zides. at harwood farm we pass'd the land that father's father had in hand, an' there, in oben light did spread, the very groun's his cows did tread, an' there above the stwonèn tun avore the dazzlèn mornèn zun, wer still the rollèn smoke, the breath a-breath'd vrom his wold house's he'th; an' there did lie below the door, the drashol' that his vootsteps wore; but there his meäte an' he bwoth died, wi' hand in hand, an' zide by zide; between the seäme two peals a-rung, two zundays, though they wer but young, an' laid in sleep, their worksome hands, at rest vrom tweil wi' house or lands. then vower childern laid their heads at night upon their little beds, an' never rose ageän below a mother's love, or father's ho: dree little maïdens, small in feäce, an' woone small bwoy, the fourth in pleäce zoo when their heedvul father died, he call'd his brother to his zide, to meäke en stand, in hiz own stead, his childern's guide, when he wer dead; but still avore zix years brought round the woodland goo-coo's zummer sound, he weästed all their little store, an' hardship drove em out o' door, to tweil till tweilsome life should end. 'ithout a single e'thly friend. but soon wi' harwood back behind, an' out o' zight an' out o' mind, we went a-rottlèn on, an' meäde our way along to brookwell sleäde; an' then we vound ourselves draw nigh the leädy's tow'r that rose on high, an' seem'd a-comèn on to meet, wi' growèn height, wold dobbin's veet. brookwell. well, i do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while to beät the doust a good six mile to zee the pleäce the squier plann'd at brookwell, now a-meäde by hand; wi' oben lawn, an' grove, an' pon', an' gravel-walks as cleän as bron; an' grass a'most so soft to tread as velvet-pile o' silken thread; an' mounds wi' mæsh, an' rocks wi' flow'rs, an' ivy-sheäded zummer bow'rs, an' dribblèn water down below the stwonèn archès lofty bow. an' there do sound the watervall below a cavern's maeshy wall, where peäle-green light do struggle down a leafy crevice at the crown. an' there do gush the foamy bow o' water, white as driven snow: an' there, a zittèn all alwone, a little maïd o' marble stwone do leän her little cheäk azide upon her lily han', an' bide bezide the vallèn stream to zee her pitcher vill'd avore her knee. an' then the brook, a-rollèn dark below a leänèn yew-tree's bark, wi' plaÿsome ripples that do run a-flashèn to the western zun, do shoot, at last, wi' foamy shocks, athirt a ledge o' craggy rocks, a-castèn in his heästy flight, upon the stwones a robe o' white; an' then ageän do goo an' vall below a bridge's archèd wall, where vo'k agwaïn athirt do pass vow'r little bwoys a-cast in brass; an' woone do hold an angler's wand, wi' steady hand, above the pond; an' woone, a-pweïntèn to the stream his little vinger-tip, do seem a-showèn to his playmeätes' eyes, where he do zee the vishes rise; an' woone ageän, wi' smilèn lips, do put a vish his han' do clips 'ithin a basket, loosely tied about his shoulder at his zide: an' after that the fourth do stand a-holdèn back his pretty hand behind his little ear, to drow a stwone upon the stream below. an' then the housèn, that be all sich pretty hwomes, vrom big to small, a-lookèn south, do cluster round a zunny ledge o' risèn ground, avore a wood, a-nestled warm, in lewth ageän the northern storm, where smoke, a-wreathèn blue, do spread above the tuns o' dusky red, an' window-peänes do glitter bright wi' burnèn streams o' zummer light, below the vine, a-traïn'd to hem their zides 'ithin his leafy stem, an' rangle on, wi' flutt'rèn leaves, below the houses' thatchen eaves. an' drough a lawn a-spread avore the windows, an' the pworchèd door, a path do wind 'ithin a hatch, a-vastèn'd wi' a clickèn latch, an' there up over ruf an' tun, do stan' the smooth-wall'd church o' stwone, wi' carvèd windows, thin an' tall, a-reachèn up the lofty wall; an' battlements, a-stannèn round the tower, ninety veet vrom ground, vrom where a teäp'rèn speer do spring so high's the mornèn lark do zing. zoo i do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while to beät the doust a good six mile, to zee the pleäce the squier plann'd at brookwell, now a-meäde by hand. the shy man. ah! good meäster gwillet, that you mid ha' know'd, wer a-bred up at coomb, an' went little abroad: an' if he got in among strangers, he velt his poor heart in a twitter, an' ready to melt; or if, by ill luck, in his rambles, he met wi' zome maïdens a-titt'rèn, he burn'd wi' a het, that shot all drough the lim's o'n, an' left a cwold zweat, the poor little chap wer so shy, he wer ready to drap, an' to die. but at last 'twer the lot o' the poor little man to vall deeply in love, as the best ov us can; an' 'twer noo easy task vor a shy man to tell sich a dazzlèn feäir maïd that he loved her so well; an' woone day when he met her, his knees nearly smote woone another, an' then wi' a struggle he bro't a vew vords to his tongue, wi' some mwore in his droat. but she, 'ithout doubt, could soon vind vrom two words that come out, zix behind. zoo at langth, when he vound her so smilèn an' kind, why he wrote her zome laïns, vor to tell her his mind, though 'twer then a hard task vor a man that wer shy, to be married in church, wi' a crowd stannèn by. but he twold her woone day, "i have housen an' lands, we could marry by licence, if you don't like banns," an' he cover'd his eyes up wi' woone ov his han's, vor his head seem'd to zwim as he spoke, an' the aïr look'd so dim as a smoke. well! he vound a good naïghbour to goo in his pleäce vor to buy the goold ring, vor he hadden the feäce. an' when he went up vor to put in the banns, he did sheäke in his lags, an' did sheäke in his han's. then they ax'd vor her neäme, an' her parish or town, an' he gi'ed em a leaf, wi' her neäme a-wrote down; vor he coulden ha' twold em outright, vor a poun', vor his tongue wer so weak an' so loose, when he wanted to speak 'twer noo use. zoo they went to be married, an' when they got there all the vo'k wer a-gather'd as if 'twer a feäir, an' he thought, though his pleäce mid be pleazèn to zome, he could all but ha' wish'd that he hadden a-come. the bride wer a-smilèn as fresh as a rwose, an' when he come wi' her, an' show'd his poor nose. all the little bwoys shouted, an' cried "there he goes," "there he goes." oh! vor his peärt he velt as if the poor heart o'n would melt. an' when they stood up by the chancel together, oh! a man mid ha' knock'd en right down wi' a veather, he did veel zoo asheäm'd that he thought he would rather he wërden the bridegroom, but only the father. but, though 'tis so funny to zee en so shy, yeet his mind is so lowly, his aïms be so high, that to do a meän deed, or to tell woone a lie, you'd vind that he'd shun mwore by half, than to stan' vor vo'ks fun, or their laugh. the winter's willow. there liddy zot bezide her cow, upon her lowly seat, o; a hood did overhang her brow, her païl wer at her veet, o; an' she wer kind, an' she wer feäir, an' she wer young, an' free o' ceäre; vew winters had a-blow'd her heäir, bezide the winter's willow. she idden woone a-rear'd in town where many a gaÿer lass, o, do trip a-smilèn up an' down, so peäle wi' smoke an' gas, o; but here, in vields o' greäzèn herds, her väice ha' mingled sweetest words wi' evenèn cheärms o' busy birds, bezide the winter's willow. an' when, at last, wi' beätèn breast, i knock'd avore her door, o, she ax'd me in to teäke the best o' pleäces on the vloor, o; an' smilèn feäir avore my zight, she blush'd bezide the yollow light o' bleäzèn brands, while winds o' night do sheäke the winter's willow. an' if there's readship in her smile, she don't begrudge to speäre, o, to zomebody, a little while, the empty woaken chair, o; an' if i've luck upon my zide, why, i do think she'll be my bride avore the leaves ha' twice a-died upon the winter's willow. above the coach-wheels' rollèn rims she never rose to ride, o, though she do zet her comely lim's above the mare's white zide, o; but don't become too proud to stoop an' scrub her milkèn païl's white hoop, or zit a-milkèn where do droop, the wet-stemm'd winter's willow. an' i've a cow or two in leäze, along the river-zide, o, an' païls to zet avore her knees, at dawn an' evenèn-tide, o; an' there she still mid zit, an' look athirt upon the woody nook where vu'st i zeed her by the brook bezide the winter's willow. zoo, who would heed the treeless down, a-beät by all the storms, o, or who would heed the busy town, where vo'k do goo in zwarms, o; if he wer in my house below the elems, where the vier did glow in liddy's feäce, though winds did blow ageän the winter's willow. i know who. aye, aye, vull rathe the zun mus' rise to meäke us tired o' zunny skies, a-sheenèn on the whole day drough, from mornèn's dawn till evenèn's dew. when trees be brown an' meäds be green, an' skies be blue, an' streams do sheen, an' thin-edg'd clouds be snowy white above the bluest hills in zight; but i can let the daylight goo, when i've a-met wi'--i know who. in spring i met her by a bed o' laurels higher than her head; the while a rwose hung white between her blushes an' the laurel's green; an' then in fall, i went along the row of elems in the drong, an' heärd her zing bezide the cows, by yollow leaves o' meäple boughs; but fall or spring is feäir to view when day do bring me--i know who. an' when, wi' wint'r a-comèn roun', the purple he'th's a-feädèn brown, an' hangèn vern's a-sheäkèn dead, bezide the hill's besheäded head: an' black-wing'd rooks do glitter bright above my head, in peäler light; then though the birds do still the glee that sounded in the zummer tree, my heart is light the winter drough, in me'th at night, wi'--i know who. jessie lee. above the timber's bendèn sh'ouds, the western wind did softly blow; an' up avore the knap, the clouds did ride as white as driven snow. vrom west to east the clouds did zwim wi' wind that plied the elem's lim'; vrom west to east the stream did glide, a-sheenèn wide, wi' windèn brim. how feäir, i thought, avore the sky the slowly-zwimmèn clouds do look; how soft the win's a-streamèn by; how bright do roll the weävy brook: when there, a-passèn on my right, a-waikèn slow, an' treadèn light, young jessie lee come by, an' there took all my ceäre, an' all my zight. vor lovely wer the looks her feäce held up avore the western sky: an' comely wer the steps her peäce did meäke a-walkèn slowly by: but i went east, wi' beätèn breast, wi' wind, an' cloud, an' brook, vor rest, wi' rest a-lost, vor jessie gone so lovely on, toward the west. blow on, o winds, athirt the hill; zwim on, o clouds; o waters vall, down mæshy rocks, vrom mill to mill; i now can overlook ye all. but roll, o zun, an' bring to me my day, if such a day there be, when zome dear path to my abode shall be the road o' jessie lee. true love. as evenèn aïr, in green-treed spring, do sheäke the new-sprung pa'sley bed, an' wither'd ash-tree keys do swing an' vall a-flutt'rèn roun' our head: there, while the birds do zing their zong in bushes down the ash-tree drong, come jessie lee, vor sweet's the pleäce your vaïce an' feäce can meäke vor me. below the buddèn ashes' height we there can linger in the lew, while boughs, a-gilded by the light, do sheen avore the sky o' blue: but there by zettèn zun, or moon a-risèn, time wull vlee too soon wi' jessie lee, vor sweet's the pleäce her vaïce an' feäce can meäke vor me. down where the darksome brook do flow, below the bridge's archèd wall, wi' alders dark, a-leanèn low, above the gloomy watervall; there i've a-led ye hwome at night, wi' noo feäce else 'ithin my zight but yours so feäir, an' sweet's the pleäce your vaïce an' feäce ha' meäde me there. an' oh! when other years do come, an' zettèn zuns, wi' yollow gleäre, drough western window-peänes, at hwome, do light upon my evenèn chair: while day do weäne, an' dew do vall, be wi' me then, or else in call, as time do vlee, vor sweet's the pleäce your vaïce an' feäce do meäke vor me. ah! you do smile, a-thinkèn light o' my true words, but never mind; smile on, smile on, but still your flight would leäve me little jaÿ behind: but let me not be zoo a-tried wi' you a-lost where i do bide, o jessie lee, in any pleäce your vaïce an' feäce ha' blest vor me. i'm sure that when a soul's a-brought to this our life ov aïr an' land, woone mwore's a-mark'd in god's good thought, to help, wi' love, his heart an' hand. an' oh! if there should be in store an angel here vor my poor door, 'tis jessie lee, vor sweet's the pleäce her vaïce an' feace can meäke vor me. the bean vield. 'twer where the zun did warm the lewth, an' win' did whiver in the sheäde, the sweet-aïr'd beäns were out in blooth, down there 'ithin the elem gleäde; a yollow-banded bee did come, an' softly-pitch, wi' hushèn hum, upon a beän, an' there did sip, upon a swaÿèn blossom's lip: an' there cried he, "aye, i can zee, this blossom's all a-zent vor me." a-jilted up an' down, astride upon a lofty ho'se a-trot, the meäster then come by wi' pride, to zee the beäns that he'd a-got; an' as he zot upon his ho'se, the ho'se ageän did snort an' toss his high-ear'd head, an' at the zight ov all the blossom, black an' white: "ah! ah!" thought he, the seäme's the bee, "theäse beäns be all a-zent vor me." zoo let the worold's riches breed a strife o' claïms, wi' weak and strong, vor now what cause have i to heed who's in the right, or in the wrong; since there do come drough yonder hatch, an' bloom below the house's thatch, the best o' maïdens, an' do own that she is mine, an' mine alwone: zoo i can zee that love do gi'e the best ov all good gifts to me. vor whose be all the crops an' land a-won an' lost, an' bought, an zwold or whose, a-roll'd vrom hand to hand, the highest money that's a-twold? vrom man to man a passèn on, 'tis here to-day, to-morrow gone. but there's a blessèn high above it all--a soul o' stedvast love: zoo let it vlee, if god do gi'e sweet jessie vor a gift to me. wold friends a-met. aye, vull my heart's blood now do roll, an' gaÿ do rise my happy soul, an' well they mid, vor here our veet avore woone vier ageän do meet; vor you've avoun' my feäce, to greet wi' welcome words my startlèn ear. an' who be you, but john o' weer, an' i, but william wellburn. here, light a candle up, to shed mwore light upon a wold friend's head, an' show the smile, his feäce woonce mwore ha' brought us vrom another shore. an' i'll heave on a brand avore the vier back, to meäke good cheer, o' roarèn fleämes, vor john o' weer to chat wi' william wellburn. aye, aye, it mid be true that zome, when they do wander out vrom hwome, do leäve their nearest friends behind, bwoth out o' zight, an' out o' mind; but john an' i ha' ties to bind our souls together, vur or near, for, who is he but john o' weer. an' i, but william wellburn. look, there he is, with twinklèn eyes, an' elbows down upon his thighs. a-chucklèn low, wi' merry grin. though time ha' roughen'd up his chin, 'tis still the seäme true soul 'ithin, as woonce i know'd, when year by year, thik very chap, thik john o' weer, did plaÿ wi' william wellburn. come, john, come; don't be dead-alive here, reach us out your clust'r o' vive. oh! you be happy. ees, but that woon't do till you can laugh an' chat. don't blinky, lik' a purrèn cat, but leäp an' laugh, an' let vo'k hear what's happen'd, min, that john o' weer ha' met wi' william wellburn. vor zome, wi' selfishness too strong vor love, do do each other wrong; an' zome do wrangle an' divide in hets ov anger, bred o' pride; but who do think that time or tide can breed ill-will in friends so dear, as william wer to john o' weer, an' john to william wellburn? if other vo'ks do gleen to zee how lovèn an' how glad we be, what, then, poor souls, they had but vew sich happy days, so long agoo, as they that i've a-spent wi' you; but they'd hold woone another dear, if woone o' them wer john o' weer, an' tother william wellburn. fifehead. 'twer where my fondest thoughts do light, at fifehead, while we spent the night; the millwheel's restèn rim wer dry, an' houn's held up their evenèn cry; an' lofty, drough the midnight sky, above the vo'k, wi' heavy heads, asleep upon their darksome beds, the stars wer all awake, john. noo birds o' day wer out to spread their wings above the gully's bed, an' darkness roun' the elem-tree 'd a-still'd the charmy childern's glee. all he'ths wer cwold but woone, where we wer gaÿ, 'tis true, but gaÿ an' wise, an' laugh'd in light o' maïden's eyes, that glissen'd wide awake, john. an' when we all, lik' loosen'd hounds, broke out o' doors, wi' merry sounds, our friends among the plaÿsome team, all brought us gwäin so vur's the stream. but jeäne, that there, below a gleam o' light, watch'd woone o's out o' zight; vor willènly, vor his "good night," she'd longer bide awake, john. an' while up _leighs_ we stepp'd along our grassy path, wi' joke an' zong, there _plumber_, wi' its woody ground, o' slopèn knaps a-screen'd around, rose dim 'ithout a breath o' sound, the wold abode o' squiers a-gone, though while they lay a-sleepèn on, their stars wer still awake, john. ivy hall. if i've a-stream'd below a storm, an' not a-velt the raïn, an' if i ever velt me warm, in snow upon the plaïn, 'twer when, as evenèn skies wer dim, an' vields below my eyes wer dim, i went alwone at evenèn-fall, athirt the vields to ivy hall. i voun' the wind upon the hill, last night, a-roarèn loud, an' rubbèn boughs a-creakèn sh'ill upon the ashes' sh'oud; but oh! the reelèn copse mid groan; an' timber's lofty tops mid groan; the hufflèn winds be music all, bezide my road to ivy hall. a sheädy grove o' ribbèd woaks, is wootton's shelter'd nest, an' woaks do keep the winter's strokes vrom knapton's evenèn rest. an' woaks ageän wi' bossy stems, an' elems wi' their mossy stems, do rise to screen the leafy wall an' stwonèn ruf ov ivy hall. the darksome clouds mid fling their sleet. an' vrost mid pinch me blue, or snow mid cling below my veet, an' hide my road vrom view. the winter's only jaÿ ov heart, an' storms do meäke me gaÿ ov heart, when i do rest, at evenèn-fall, bezide the he'th ov ivy hall. there leafy stems do clim' around the mossy stwonèn eaves; an' there be window-zides a-bound wi' quiv'rèn ivy-leaves. but though the sky is dim 'ithout, an' feäces mid be grim 'ithout, still i ha' smiles when i do call, at evenèn-tide, at ivy hall. false friends-like. when i wer still a bwoy, an' mother's pride, a bigger bwoy spoke up to me so kind-like, "if you do like, i'll treat ye wi' a ride in theäse wheel-barrow here." zoo i wer blind-like to what he had a-workèn in his mind-like, an' mounted vor a passenger inside; an' comèn to a puddle, perty wide, he tipp'd me in, a-grinnèn back behind-like. zoo when a man do come to me so thick-like, an' sheäke my hand, where woonce he pass'd me by, an' tell me he would do me this or that, i can't help thinkèn o' the big bwoy's trick-like. an' then, vor all i can but wag my hat an' thank en, i do veel a little shy. the bachelor. no! i don't begrudge en his life, nor his goold, nor his housen, nor lands; teäke all o't, an' gi'e me my wife, a wife's be the cheapest ov hands. lie alwone! sigh alwone! die alwone! then be vorgot. no! i be content wi' my lot. ah! where be the vingers so feäir, vor to pat en so soft on the feäce, to mend ev'ry stitch that do tear, an' keep ev'ry button in pleäce? crack a-tore! brack a-tore! back a-tore! buttons a-vled! vor want ov a wife wi' her thread. ah! where is the sweet-perty head that do nod till he's gone out o' zight? an' where be the two eärms a-spread, to show en he's welcome at night? dine alwone! pine alwone! whine alwone! oh! what a life! i'll have a friend in a wife. an' when vrom a meetèn o' me'th each husban' do leäd hwome his bride, then he do slink hwome to his he'th, wi' his eärm a-hung down his cwold zide. slinkèn on! blinkèn on! thinkèn on! gloomy an' glum; nothèn but dullness to come. an' when he do onlock his door, do rumble as hollow's a drum, an' the veäries a-hid roun' the vloor, do grin vor to see en so glum. keep alwone! sleep alwone! weep alwone! there let en bide, i'll have a wife at my zide. but when he's a-laid on his bed in a zickness, o, what wull he do! vor the hands that would lift up his head, an' sheäke up his pillor anew. ills to come! pills to come! bills to come! noo soul to sheäre the trials the poor wratch must bear. married peÄir's love walk. come let's goo down the grove to-night; the moon is up, 'tis all so light as day, an' win' do blow enough to sheäke the leaves, but tiddèn rough. come, esther, teäke, vor wold time's seäke, your hooded cloke, that's on the pin, an' wrap up warm, an' teäke my eärm, you'll vind it better out than in. come, etty dear; come out o' door, an' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. how charmèn to our very souls, wer woonce your evenèn maïden strolls, the while the zettèn zunlight dyed wi' red the beeches' western zide, but back avore your vinger wore the weddèn ring that's now so thin; an' you did sheäre a mother's ceäre, to watch an' call ye eärly in. come, etty dear; come out o' door, an' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. an' then ageän, when you could slight the clock a-strikèn leäte at night, the while the moon, wi' risèn rim, did light the beeches' eastern lim'. when i'd a-bound your vinger round wi' thik goold ring that's now so thin, an' you had nwone but me alwone to teäke ye leäte or eärly in. come, etty dear; come out o' door, an' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. but often when the western zide o' trees did glow at evenèn-tide, or when the leäter moon did light the beeches' eastern boughs at night, an' in the grove, where vo'k did rove the crumpled leaves did vlee an' spin, you couldèn sheäre the pleasure there: your work or childern kept ye in. come, etty dear, come out o' door, an' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. but ceäres that zunk your oval chin ageän your bosom's lily skin, vor all they meäde our life so black, be now a-lost behind our back. zoo never mwope, in midst of hope, to slight our blessèns would be sin. ha! ha! well done, now this is fun; when you do like i'll bring ye in. here, etty dear; here, out o' door, we'll teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. a wife a-praÏs'd. 'twer maÿ, but ev'ry leaf wer dry all day below a sheenèn sky; the zun did glow wi' yollow gleäre, an' cowslips blow wi' yollow gleäre, wi' grægles' bells a-droopèn low, an' bremble boughs a-stoopèn low; while culvers in the trees did coo above the vallèn dew. an' there, wi' heäir o' glossy black, bezide your neck an' down your back, you rambled gaÿ a-bloomèn feäir; by boughs o' maÿ a-bloomèn feäir; an' while the birds did twitter nigh, an' water weäves did glitter nigh, you gather'd cowslips in the lew, below the vallèn dew. an' now, while you've a-been my bride as years o' flow'rs ha' bloom'd an' died, your smilèn feäce ha' been my jaÿ; your soul o' greäce ha' been my jaÿ; an' wi' my evenèn rest a-come, an' zunsheen to the west a-come, i'm glad to teäke my road to you vrom vields o' vallèn dew. an' when the raïn do wet the maÿ, a-bloomèn where we woonce did straÿ, an' win' do blow along so vast, an' streams do flow along so vast; ageän the storms so rough abroad, an' angry tongues so gruff abroad, the love that i do meet vrom you is lik' the vallèn dew. an' you be sprack's a bee on wing, in search ov honey in the spring: the dawn-red sky do meet ye up; the birds vu'st cry do meet ye up; an' wi' your feäce a-smilèn on, an' busy hands a-tweilèn on, you'll vind zome useful work to do until the vallèn dew. the wife a-lost. since i noo mwore do zee your feäce, up steäirs or down below, i'll zit me in the lwonesome pleäce, where flat-bough'd beech do grow: below the beeches' bough, my love, where you did never come, an' i don't look to meet ye now, as i do look at hwome. since you noo mwore be at my zide, in walks in zummer het, i'll goo alwone where mist do ride, drough trees a-drippèn wet: below the raïn-wet bough, my love, where you did never come, an' i don't grieve to miss ye now, as i do grieve at home. since now bezide my dinner-bwoard your vaïce do never sound, i'll eat the bit i can avword, a-vield upon the ground; below the darksome bough, my love, where you did never dine, an' i don't grieve to miss ye now, as i at hwome do pine. since i do miss your vaïce an' feäce in praÿer at eventide, i'll praÿ wi' woone said vaïce vor greäce to goo where you do bide; above the tree an' bough, my love, where you be gone avore, an' be a-waïtèn vor me now, to come vor evermwore. the thorns in the geÄte. ah! meäster collins overtook our knot o' vo'k a-stannèn still, last zunday, up on ivy hill, to zee how strong the corn did look. an' he stay'd back awhile an' spoke a vew kind words to all the vo'k, vor good or joke, an' wi' a smile begun a-plaÿèn wi' a chile. the zull, wi' iron zide awry, had long a-vurrow'd up the vield; the heavy roller had a-wheel'd it smooth vor showers vrom the sky; the bird-bwoy's cry, a-risèn sh'ill, an' clacker, had a-left the hill, all bright but still, vor time alwone to speed the work that we'd a-done. down drough the wind, a-blowèn keen, did gleäre the nearly cloudless sky, an' corn in bleäde, up ancle-high, 'lthin the geäte did quiver green; an' in the geäte a-lock'd there stood a prickly row o' thornèn wood vor vo'k vor food had done their best, an' left to spring to do the rest. "the geäte," he cried, "a-seal'd wi' thorn vrom harmvul veet's a-left to hold the bleäde a-springèn vrom the mwold, while god do ripen it to corn. an' zoo in life let us vulvil whatever is our meäker's will, an' then bide still, wi' peacevul breast, while he do manage all the rest." angels by the door. oh! there be angels evermwore, a-passèn onward by the door, a-zent to teäke our jaÿs, or come to bring us zome--o meärianne. though doors be shut, an' bars be stout, noo bolted door can keep em out; but they wull leäve us ev'ry thing they have to bring--my meärianne. an' zoo the days a-stealèn by, wi' zuns a-ridèn drough the sky, do bring us things to leäve us sad, or meäke us glad--o meärianne. the day that's mild, the day that's stern, do teäke, in stillness, each his turn; an' evils at their worst mid mend, or even end--my meärianne. but still, if we can only bear wi' faïth an' love, our païn an' ceäre, we shan't vind missèn jaÿs a-lost, though we be crost--o meärianne. but all a-took to heav'n, an' stow'd where we can't weäste em on the road, as we do wander to an' fro, down here below--my meärianne. but there be jaÿs i'd soonest choose to keep, vrom them that i must lose; your workzome hands to help my tweil, your cheerful smile--o meärianne. the zunday bells o' yonder tow'r, the moonlight sheädes o' my own bow'r, an' rest avore our vier-zide, at evenèn-tide--my meärianne. vo'k a-comÈn into church. the church do zeem a touchèn zight, when vo'k, a-comèn in at door, do softly tread the long-aïl'd vloor below the pillar'd arches' height, wi' bells a-pealèn, vo'k a-kneelèn, hearts a-healèn, wi' the love an' peäce a-zent em vrom above. an' there, wi' mild an' thoughtvul feäce, wi' downcast eyes, an' vaïces dum', the wold an' young do slowly come, an' teäke in stillness each his pleäce, a-zinkèn slowly, kneelèn lowly, seekèn holy thoughts alwone, in praÿ'r avore their meäker's throne. an' there be sons in youthvul pride, an' fathers weak wi' years an' païn, an' daughters in their mother's traïn. the tall wi' smaller at their zide; heads in murnèn never turnèn, cheäks a-burnèn, wi' the het o' youth, an' eyes noo tears do wet. there friends do settle, zide by zide, the knower speechless to the known; their vaïce is there vor god alwone to flesh an' blood their tongues be tied. grief a-wringèn, jaÿ a-zingèn, pray'r a-bringèn welcome rest so softly to the troubled breast. woone rule. an' while i zot, wi' thoughtvul mind, up where the lwonesome coombs do wind, an' watch'd the little gully slide so crookèd to the river-zide; i thought how wrong the stour did zeem to roll along his ramblèn stream, a-runnèn wide the left o' south, to vind his mouth, the right-hand zide. but though his stream do teäke, at mill. an' eastward bend by newton hill, an' goo to lay his welcome boon o' daïly water round hammoon, an' then wind off ageän, to run by blanvord, to the noonday zun, 'tis only bound by woone rule all, an' that's to vall down steepest ground. an' zoo, i thought, as we do bend our waÿ drough life, to reach our end, our god ha' gi'ed us, vrom our youth, woone rule to be our guide--his truth. an' zoo wi' that, though we mid teäke wide rambles vor our callèns' seäke, what is, is best, we needen fear, an' we shall steer to happy rest. good meÄster collins. aye, meäster collins wer a-blest wi' greäce, an' now's a-gone to rest; an' though his heart did beät so meek 's a little child's, when he did speak, the godly wisdom ov his tongue wer dew o' greäce to wold an' young. 'twer woonce, upon a zummer's tide, i zot at brookwell by his zide, avore the leäke, upon the rocks, above the water's idle shocks, as little plaÿsome weäves did zwim ageän the water's windy brim, out where the lofty tower o' stwone did stan' to years o' wind an' zun; an' where the zwellèn pillars bore a pworch above the heavy door, wi' sister sheädes a-reachèn cool athirt the stwones an' sparklèn pool. i spoke zome word that meäde en smile, o' girt vo'k's wealth an' poor vo'k's tweil, as if i pin'd, vor want ov greäce, to have a lord's or squier's pleäce. "no, no," he zaid, "what god do zend is best vor all o's in the end, an' all that we do need the mwost do come to us wi' leäst o' cost;-- why, who could live upon the e'th 'ithout god's gïft ov aïr vor breath? or who could bide below the zun if water didden rise an' run? an' who could work below the skies if zun an' moon did never rise? zoo aïr an' water, an' the light, be higher gifts, a-reckon'd right, than all the goold the darksome claÿ can ever yield to zunny daÿ: but then the aïr is roun' our heads, abroad by day, or on our beds; where land do gi'e us room to bide, or seas do spread vor ships to ride; an' he do zend his waters free, vrom clouds to lands, vrom lands to sea: an' mornèn light do blush an' glow, 'ithout our tweil--'ithout our ho. "zoo let us never pine, in sin, vor gifts that ben't the best to win; the heaps o' goold that zome mid pile, wi' sleepless nights an' peaceless tweil; or manor that mid reach so wide as blackmwore is vrom zide to zide, or kingly swaÿ, wi' life or death, vor helpless childern ov the e'th: vor theäse ben't gifts, as he do know, that he in love should vu'st bestow; or else we should have had our sheäre o'm all wi' little tweil or ceäre. "ov all his choicest gifts, his cry is, 'come, ye moneyless, and buy.' zoo blest is he that can but lift his prayer vor a happy gift." herrenston. zoo then the leädy an' the squier, at chris'mas, gather'd girt an' small, vor me'th, avore their roarèn vier, an! roun' their bwoard, 'ithin the hall; an' there, in glitt'rèn rows, between the roun'-rimm'd pleätes, our knives did sheen, wi' frothy eäle, an' cup an' can, vor maïd an' man, at herrenston. an' there the jeints o' beef did stand, lik' cliffs o' rock, in goodly row; where woone mid quarry till his hand did tire, an' meäke but little show; an' after we'd a-took our seat, an' greäce had been a-zaid vor meat, we zet to work, an' zoo begun our feäst an' fun at herrenston. an' mothers there, bezide the bwoards, wi' little childern in their laps, did stoop, wi' lovèn looks an' words, an' veed em up wi' bits an' draps; an' smilèn husbands went in quest o' what their wives did like the best; an' you'd ha' zeed a happy zight, thik merry night, at herrenston. an' then the band, wi' each his leaf o' notes, above us at the zide, play'd up the praïse ov england's beef an' vill'd our hearts wi' english pride; an' leafy chaïns o' garlands hung, wi' dazzlèn stripes o' flags, that swung above us, in a bleäze o' light, thik happy night, at herrenston. an' then the clerk, avore the vier, begun to lead, wi' smilèn feäce, a carol, wi' the monkton quire, that rung drough all the crowded pleäce. an' dins' o' words an' laughter broke in merry peals drough clouds o' smoke; vor hardly wer there woone that spoke, but pass'd a joke, at herrenston. then man an' maïd stood up by twos, in rows, drough passage, out to door, an' gaïly beät, wi' nimble shoes, a dance upon the stwonèn floor. but who is worthy vor to tell, if she that then did bear the bell, wer woone o' monkton, or o' ceäme, or zome sweet neäme ov herrenston. zoo peace betide the girt vo'k's land, when they can stoop, wi' kindly smile, an' teäke a poor man by the hand, an' cheer en in his daily tweil. an' oh! mid he that's vur above the highest here, reward their love, an' gi'e their happy souls, drough greäce, a higher pleäce than herrenston. out at plough. though cool avore the sheenèn sky do vall the sheädes below the copse, the timber-trees, a-reachèn high, ha' zunsheen on their lofty tops, where yonder land's a-lyèn plow'd, an' red, below the snow-white cloud, an' vlocks o' pitchèn rooks do vwold their wings to walk upon the mwold. while floods be low, an' buds do grow, an' aïr do blow, a-broad, o. but though the aïr is cwold below the creakèn copses' darksome screen, the truest sheäde do only show how strong the warmer zun do sheen; an' even times o' grief an' païn, ha' good a-comèn in their traïn, an' 'tis but happiness do mark the sheädes o' sorrow out so dark. as tweils be sad, or smiles be glad, or times be bad, at hwome, o an' there the zunny land do lie below the hangèn, in the lew, wi' vurrows now a-crumblèn dry, below the plowman's dousty shoe; an' there the bwoy do whissel sh'ill, below the skylark's merry bill, where primrwose beds do deck the zides o' banks below the meäple wrides. as trees be bright wi' bees in flight, an' weather's bright, abroad, o. an' there, as sheenèn wheels do spin vull speed along the dousty rwoad, he can but stan', an' wish 'ithin his mind to be their happy lwoad, that he mid gaïly ride, an' goo to towns the rwoad mid teäke en drough, an' zee, for woonce, the zights behind the bluest hills his eyes can vind, o' towns, an' tow'rs, an' downs, an' flow'rs, in zunny hours, abroad, o. but still, vor all the weather's feäir, below a cloudless sky o' blue, the bwoy at plough do little ceäre how vast the brightest day mid goo; vor he'd be glad to zee the zun a-zettèn, wi' his work a-done, that he, at hwome, mid still injaÿ his happy bit ov evenèn plaÿ, so light's a lark till night is dark, while dogs do bark, at hwome, o. the bwoat. where cows did slowly seek the brink o' _stour_, drough zunburnt grass, to drink; wi' vishèn float, that there did zink an' rise, i zot as in a dream. the dazzlèn zun did cast his light on hedge-row blossom, snowy white, though nothèn yet did come in zight, a-stirrèn on the straÿèn stream; till, out by sheädy rocks there show'd, a bwoat along his foamy road, wi' thik feäir maïd at mill, a-row'd wi' jeäne behind her brother's oars. an' steätely as a queen o' vo'k, she zot wi' floatèn scarlet cloak, an' comèn on, at ev'ry stroke, between my withy-sheäded shores. the broken stream did idly try to show her sheäpe a-ridèn by, the rushes brown-bloom'd stems did ply, as if they bow'd to her by will. the rings o' water, wi' a sock, did break upon the mossy rock, an' gi'e my beätèn heart a shock, above my float's up-leapèn quill. then, lik' a cloud below the skies, a-drifted off, wi' less'nèn size, an' lost, she floated vrom my eyes, where down below the stream did wind; an' left the quiet weäves woonce mwore to zink to rest, a sky-blue'd vloor, wi' all so still's the clote they bore, aye, all but my own ruffled mind. the pleÄce our own ageÄn. well! thanks to you, my faïthful jeäne, so worksome wi' your head an' hand, we seäved enough to get ageän my poor vorefather's plot o' land. 'twer folly lost, an' cunnèn got, what should ha' come to me by lot. but let that goo; 'tis well the land is come to hand, by be'th or not. an' there the brook, a-windèn round the parrick zide, do run below the grey-stwon'd bridge wi' gurglèn sound, a-sheäded by the arches' bow; where former days the wold brown meäre, wi' father on her back, did wear wi' heavy shoes the grav'ly leäne, an' sheäke her meäne o' yollor heäir. an' many zummers there ha' glow'd, to shrink the brook in bubblèn shoals, an' warm the doust upon the road, below the trav'ller's burnèn zoles. an' zome ha' zent us to our bed in grief, an' zome in jaÿ ha' vled; but vew ha' come wi' happier light than what's now bright, above our head. the brook did peärt, zome years agoo, our grenley meäds vrom knapton's ridge but now you know, between the two, a-road's a-meäde by grenley bridge. zoo why should we shrink back at zight ov hindrances we ought to slight? a hearty will, wi' god our friend, will gaïn its end, if 'tis but right. [gothic: eclogue.] _john an' thomas._ thomas. how b'ye, then, john, to-night; an' how be times a-waggèn on w' ye now? i can't help slackenèn my peäce when i do come along your pleäce, to zee what crops your bit o' groun' do bear ye all the zummer roun'. 'tis true you don't get fruit nor blooth, 'ithin the glassèn houses' lewth; but if a man can rear a crop where win' do blow an' raïn can drop, do seem to come, below your hand, as fine as any in the land. john. well, there, the geärden stuff an' flow'rs don't leäve me many idle hours; but still, though i mid plant or zow, 'tis woone above do meäke it grow. thomas. aye, aye, that's true, but still your strip o' groun' do show good workmanship: you've onions there nine inches round, an' turmits that would waïgh a pound; an' cabbage wi' its hard white head, an' teäties in their dousty bed, an' carrots big an' straïght enough vor any show o' geärden stuff; an' trees ov apples, red-skinn'd balls an' purple plums upon the walls, an' peas an' beäns; bezides a store o' heärbs vor ev'ry païn an' zore. john. an' over hedge the win's a-heärd, a ruslèn drough my barley's beard; an' swaÿen wheat do overspread zix ridges in a sheet o' red; an' then there's woone thing i do call the girtest handiness ov all: my ground is here at hand, avore my eyes, as i do stand at door; an' zoo i've never any need to goo a mile to pull a weed. thomas. no, sure, a miël shoulden stratch between woone's geärden an' woone's hatch. a man would like his house to stand bezide his little bit o' land. john. ees. when woone's groun' vor geärden stuff is roun' below the house's ruf, then woone can spend upon woone's land odd minutes that mid lie on hand, the while, wi' night a-comèn on, the red west sky's a-wearèn wan; or while woone's wife, wi' busy hands, avore her vier o' burnèn brands, do put, as best she can avword, her bit o' dinner on the bwoard. an' here, when i do teäke my road, at breakfast-time, agwaïn abrode, why, i can zee if any plot o' groun' do want a hand or not; an' bid my childern, when there's need, to draw a reäke or pull a weed, or heal young beäns or peas in line, or tie em up wi' rods an' twine, or peel a kindly withy white to hold a droopèn flow'r upright. thomas. no. bits o' time can zeldom come to much on groun' a mile vrom hwome. a man at hwome should have in view the jobs his childern's hands can do, an' groun' abrode mid teäke em all beyond their mother's zight an' call, to get a zoakèn in a storm, or vall, i' may be, into harm. john. ees. geärden groun', as i've a-zed, is better near woone's bwoard an' bed. pentridge by the river. pentridge!--oh! my heart's a-zwellèn vull o' jaÿ wi' vo'k a-tellèn any news o' thik wold pleäce, an' the boughy hedges round it, an' the river that do bound it wi' his dark but glis'nèn feäce. vor there's noo land, on either hand, to me lik' pentridge by the river. be there any leaves to quiver on the aspen by the river? doo he sheäde the water still, where the rushes be a-growèn, where the sullen stour's a-flowèn drough the meäds vrom mill to mill? vor if a tree wer dear to me, oh! 'twer thik aspen by the river. there, in eegrass new a-shootèn, i did run on even vootèn, happy, over new-mow'd land; or did zing wi' zingèn drushes while i plaïted, out o' rushes, little baskets vor my hand; bezide the clote that there did float, wi' yollow blossoms, on the river. when the western zun's a vallèn, what sh'ill vaïce is now a-callèn hwome the deäiry to the païls; who do dreve em on, a-flingèn wide-bow'd horns, or slowly zwingèn right an' left their tufty taïls? as they do goo a-huddled drough the geäte a-leädèn up vrom river. bleäded grass is now a-shootèn where the vloor wer woonce our vootèn, while the hall wer still in pleäce. stwones be looser in the wallèn; hollow trees be nearer vallèn; ev'ry thing ha' chang'd its feäce. but still the neäme do bide the seäme-- 'tis pentridge--pentridge by the river. wheat. in brown-leav'd fall the wheat a-left 'ithin its darksome bed, where all the creakèn roller's heft seal'd down its lowly head, sprung sheäkèn drough the crumblèn mwold, green-yollow, vrom below, an' bent its bleädes, a-glitt'rèn cwold, at last in winter snow. zoo luck betide the upland zide, where wheat do wride, in corn-vields wide, by crowns o' do'set downs, o. an' while the screamèn bird-bwoy shook wi' little zun-burnt hand, his clacker at the bright-wing'd rook, about the zeeded land; his meäster there did come an' stop his bridle-champèn meäre, wi' thankvul heart, to zee his crop a-comèn up so feäir. as there awhile by geäte or stile, he gi'ed the chile a cheerèn smile, by crowns o' do'set downs, o. at last, wi' eärs o' darksome red, the yollow stalks did ply, a-swaÿèn slow, so heavy 's lead, in aïr a-blowèn by; an' then the busy reapers laid in row their russlèn grips, an' sheäves, a-leänèn head by head, did meäke the stitches tips. zoo food's a-vound, a-comèn round, vrom zeed in ground, to sheaves a-bound, by crowns o' do'set downs, o. an' now the wheat, in lofty lwoads, above the meäres' broad backs, do ride along the cracklèn rwoads, or dousty waggon-tracks. an' there, mid every busy pick, ha' work enough to do; an' where, avore, we built woone rick, mid theäse year gi'e us two; wi' god our friend, an' wealth to spend, vor zome good end, that times mid mend, in towns, an' do'set downs, o. zoo let the merry thatcher veel fine weather on his brow, as he, in happy work, do kneel up roun' the new-built mow, that now do zwell in sich a size, an' rise to sich a height, that, oh! the miller's wistful eyes do sparkle at the zight an' long mid stand, a happy band, to till the land, wi' head an' hand, by crowns o' do'set downs, o. the meÄd in june. ah! how the looks o' sky an' ground do change wi' months a-stealèn round, when northern winds, by starry night, do stop in ice the river's flight; or brooks in winter raïns do zwell, lik' rollèn seas athirt the dell; or trickle thin in zummer-tide; among the mossy stwones half dried; but still, below the zun or moon, the feàrest vield's the meäd in june. an' i must own, my heart do beät wi' pride avore my own blue geäte, where i can bid the steätely tree be cast, at langth, avore my knee; an' clover red, an' deäzies feaïr, an' gil'cups wi' their yollow gleäre, be all a-match'd avore my zight by wheelèn buttervlees in flight, the while the burnèn zun at noon do sheen upon my meäd in june. an' there do zing the swingèn lark so gaÿ's above the finest park, an' day do sheäde my trees as true as any steätely avenue; an' show'ry clouds o' spring do pass to shed their raïn on my young grass, an' aïr do blow the whole day long, to bring me breath, an' teäke my zong, an' i do miss noo needvul boon a-gi'ed to other meäds in june. an' when the bloomèn rwose do ride upon the boughy hedge's zide, we haymeäkers, in snow-white sleeves, do work in sheädes o' quiv'rèn leaves, in afternoon, a-liftèn high our reäkes avore the viery sky, a-reäken up the hay a-dried by day, in lwongsome weäles, to bide in chilly dew below the moon, o' shorten'd nights in zultry june. an' there the brook do softly flow along, a-bendèn in a bow, an' vish, wi' zides o' zilver-white, do flash vrom shoals a dazzlèn light; an' alders by the water's edge, do sheäde the ribbon-bleäded zedge, an' where, below the withy's head, the zwimmèn clote-leaves be a-spread, the angler is a-zot at noon upon the flow'ry bank in june. vor all the aiër that do bring my little meäd the breath o' spring, by day an' night's a-flowèn wide above all other vields bezide; vor all the zun above my ground 's a-zent vor all the naïghbours round, an' raïn do vall, an' streams do flow, vor lands above, an' lands below, my bit o' meäd is god's own boon, to me alwone, vrom june to june. early risÈn. the aïr to gi'e your cheäks a hue o' rwosy red, so feaïr to view, is what do sheäke the grass-bleädes gray at breäk o' day, in mornèn dew; vor vo'k that will be rathe abrode, will meet wi' health upon their road. but bidèn up till dead o' night, when han's o' clocks do stan' upright, by candle-light, do soon consume the feäce's bloom, an' turn it white. an' light a-cast vrom midnight skies do blunt the sparklèn ov the eyes. vor health do weäke vrom nightly dreams below the mornèn's eärly beams, an' leäve the dead-aïr'd houses' eaves, vor quiv'rèn leaves, an' bubblèn streams, a-glitt'rèn brightly to the view, below a sky o' cloudless blue. zellen woone's honey to buy zome'hat sweet. why, his heart's lik' a popple, so hard as a stwone, vor 'tis money, an' money's his ho, an' to handle an' reckon it up vor his own, is the best o' the jaÿs he do know. why, vor money he'd gi'e up his lags an' be leäme, or would peärt wi' his zight an' be blind, or would lose vo'k's good will, vor to have a bad neäme, or his peace, an' have trouble o' mind. but wi' ev'ry good thing that his meänness mid bring, he'd paÿ vor his money, an' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet. he did whisper to me, "you do know that you stood by the squier, wi' the vote that you had, you could ax en to help ye to zome'hat as good, or to vind a good pleäce vor your lad." "aye, aye, but if i wer beholdèn vor bread to another," i zaid, "i should bind all my body an' soul to the nod of his head, an' gi'e up all my freedom o' mind." an' then, if my païn wer a-zet wi' my gaïn, i should paÿ vor my money, an' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet. then, if my bit o' brook that do wind so vur round, wer but his, why, he'd straïghten his bed, an' the wold stunpole woak that do stan' in my ground, shoudden long sheäde the grass wi' his head. but if i do vind jaÿ where the leaves be a-shook on the limbs, wi' their sheädes on the grass, or below, in the bow o' the withy-bound nook, that the rock-washèn water do pass, then wi' they jaÿs a-vled an' zome goold in their stead, i should pay vor my money, an' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet. no, be my lot good work, wi' the lungs well in plaÿ, an' good rest when the body do tire, vor the mind a good conscience, wi' hope or wi' jaÿ, vor the body, good lewth, an' good vire, there's noo good o' goold, but to buy what 'ull meäke vor our happiness here among men; an' who would gi'e happiness up vor the seäke o' zome money to buy it ageän? vor 'twould seem to the eyes ov a man that is wise, lik' money vor money, or zellèn woone's honey to buy zome'hat sweet. dobbin dead. _thomas_ ( ) _an' john_ ( ) _a-ta'èn o't._ . i do veel vor ye, thomas, vor i be a-feär'd you've a-lost your wold meäre then, by what i've a-heärd. . ees, my meäre is a-gone, an' the cart's in the shed wi' his wheelbonds a-rustèn, an' i'm out o' bread; vor what be my han's vor to eärn me a croust, wi' noo meäre's vower legs vor to trample the doust. . well, how did it happen? he vell vrom the brim ov a cliff, as the teäle is, an' broke ev'ry lim'. . why, i gi'ed en his run, an' he shook his wold meäne, an' he rambled a-veedèn in westergap leäne; an' there he must needs goo a-riggèn, an' crope vor a vew bleädes o' grass up the wo'st o' the slope; though i should ha' thought his wold head would ha' know'd that vor stiff lags, lik' his, the best pleäce wer the road. . an' you hadden a-kept en so short, he must clim', lik' a gwoat, vor a bleäde, at the risk ov a lim'. . noo, but there, i'm a-twold, he did clim' an' did slide, an' did screäpe, an' did slip, on the shelvèn bank-zide, an' at langth lost his vootèn, an' roll'd vrom the top, down, thump, kick, an' higgledly, piggledly, flop. . dear me, that is bad! i do veel vor your loss, vor a vew years agoo, thomas, i lost my ho'se. . how wer't? if i heärd it, i now ha' vorgot; wer the poor thing bewitch'd or a-pweison'd, or what? . he wer out, an' a-meäkèn his way to the brink o' the stream at the end o' church leäne, vor to drink; an' he met wi' zome yew-twigs the men had a-cast vrom the yew-tree, in churchyard, the road that he past. he wer pweison'd. ( .) o dear, 'tis a hard loss to bear, vor a tranter's whole bread is a-lost wi' his meäre; but ov all churches' yew-trees, i never zet eyes on a tree that would come up to thik woone vor size. . noo, 'tis long years agone, but do linger as clear in my mind though as if i'd a-heärd it to year. when king george wer in do'set, an' show'd us his feäce by our very own doors, at our very own pleäce, that he look'd at thik yew-tree, an' nodded his head, an' he zaid,--an' i'll tell ye the words that he zaid:-- "i'll be bound, if you'll sarch my dominions all drough. that you woon't vind the fellow to thik there wold yew." happiness. ah! you do seem to think the ground, where happiness is best a-vound, is where the high-peäl'd park do reach wi' elem-rows, or clumps o' beech; or where the coach do stand avore the twelve-tunn'd house's lofty door, or men can ride behin' their hounds vor miles athirt their own wide grounds, an' seldom wi' the lowly; upon the green that we do tread, below the welsh-nut's wide-limb'd head, or grass where apple trees do spread? no, so's; no, no: not high nor low: 'tis where the heart is holy. 'tis true its veet mid tread the vloor, 'ithin the marble-pillar'd door, where day do cast, in high-ruf'd halls. his light drough lofty window'd walls; an' wax-white han's do never tire wi' strokes ov heavy work vor hire, an' all that money can avword do lwoad the zilver-brighten'd bwoard: or mid be wi' the lowly, where turf's a-smwolderèn avore the back, to warm the stwonèn vloor an' love's at hwome 'ithin the door? no, so's; no, no; not high nor low: 'tis where the heart is holy. an' ceäre can come 'ithin a ring o' sworded guards, to smite a king, though he mid hold 'ithin his hands the zwarmèn vo'k o' many lands; or goo in drough the iron-geäte avore the house o' lofty steäte; or reach the miser that do smile a-buildèn up his goolden pile; or else mid smite the lowly, that have noo pow'r to loose or bind another's body, or his mind, but only hands to help mankind. if there is rest 'ithin the breast, 'tis where the heart is holy. gruffmoody grim. aye, a sad life his wife must ha' led, vor so snappish he's leätely a-come, that there's nothèn but anger or dread where he is, abroad or at hwome; he do wreak all his spite on the bwones o' whatever do vlee, or do crawl; he do quarrel wi' stocks, an' wi' stwones, an' the raïn, if do hold up or vall; there is nothèn vrom mornèn till night do come right to gruffmoody grim. woone night, in his anger, he zwore at the vier, that didden burn free: an' he het zome o't out on the vloor, vor a vlanker it cast on his knee. then he kicked it vor burnèn the child, an' het it among the cat's heaïrs; an' then beät the cat, a-run wild, wi' a spark on her back up the steaïrs: vor even the vier an' fleäme be to bleäme wi' gruffmoody grim. then he snarl'd at the tea in his cup, vor 'twer all a-got cwold in the pot, but 'twer woo'se when his wife vill'd it up vrom the vier, vor 'twer then scaldèn hot; then he growl'd that the bread wer sich stuff as noo hammer in parish could crack, an' flung down the knife in a huff; vor the edge o'n wer thicker'n the back. vor beäkers an' meäkers o' tools be all fools wi' gruffmoody grim. oone day as he vish'd at the brook, he flung up, wi' a quick-handed knack, his long line, an' his high-vleèn hook wer a-hitch'd in zome briars at his back. then he zwore at the brembles, an' prick'd his beäre hand, as he pull'd the hook free; an' ageän, in a rage, as he kick'd at the briars, wer a-scratch'd on the knee. an' he wish'd ev'ry bremble an' briar wer o' vier, did gruffmoody grim. oh! he's welcome, vor me, to breed dread wherever his sheäde mid alight, an' to live wi' noo me'th round his head, an' noo feäce wi' a smile in his zight; but let vo'k be all merry an' zing at the he'th where my own logs do burn, an' let anger's wild vist never swing in where i have a door on his durn; vor i'll be a happier man, while i can, than gruffmoody grim. to zit down by the vier at night, is my jaÿ--vor i woon't call it pride,-- wi' a brand on the bricks, all alight, an' a pile o' zome mwore at the zide. then tell me o' zome'hat that's droll, an' i'll laugh till my two zides do eäche or o' naïghbours in sorrow o' soul, an' i'll tweil all the night vor their seäke; an' show that to teäke things amiss idden bliss, to gruffmoody grim. an' then let my child clim' my lag, an' i'll lift en, wi' love, to my chin; or my maïd come an' coax me to bag vor a frock, an' a frock she shall win; or, then if my wife do meäke light o' whatever the bwoys mid ha' broke, it wull seem but so small in my zight, as a leaf a-het down vrom a woak an' not meäke me ceäper an' froth vull o' wrath, lik' gruffmoody grim. the turn o' the days. o the wings o' the rook wer a-glitterèn bright, as he wheel'd on above, in the zun's evenèn light, an' noo snow wer a-left, but in patches o' white, on the hill at the turn o' the days. an' along on the slope wer the beäre-timber'd copse, wi' the dry wood a-sheäkèn, wi' red-twiggèd tops. vor the dry-flowèn wind, had a-blow'd off the drops o' the raïn, at the turn o' the days. there the stream did run on, in the sheäde o' the hill, so smooth in his flowèn, as if he stood still, an' bright wi' the skylight, did slide to the mill, by the meäds, at the turn o' the days. an' up by the copse, down along the hill brow, wer vurrows a-cut down, by men out at plough, so straïght as the zunbeams, a-shot drough the bough o' the tree at the turn o' the days. then the boomèn wold clock in the tower did mark his vive hours, avore the cool evenèn wer dark, an' ivy did glitter a-clung round the bark o' the tree, at the turn o' the days. an' womèn a-fraïd o' the road in the night, wer a-heästenèn on to reach hwome by the light, a-castèn long sheädes on the road, a-dried white, down the hill, at the turn o' the days. the father an' mother did walk out to view the moss-bedded snow-drop, a-sprung in the lew, an' hear if the birds wer a-zingèn anew, in the boughs, at the turn o' the days. an' young vo'k a-laughèn wi' smooth glossy feäce, did hie over vields, wi' a light-vooted peäce, to friends where the tow'r did betoken a pleäce among trees, at the turn o' the days. the sparrow club. last night the merry farmers' sons, vrom biggest down to leäst, min, gi'ed in the work of all their guns, an' had their sparrow feäst, min. an' who vor woone good merry soul should goo to sheäre their me'th, min, but gammon gaÿ, a chap so droll, he'd meäke ye laugh to death, min. vor heads o' sparrows they've a-shot they'll have a prize in cwein, min, that is, if they can meäke their scot, or else they'll paÿ a fine, min. an' all the money they can teäke 's a-gather'd up there-right, min, an' spent in meat an' drink, to meäke a supper vor the night, min. zoo when they took away the cloth, in middle of their din, min, an' cups o' eäle begun to froth, below their merry chin, min. an' when the zong, by turn or chaïce, went roun' vrom tongue to tongue, min, then gammon pitch'd his merry vaïce, an' here's the zong he zung, min. _zong._ if you'll but let your clackers rest vrom jabberèn an' hootèn, i'll teäke my turn, an' do my best, to zing o' sparrow shootèn. since every woone mus' pitch his key, an' zing a zong, in coo'se, lads, why sparrow heads shall be to-day the heads o' my discoo'se, lads. we'll zend abroad our viery haïl till ev'ry foe's a-vled, lads, an' though the rogues mid all turn taïl, we'll quickly show their head, lads. in corn, or out on oben ground, in bush, or up in tree, lads, if we don't kill em, i'll be bound, we'll meäke their veathers vlee, lads. zoo let the belted spwortsmen brag when they've a-won a neäme, so's, that they do vind, or they do bag, zoo many head o' geäme, so's; vor when our cwein is woonce a-won, by heads o' sundry sizes, why, who can slight what we've a-done? we've all a-won _head_ prizes. then teäke a drap vor harmless fun, but not enough to quarrel; though where a man do like the gun, he can't but need the barrel. o' goodly feäre, avore we'll start, we'll zit an' teäke our vill, min; our supper-bill can be but short, 'tis but a sparrow-bill, min. gammony ga[:y]. oh! thik gammony gaÿ is so droll, that if he's at hwome by the he'th, or wi' vo'k out o' door, he's the soul o' the meetèn vor antics an' me'th; he do cast off the thoughts ov ill luck as the water's a-shot vrom a duck; he do zing where his naïghbours would cry he do laugh where the rest o's would sigh: noo other's so merry o' feäce, in the pleäce, as gammony gaÿ. an' o' workèn days, oh! he do wear such a funny roun' hat,--you mid know't-- wi' a brim all a-strout roun' his heäir, an' his glissenèn eyes down below't; an' a cwoat wi' broad skirts that do vlee in the wind ov his walk, round his knee; an' a peäir o' girt pockets lik' bags, that do swing an' do bob at his lags: while me'th do walk out drough the pleäce, in the feäce o' gammony gaÿ. an' if he do goo over groun' wi' noo soul vor to greet wi' his words, the feäce o'n do look up an' down, an' round en so quick as a bird's; an' if he do vall in wi' vo'k, why, tidden vor want ov a joke, if he don't zend em on vrom the pleäce wi' a smile or a grin on their feäce: an' the young wi' the wold have a-heärd a kind word vrom gammony gaÿ. an' when he do whissel or hum, 'ithout thinkèn o' what he's a-doèn, he'll beät his own lags vor a drum, an' bob his gaÿ head to the tuèn; an' then you mid zee, 'etween whiles, his feäce all alive wi' his smiles, an' his gaÿ-breathèn bozom do rise, an' his me'th do sheen out ov his eyes: an' at last to have praïse or have bleäme, is the seäme to gammony gaÿ. when he drove his wold cart out, an' broke the nut o' the wheel at a butt. there wer "woo'se things," he cried, wi' a joke. "to grieve at than crackèn a nut." an' when he tipp'd over a lwoad ov his reed-sheaves woone day on the rwoad, then he spet in his han's, out o' sleeves, an' whissel'd, an' flung up his sheaves, as very vew others can wag, eärm or lag, but gammony gaÿ. he wer wi' us woone night when the band wer a-come vor to gi'e us a hop, an' he pull'd grammer out by the hand all down drough the dance vrom the top; an' grammer did hobble an' squall, wi' gammon a-leädèn the ball; while gammon did sheäke up his knee an' his voot, an' zing "diddle-ee-dee!" an' we laugh'd ourzelves all out o' breath at the me'th o' gammony gaÿ. when our tun wer' o' vier he rod out to help us, an' meäde us sich fun, vor he clomb up to dreve in a wad o' wet thorns, to the he'th, vrom the tun; an' there he did stamp wi' his voot, to push down the thorns an' the zoot, till at last down the chimney's black wall went the wad, an' poor gammon an' all: an' seäfe on the he'th, wi' a grin on his chin pitch'd gammony gaÿ. all the house-dogs do waggle their taïls, if they do but catch zight ov his feäce; an' the ho'ses do look over raïls, an' do whicker to zee'n at the pleäce; an' he'll always bestow a good word on a cat or a whisselèn bird; an' even if culvers do coo, or an owl is a-cryèn "hoo, hoo," where he is, there's always a joke to be spoke, by gammony gaÿ. the heare. (_dree o'm a-ta'kèn o't._) ( ) there be the greyhounds! lo'k! an' there's the heäre! ( ) what houn's, the squier's, thomas? where, then, where? ( ) why, out in ash hill, near the barn, behind thik tree. ( ) the pollard? ( ) pollard! no, b'ye blind? ( ) there, i do zee em over-right thik cow. ( ) the red woone? ( ) no, a mile beyand her now. ( ) oh! there's the heäre, a-meäkèn for the drong. ( ) my goodness! how the dogs do zweep along, a-pokèn out their pweinted noses' tips. ( ) he can't allow hizzelf much time vor slips! ( ) they'll hab'en, after all, i'll bet a crown. ( ) done vor a crown. they woon't! he's gwäin to groun'. ( ) he is! ( ) he idden! ( ) ah! 'tis well his tooes ha' got noo corns, inside o' hobnaïl shoes. ( ) he's geäme a runnèn too. why, he do mwore than eärn his life. ( ) his life wer his avore. ( ) there, now the dogs wull turn en. ( ) no! he's right. ( ) he idden! ( ) ees he is! ( ) he's out o' zight. ( ) aye, aye. his mettle wull be well a-tried agwaïn down verny hill, o' tother zide. they'll have en there. ( ) o no! a vew good hops wull teäke en on to knapton lower copse. ( ) an' that's a meesh that he've a-took avore. ( ) ees, that's his hwome. ( ) he'll never reach his door. ( ) he wull. ( ) he woon't. ( ) now, hark, d'ye heär em now? ( ) o! here's a bwoy a-come athirt the brow o' knapton hill. we'll ax en. ( ) here, my bwoy! can'st tell us where's the heäre? ( ) he's got awoy. ( ) ees, got awoy, in coo'se, i never zeed a heäre a-scotèn on wi' half his speed. ( ) why, there, the dogs be wold, an' half a-done. they can't catch anything wi' lags to run. ( ) vrom vu'st to last they had but little chance o' catchèn o'n. ( ) they had a perty dance. ( ) no, catch en, no! i little thought they would; he know'd his road too well to knapton wood. ( ) no! no! i wish the squier would let me feäre on rabbits till his hounds do catch thik heäre. nanny gill. ah! they wer times, when nanny gill went so'jerèn ageänst her will, back when the king come down to view his ho'se an' voot, in red an' blue, an' they did march in rows, an' wheel in lines an' bows, below the king's own nose; an' guns did pwoint, an' swords did gleäre, a-fightèn foes that werden there. poor nanny gill did goo to zell in town her glitt'rèn macarel, a-pack'd wi' ceäre, in even lots, a-ho'seback in a peäir o' pots. an' zoo when she did ride between her panniers wide, red-cloked in all her pride, why, who but she, an' who but broke the road avore her scarlet cloke! but nanny's ho'se that she did ride, woonce carr'd a sword ageän his zide, an' had, to prick en into rank, a so'jer's spurs ageän his flank; an' zoo, when he got zight o' swords a-gleamèn bright, an' men agwaïn to fight, he set his eyes athirt the ground, an' prick'd his ears to catch the sound. then nanny gi'ed his zide a kick, an' het en wi' her limber stick; but suddenly a horn did sound, an' zend the ho'semen on vull bound; an' her ho'se at the zight went after em, vull flight, wi' nanny in a fright, a-pullèn, wi' a scream an' grin, her wold brown raïns to hold en in. but no! he went away vull bound, as vast as he could tear the ground, an' took, in line, a so'jer's pleäce, vor nanny's cloke an' frighten'd feäce; while vo'k did laugh an' shout to zee her cloke stream out, as she did wheel about, a-cryèn, "oh! la! dear!" in fright, the while her ho'se did plaÿ sham fight. moonlight on the door. a-swaÿèn slow, the poplar's head, above the slopèn thatch did ply, the while the midnight moon did shed his light below the spangled sky. an' there the road did reach avore the hatch, all vootless down the hill; an' hands, a-tired by day, wer still, wi' moonlight on the door. a-boomèn deep, did slowly sound the bell, a-tellèn middle night; the while the quiv'rèn ivy, round the tree, did sheäke in softest light. but vootless wer the stwone avore the house where i, the maïdens guest, at evenèn, woonce did zit at rest by moonlight on the door. though till the dawn, where night's a-meäde the day, the laughèn crowds be gaÿ, let evenèn zink wi' quiet sheäde, where i do hold my little swaÿ. an' childern dear to my heart's core, a-sleep wi' little heavèn breast, that pank'd by day in plaÿ, do rest wi' moonlight on the door. but still 'tis good, woonce now an' then to rove where moonlight on the land do show in vaïn, vor heedless men, the road, the vield, the work in hand. when curtains be a-hung avore the glitt'rèn windows, snowy white, an' vine-leaf sheädes do sheäke in light o' moonlight on the door. my love's guardian angel. as in the cool-aïr'd road i come by, --in the night, under the moon-clim'd height o' the sky, --in the night, there by the lime's broad lim's as i staÿ'd, dark in the moonlight, bough's sheädows plaÿ'd up on the window-glass that did keep lew vrom the wind, my true love asleep, --in the night. while in the grey-wall'd height o' the tow'r, --in the night, sounded the midnight bell wi' the hour, --in the night, there lo! a bright-heäir'd angel that shed light vrom her white robe's zilvery thread, put her vore-vinger up vor to meäke silence around lest sleepers mid weäke, --in the night. "oh! then," i whisper'd, do i behold --in the night. linda, my true-love, here in the cwold, --in the night?" "no," she meäde answer, "you do misteäke: she is asleep, but i that do weäke, here be on watch, an' angel a-blest, over her slumber while she do rest, --in the night." "zee how the winds, while here by the bough, --in the night, they do pass on, don't smite on her brow, in the night; zee how the cloud-sheädes naïseless do zweep over the house-top where she's asleep. you, too, goo by, in times that be near, you too, as i, mid speak in her ear --in the night." leeburn mill, ov all the meäds wi' shoals an' pools, where streams did sheäke the limber zedge, an' milkèn vo'k did teäke their stools, in evenèn zun-light under hedge: ov all the wears the brook did vill, or all the hatches where a sheet o' foam did leäp below woone's veet, the pleäce vor me wer leeburn mill. an' while below the mossy wheel all day the foamèn stream did roar, an' up in mill the floatèn meal did pitch upon the sheäkèn vloor. we then could vind but vew han's still, or veet a-restèn off the ground, an' seldom hear the merry sound o' geämes a-play'd at leeburn mill. but when they let the stream goo free, bezide the drippèn wheel at rest, an' leaves upon the poplar-tree wer dark avore the glowèn west; an' when the clock, a-ringèn sh'ill, did slowly beät zome evenèn hour, oh! then 'ithin the leafy bow'r our tongues did run at leeburn mill. an' when november's win' did blow, wi' hufflèn storms along the plaïn, an' blacken'd leaves did lie below the neäked tree, a-zoak'd wi' raïn, i werden at a loss to vill the darkest hour o' raïny skies, if i did vind avore my eyes the feäces down at leeburn mill. praise o' do'set. we do'set, though we mid be hwomely, be'nt asheäm'd to own our pleäce; an' we've zome women not uncomely; nor asheäm'd to show their feäce: we've a meäd or two wo'th mowèn, we've an ox or two we'th showèn, in the village, at the tillage, come along an' you shall vind that do'set men don't sheäme their kind. friend an' wife, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, happy, happy, be their life! vor do'set dear, then gi'e woone cheer; d'ye hear? woone cheer! if you in do'set be a-roamèn, an' ha' business at a farm, then woont ye zee your eäle a-foamèn! or your cider down to warm? woont ye have brown bread a-put ye, an' some vinny cheese a-cut ye? butter?--rolls o't! cream?--why bowls o't! woont ye have, in short, your vill, a-gi'ed wi' a right good will? friend an' wife, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers. happy, happy, be their life! vor do'set dear, then gi'e woone cheer; d'ye hear? woone cheer! an' woont ye have vor ev'ry shillèn, shillèn's wo'th at any shop, though do'set chaps be up to zellèn, an' can meäke a tidy swop? use em well, they'll use you better; in good turns they woont be debtor. an' so comely, an' so hwomely, be the maïdens, if your son took woone o'm, then you'd cry "well done!" friend an' wife, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, happy, happy, be their life! vor do'set dear, then gi'e woone cheer; d'ye hear? woone cheer! if you do zee our good men travel, down a-voot, or on their meäres, along the windèn leänes o' gravel, to the markets or the feäirs,-- though their ho'ses cwoats be ragged, though the men be muddy-laggèd, be they roughish, be they gruffish, they be sound, an' they will stand by what is right wi' heart an' hand. friend an' wife, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, happy, happy, be their life! vor do'set dear, then gi'e woone cheer; d'ye hear? woone cheer! poems of rural life. third collection. woone smile mwore. o! meäry, when the zun went down, woone night in spring, wi' vi'ry rim, behind thik nap wi' woody crown, an' left your smilèn feäce so dim; your little sister there, inside, wi' bellows on her little knee, did blow the vier, a-glearèn wide drough window-peänes, that i could zee,-- as you did stan' wi' me, avore the house, a-peärten,--woone smile mwore. the chatt'rèn birds, a-risèn high, an' zinkèn low, did swiftly vlee vrom shrinkèn moss, a-growèn dry, upon the leänèn apple tree. an' there the dog, a-whippèn wide his heäiry taïl, an' comèn near, did fondly lay ageän your zide his coal-black nose an' russet ear: to win what i'd a-won avore, vrom your gaÿ feäce, his woone smile mwore. an' while your mother bustled sprack, a-gettèn supper out in hall, an' cast her sheäde, a-whiv'rèn black avore the vier, upon the wall; your brother come, wi' easy peäce, in drough the slammèn geäte, along the path, wi' healthy-bloomèn feäce, a-whis'lèn shrill his last new zong; an' when he come avore the door, he met vrom you his woone smile mwore. now you that wer the daughter there, be mother on a husband's vloor, an' mid ye meet wi' less o' ceäre than what your hearty mother bore; an' if abroad i have to rue the bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed, mid i come hwome to sheäre wi' you what's needvul free o' pinchèn need: an' vind that you ha' still in store, my evenèn meal, an' woone smile mwore. the echo. about the tow'r an' churchyard wall, out nearly overright our door, a tongue ov wind did always call whatever we did call avore. the vaïce did mock our neämes, our cheers, our merry laughs, our hands' loud claps, an' mother's call "come, come, my dears" --_my dears_; or "do as i do bid, bad chaps" --_bad chaps_. an' when o' zundays on the green, in frocks an' cwoats as gaÿ as new, we walk'd wi' shoes a-meäde to sheen so black an' bright's a vull-ripe slooe we then did hear the tongue ov aïr a-mockèn mother's vaïce so thin, "come, now the bell do goo vor praÿ'r" --_vor pray'r_; "'tis time to goo to church; come in" --_come in_. the night when little anne, that died, begun to zickèn, back in maÿ, an' she, at dusk ov evenèn-tide, wer out wi' others at their plaÿ, within the churchyard that do keep her little bed, the vaïce o' thin dark aïr, mock'd mother's call "to sleep" --_to sleep_; "'tis bed time now, my love, come in" --_come in_. an' when our jeäne come out so smart a-married, an' we help'd her in to henry's newly-païnted cart, the while the wheels begun to spin, an' her gaÿ nods, vor all she smil'd, did sheäke a tear-drop vrom each eye, the vaïce mock'd mother's call, "dear child" --_dear child_; "god bless ye evermwore; good bye" --_good bye_. vull a man. no, i'm a man, i'm vull a man, you beät my manhood, if you can. you'll be a man if you can teäke all steätes that household life do meäke. the love-toss'd child, a-croodlèn loud, the bwoy a-screamèn wild in plaÿ, the tall grown youth a-steppèn proud, the father staïd, the house's staÿ. no; i can boast if others can, i'm vull a man. a young-cheäk'd mother's tears mid vall, when woone a-lost, not half man-tall, vrom little hand, a-called vrom plaÿ, do leäve noo tool, but drop a taÿ, an' die avore he's father-free to sheäpe his life by his own plan; an' vull an angel he shall be, but here on e'th not vull a man, no; i could boast if others can, i'm vull a man. i woonce, a child, wer father-fed, an' i've a vound my childern bread; my eärm, a sister's trusty crook, is now a faïthvul wife's own hook; an' i've a-gone where vo'k did zend, an' gone upon my own free mind, an' of'en at my own wits' end. a-led o' god while i wer blind. no; i could boast if others can i'm vull a man. an' still, ov all my tweil ha' won, my lovèn maïd an' merry son, though each in turn's a jaÿ an' ceäre, 've a-had, an' still shall have, their sheäre: an' then, if god should bless their lives, why i mid zend vrom son to son my life, right on drough men an' wives, as long, good now, as time do run. no; i could boast if others can, i'm vull a man. naighbour pla[:y]meÄtes. o jaÿ betide the dear wold mill, my naïghbour plaÿmeätes' happy hwome, wi' rollèn wheel, an' leäpèn foam, below the overhangèn hill, where, wide an' slow, the stream did flow, an' flags did grow, an' lightly vlee below the grey-leav'd withy tree, while clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour, wi' whirlèn stwone, an' streamèn flour, did goo the mill by cloty stour. an' there in geämes by evenèn skies, when meäry zot her down to rest, the broach upon her pankèn breast, did quickly vall an' lightly rise, while swans did zwim in steätely trim. an' swifts did skim the water, bright wi' whirlèn froth, in western light; an' clack, clack, clack, that happy hour, wi' whirlèn stwone, an' streamèn flour, did goo the mill by cloty stour. now mortery jeints, in streaks o' white, along the geärdèn wall do show in maÿ, an' cherry boughs do blow, wi' bloomèn tutties, snowy white, where rollèn round, wi' rumblèn sound, the wheel woonce drown'd the vaïce so dear to me. i faïn would goo to hear the clack, clack, clack, vor woone short hour, wi' whirlèn stwone, an' streamèn flour, bezide the mill on cloty stour. but should i vind a-heavèn now her breast wi' aïr o' thik dear pleäce? or zee dark locks by such a brow, or het o' plaÿ on such a feäce? no! she's now staïd, an' where she plaÿ'd, there's noo such maïd that now ha' took the pleäce that she ha' long vorsook, though clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour, wi' whirlèn stwone an' streamèn flour, do goo the mill by cloty stour. an' still the pulley rwope do heist the wheat vrom red-wheeled waggon beds. an' ho'ses there wi' lwoads of grist, do stand an' toss their heavy heads; but on the vloor, or at the door, do show noo mwore the kindly feäce her father show'd about the pleäce, as clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour, wi' whirlèn stwone, an' streamèn flour, did goo his mill by cloty stour. the lark. as i, below the mornèn sky, wer out a workèn in the lew o' black-stemm'd thorns, a-springèn high, avore the worold-boundèn blue, a-reäkèn, under woak tree boughs, the orts a-left behin' by cows. above the grey-grow'd thistle rings, an' deäisy-buds, the lark, in flight, did zing a-loft, wi' flappèn wings, tho' mwore in heärèn than in zight; the while my bwoys, in plaÿvul me'th, did run till they wer out o' breath. then woone, wi' han'-besheäded eyes, a-stoppèn still, as he did run, look'd up to zee the lark arise a-zingèn to the high-gone zun; the while his brother look'd below vor what the groun' mid have to show zoo woone did watch above his head the bird his hands could never teäke; an' woone, below, where he did tread, vound out the nest within the breäke; but, aggs be only woonce a-vound, an' uncaught larks ageän mid sound. the two churches. a happy day, a happy year. a zummer zunday, dazzlèn clear, i went athirt vrom lea to noke. to goo to church wi' fanny's vo'k: the sky o' blue did only show a cloud or two, so white as snow, an' aïr did swaÿ, wi' softest strokes, the eltrot roun' the dark-bough'd woaks. o day o' rest when bells do toll! o day a-blest to ev'ry soul! how sweet the zwells o' zunday bells. an' on the cowslip-knap at creech, below the grove o' steätely beech, i heärd two tow'rs a-cheemèn clear, vrom woone i went, to woone drew near, as they did call, by flow'ry ground, the bright-shod veet vrom housen round, a-drownèn wi' their holy call, the goocoo an' the water-vall. die off, o bells o' my dear pleäce, ring out, o bells avore my feäce, vull sweet your zwells, o ding-dong bells. ah! then vor things that time did bring my kinsvo'k, _lea_ had bells to ring; an' then, ageän, vor what bevell my wife's, why _noke_ church had a bell; but soon wi' hopevul lives a-bound in woone, we had woone tower's sound, vor our high jaÿs all vive bells rung our losses had woone iron tongue. oh! ring all round, an' never mwoän so deep an' slow woone bell alwone, vor sweet your swells o' vive clear bells. woak hill. when sycamore leaves wer a-spreadèn, green-ruddy, in hedges, bezide the red doust o' the ridges, a-dried at woak hill; i packed up my goods all a-sheenèn wi' long years o' handlèn, on dousty red wheels ov a waggon, to ride at woak hill. the brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellèn, i then wer a-leävèn, had shelter'd the sleek head o' meäry, my bride at woak hill. but now vor zome years, her light voot-vall 's a-lost vrom the vloorèn. too soon vor my jaÿ an' my childern, she died at woak hill. but still i do think that, in soul, she do hover about us; to ho vor her motherless childern, her pride at woak hill. zoo--lest she should tell me hereafter i stole off 'ithout her, an' left her, uncall'd at house-riddèn, to bide at woak hill-- i call'd her so fondly, wi' lippèns all soundless to others, an' took her wi' aïr-reachèn hand, to my zide at woak hill. on the road i did look round, a-talkèn to light at my shoulder, an' then led her in at the door-way, miles wide vrom woak hill. an' that's why vo'k thought, vor a season, my mind wer a-wandrèn wi' sorrow, when i wer so sorely a-tried at woak hill. but no; that my meäry mid never behold herzelf slighted, i wanted to think that i guided my guide vrom woak hill. the hedger. upon the hedge theäse bank did bear, wi' lwonesome thought untwold in words, i woonce did work, wi' noo sound there but my own strokes, an' chirpèn birds; as down the west the zun went wan, an' days brought on our zunday's rest, when sounds o' cheemèn bells did vill the aïr, an' hook an' axe wer stïll. along the wold town-path vo'k went, an' met unknown, or friend wi' friend, the maïd her busy mother zent, the mother wi' noo maïd to zend; an' in the light the gleäzier's glass, as he did pass, wer dazzlèn bright, or woone went by wï' down-cast head, a wrapp'd in blackness vor the dead. an' then the bank, wi' risèn back, that's now a-most a-troddèn down, bore thorns wi' rind o' sheeny black, an' meäple stems o' ribby brown; an' in the lewth o' theäse tree heads, wer primrwose beds a-sprung in blooth, an' here a geäte, a-slammèn to, did let the slow-wheel'd plough roll drough. ov all that then went by, but vew be now a-left behine', to beät the mornèn flow'rs or evenèn dew, or slam the woakèn vive-bar'd geäte; but woone, my wife, so litty-stepp'd, that have a-kept my path o' life, wi' her vew errands on the road, where woonce she bore her mother's lwoad. in the spring. my love is the maïd ov all maïdens, though all mid be comely, her skin's lik' the jessamy blossom a-spread in the spring. her smile is so sweet as a beäby's young smile on his mother, her eyes be as bright as the dew drop a-shed in the spring. o grey-leafy pinks o' the geärden, now bear her sweet blossoms; now deck wi' a rwose-bud, o briar. her head in the spring. o light-rollèn wind blow me hither, the väice ov her talkèn, or bring vrom her veet the light doust, she do tread in the spring. o zun, meäke the gil'cups all glitter, in goold all around her; an' meäke o' the deäisys' white flowers a bed in the spring. o whissle gaÿ birds, up bezide her, in drong-waÿ, an' woodlands, o zing, swingèn lark, now the clouds, be a-vled in the spring. an' who, you mid ax, be my praïses a-meäkèn so much o', an' oh! 'tis the maïd i'm a-hopèn to wed in the spring. the flood in spring. last night below the elem in the lew bright the sky did gleam on water blue, while aïr did softly blow on the flowèn stream, an' there wer gil'cups' buds untwold, an' deäisies that begun to vwold their low-stemm'd blossoms vrom my zight ageän the night, an' evenèn's cwold. but, oh! so cwold below the darksome cloud soon the night-wind roar'd, wi' raïny storms that zent the zwollèn streams over ev'ry vword. the while the drippèn tow'r did tell the hour, wi' storm-be-smother'd bell, an' over ev'ry flower's bud roll'd on the flood, 'ithin the dell. but when the zun arose, an' lik' a rwose shone the mornèn sky; an' roun' the woak, the wind a-blowèn weak, softly whiver'd by. though drown'd wer still the deaïsy bed below the flood, its feäce instead o' flow'ry grown', below our shoes show'd feäirest views o' skies o'er head. an' zoo to try if all our faïth is true jaÿ mid end in tears, an' hope, woonce feäir, mid saddèn into fear, here in e'thly years. but he that tried our soul do know to meäke us good amends, an' show instead o' things a-took awaÿ, some higher jaÿ that he'll bestow. comen hwome. as clouds did ride wi' heästy flight. an' woods did swäy upon the height, an' bleädes o' grass did sheäke, below the hedge-row bremble's swingèn bow, i come back hwome where winds did zwell, in whirls along the woody gleädes, on primrwose beds, in windy sheädes, to burnley's dark-tree'd dell. there hills do screen the timber's bough, the trees do screen the leäze's brow, the timber-sheäded leäze do bear a beäten path that we do wear. the path do stripe the leäze's zide, to willows at the river's edge. where hufflèn winds did sheäke the zedge an' sparklèn weäves did glide. an' where the river, bend by bend, do dräin our meäd, an' mark its end, the hangèn leäze do teäke our cows, an' trees do sheäde em wi' their boughs, an' i the quicker beät the road, to zee a-comèn into view, still greener vrom the sky-line's blue, wold burnley our abode. grammer a-crippled. "the zunny copse ha' birds to zing, the leäze ha' cows to low, the elem trees ha' rooks on wing, the meäds a brook to flow, but i can walk noo mwore, to pass the drashel out abrode, to wear a path in theäse year's grass or tread the wheelworn road," cried grammer, "then adieu, o runnèn brooks, an' vleèn rooks, i can't come out to you. if 'tis god's will, why then 'tis well, that i should bide 'ithin a wall." an' then the childern, wild wi' fun, an' loud wi' jaÿvul sounds, sprung in an' cried, "we had a run, a-plaÿèn heäre an' hounds; but oh! the cowslips where we stopt in maÿcreech, on the knap!" an' vrom their little han's each dropt some cowslips in her lap. cried grammer, "only zee! i can't teäke strolls, an' little souls would bring the vields to me. since 'tis god's will, an' mus' be well that i should bide 'ithin a wall." "oh! there be prison walls to hold the han's o' lawless crimes, an' there be walls arear'd vor wold an' zick in tryèn times; but oh! though low mid slant my ruf, though hard my lot mid be, though dry mid come my daily lwoaf, mid mercy leäve me free!" cried grammer, "or adieu to jaÿ; o grounds, an' bird's gaÿ sounds if i mus' gi'e up you, although 'tis well, in god's good will, that i should bide 'ithin a wall." "oh! then," we answer'd, "never fret, if we shall be a-blest, we'll work vull hard drough het an' wet to keep your heart at rest: to woaken chair's vor you to vill, for you shall glow the coal, an' when the win' do whissle sh'ill we'll screen it vrom your poll." cried grammer, "god is true. i can't but feel he smote to heal my wounded heart in you; an' zoo 'tis well, if 'tis his will, that i be here 'ithin a wall." the castle ruins. a happy day at whitsuntide, as soon's the zun begun to vall, we all stroll'd up the steep hill-zide to meldon, girt an' small; out where the castle wall stood high a-mwoldrèn to the zunny sky. an' there wi' jenny took a stroll her youngest sister, poll, so gaÿ, bezide john hind, ah! merry soul, an' mid her wedlock faÿ; an' at our zides did play an' run my little maïd an' smaller son. above the beäten mwold upsprung the driven doust, a-spreadën light, an' on the new-leav'd thorn, a-hung, wer wool a-quiv'rèn white; an' corn, a sheenèn bright, did bow, on slopèn meldon's zunny brow. there, down the rufless wall did glow the zun upon the grassy vloor, an' weakly-wandrèn winds did blow, unhinder'd by a door; an' smokeless now avore the zun did stan' the ivy-girded tun. my bwoy did watch the daws' bright wings a-flappèn vrom their ivy bow'rs; my wife did watch my maïd's light springs, out here an' there vor flow'rs; and john did zee noo tow'rs, the pleäce vor him had only polly's feäce. an' there, of all that pried about the walls, i overlook'd em best, an' what o' that? why, i meäde out noo mwore than all the rest: that there wer woonce the nest of zome that wer a-gone avore we come. when woonce above the tun the smoke did wreathy blue among the trees, an' down below, the livèn vo'k, did tweil as brisk as bees; or zit wi' weary knees, the while the sky wer lightless to their tweil. [gothic: eclogue.] john, jealous at shroton feÄir. _jeäne; her brother; john, her sweetheart; and racketèn joe_ jeÄne. i'm thankvul i be out o' that thick crowd, an' not asquot quite flat. that ever we should plunge in where the vo'k do drunge so tight's the cheese-wring on the veät! i've sca'ce a thing a-left in pleäce. 'tis all a-tore vrom pin an' leäce. my bonnet's like a wad, a-beät up to a dod, an' all my heäir's about my feäce. her brother. here, come an' zit out here a bit, an' put yourzelf to rights. john. no, jeäne; no, no! now you don't show the very wo'st o' plights. her brother. come, come, there's little harm adone; your hoops be out so roun's the zun. john. an' there's your bonnet back in sheäpe. her brother. an' there's your pin, and there's your ceäpe. john. an' there your curls do match, an' there 's the vittiest maïd in all the feäir. jeÄne. now look, an' tell us who's a-spied vrom sturminster, or manston zide. her brother. there's rantèn joe! how he do stalk, an' zwang his whip, an' laugh, an' talk! john. an' how his head do wag, avore his steppèn lag. jist like a pigeon's in a walk! her brother. heigh! there, then, joey, ben't we proud jeÄne. he can't hear you among the crowd. her brother. why, no, the thunder peals do drown the sound o' wheels. his own pipe is a-pitched too loud. what, you here too? racketÈn joe. yes, sir, to you. all o' me that's a-left. jeÄne. a body plump's a goodish lump where reämes ha' such a heft. john. who lost his crown a-racèn? racketÈn joe. who? zome silly chap abackèn you. well, now, an' how do vo'k treat jeäne? jeÄne. why not wi' feärèns. racketÈn joe. what d'ye meän, when i've a-brought ye such a bunch o' theäse nice ginger-nuts to crunch? an' here, john, here! you teäke a vew. john. no, keep em all vor jeäne an' you! racketÈn joe. well, jeäne, an' when d'ye meän to come an' call on me, then, up at hwome. you han't a-come athirt, since i'd my voot a-hurt, a-slippèn vrom the tree i clomb. jeÄne. well, if so be that you be stout on voot ageän, you'll vind me out. john. aye, better chaps woont goo, not many steps vor you, if you do hawk yourzelf about. racketÈn joe. wull john, come too? john. no, thanks to you. two's company, dree's nwone. her brother. there don't be stung by his mad tongue, 'tis nothèn else but fun. jeÄne. there, what d'ye think o' my new ceäpe? john. why, think that 'tis an ugly sheäpe. jeÄne. then you should buy me, now theäse feäir, a mwore becomèn woone to wear. john. i buy your ceäpe! no; joe wull screäpe up dibs enough to buy your ceäpe. as things do look, to meäke you fine is long joe's business mwore than mine. jeÄne. lauk, john, the mwore that you do pout the mwore he'll gl[=e]ne. john. a yelpèn lout. early pla[:y]meÄte. after many long years had a-run, the while i wer a-gone vrom the pleäce, i come back to the vields, where the zun ov her childhood did show me her feäce. there her father, years wolder, did stoop. an' her brother, wer now a-grow'd staïd, an' the apple tree lower did droop. out in the orcha'd where we had a-plaÿ'd, there wer zome things a-seemèn the seäme, but meäry's a-married awaÿ. there wer two little childern a-zent, wi' a message to me, oh! so feaïr as the mother that they did zoo ment, when in childhood she plaÿ'd wi' me there. zoo they twold me that if i would come down to coomb, i should zee a wold friend, vor a plaÿmeäte o' mine wer at hwome, an' would staÿ till another week's end. at the dear pworchèd door, could i dare to zee meäry a-married awaÿ! on the flower-not, now all a-trod stwony hard, the green grass wer a-spread, an' the long-slighted woodbine did nod vrom the wall, wi' a loose-hangèn head. an' the martin's clay nest wer a-hung up below the brown oves, in the dry, an' the rooks had a-rock'd broods o' young on the elems below the maÿ sky; but the bud on the bed, coulden bide, wi' young meäry a-married awaÿ. there the copse-wood, a-grow'd to a height, wer a-vell'd, an' the primrwose in blooth, among chips on the ground a-turn'd white, wer a-quiv'rèn, all beäre ov his lewth. the green moss wer a-spread on the thatch, that i left yollow reed, an' avore the small green, there did swing a new hatch, vor to let me walk into the door. oh! the rook did still rock o'er the rick, but wi' meäry a-married awaÿ. picken o' scroff. oh! the wood wer a-vell'd in the copse, an' the moss-bedded primrwose did blow; an' vrom tall-stemmèd trees' leafless tops, there did lie but slight sheädes down below. an' the sky wer a-showèn, in drough by the tree-stems, the deepest o' blue, wi' a light that did vall on an' off the dry ground, a-strew'd over wi' scroff. there the hedge that wer leätely so high, wer a-plush'd, an' along by the zide, where the waggon 'd a-haul'd the wood by, there did reach the deep wheelrouts, a-dried. an' the groun' wi' the sticks wer bespread, zome a-cut off alive, an' zome dead. an' vor burnèn, well wo'th reäkèn off, by the childern a-pickèn o' scroff. in the tree-studded leäze, where the woak wer a-spreadèn his head out around, there the scrags that the wind had a-broke, wer a-lyèn about on the ground or the childern, wi' little red hands, wer a-tyèn em up in their bands; vor noo squier or farmer turn'd off little childern a-pickèn o' scroff. there wer woone bloomèn child wi' a cloak on her shoulders, as green as the ground; an' another, as gray as the woak, wi' a bwoy in a brown frock, a-brown'd. an' woone got up, in plaÿ, vor to taït, on a woak-limb, a-growèn out straïght. but she soon wer a-taïted down off, by her meätes out a-pickèn o' scroff. when they childern do grow to staïd vo'k, an' goo out in the worold, all wide vrom the copse, an' the zummerleäze woak, where at last all their elders ha' died, they wull then vind it touchèn to bring, to their minds, the sweet springs o' their spring, back avore the new vo'k did turn off the poor childern a-pickèn o' scroff. good night. while down the meäds wound slow, water vor green-wheel'd mills, over the streams bright bow, win' come vrom dark-back'd hills. birds on the win' shot along down steep slopes, wi' a swift-swung zweep. dim weän'd the red streak'd west lim'-weary souls "good rest." up on the plough'd hill brow, still wer the zull's wheel'd beam, still wer the red-wheel'd plough, free o' the strong limb'd team, still wer the shop that the smith meäde ring, dark where the sparks did spring; low shot the zun's last beams. lim'-weary souls "good dreams." where i vrom dark bank-sheädes turn'd up the west hill road, where all the green grass bleädes under the zunlight glow'd. startled i met, as the zunbeams play'd light, wi' a zunsmote maïd, come vor my day's last zight, zun-brighten'd maïd "good night." went hwome. upon the slope, the hedge did bound the yield wi' blossom-whited zide, an' charlock patches, yollow-dyed, did reach along the white-soil'd ground, an' vo'k, a-comèn up vrom meäd, brought gil'cup meal upon the shoe; or went on where the road did leäd, wi' smeechy doust from heel to tooe. as noon did smite, wi' burnèn light, the road so white, to meldonley. an' i did tramp the zun-dried ground, by hedge-climb'd hills, a-spread wi' flow'rs, an' watershootèn dells, an' tow'rs, by elem-trees a-hemm'd all round, to zee a vew wold friends, about wold meldon, where i still ha' zome, that bid me speed as i come out, an' now ha' bid me welcome hwome, as i did goo, while skies wer blue, vrom view to view, to meldonley. an' there wer timber'd knaps, that show'd cool sheädes, vor rest, on grassy ground, an' thatch-brow'd windows, flower-bound, where i could wish wer my abode. i pass'd the maïd avore the spring, an' shepherd by the thornèn tree; an' heärd the merry dréver zing, but met noo kith or kin to me, till i come down, vrom meldon's crown to rufs o' brown, at meldonley. the hollow woak. the woaken tree, so hollow now, to souls ov other times wer sound, an' reach'd on ev'ry zide a bough above their heads, a-gather'd round, but zome light veet that here did meet in friendship sweet, vor rest or jaÿ, shall be a-miss'd another maÿ. my childern here, in plaÿvul pride did zit 'ithin his wooden walls, a-mentèn steätely vo'k inside o' castle towers an' lofty halls. but now the vloor an' mossy door that woonce they wore would be too small to teäke em in, so big an' tall. theäse year do show, wi' snow-white cloud, an' deäsies in a sprinkled bed, an' green-bough birds a-whislèn loud, the looks o' zummer days a-vled; an' grass do grow, an' men do mow, an' all do show the wold times' feäce wi' new things in the wold things' pleäce. childern's childern. oh! if my ling'rèn life should run, drough years a-reckoned ten by ten, below the never-tirèn zun, till beäbes ageän be wives an' men; an' stillest deafness should ha' bound my ears, at last, vrom ev'ry sound; though still my eyes in that sweet light, should have the zight o' sky an' ground: would then my steäte in time so leäte, be jaÿ or païn, be païn or jaÿ? when zunday then, a-weänèn dim, as theäse that now's a-clwosèn still, mid lose the zun's down-zinkèn rim, in light behind the vier-bound hill; an' when the bells' last peal's a-rung, an' i mid zee the wold an' young a-vlockèn by, but shoulden hear, however near, a voot or tongue: mid zuch a zight, in that soft light be jaÿ or païn, be païn or jaÿ. if i should zee among em all, in merry youth, a-glidèn by, my son's bwold son, a-grown man-tall, or daughter's daughter, woman-high; an' she mid smile wi' your good feäce, or she mid walk your comely peäce, but seem, although a-chattèn loud, so dumb's a cloud, in that bright pleäce: would youth so feäir, a-passèn there, be jaÿ or païn, be païn or jaÿ. 'tis seldom strangth or comeliness do leäve us long. the house do show men's sons wi' mwore, as they ha' less, an' daughters brisk, vor mothers slow. a dawn do clear the night's dim sky, woone star do zink, an' woone goo high, an' livèn gifts o' youth do vall, vrom girt to small, but never die: an' should i view, what god mid do, wi' jaÿ or païn, wi' païn or jaÿ? the rwose in the dark. in zummer, leäte at evenèn tide, i zot to spend a moonless hour 'ithin the window, wi' the zide a-bound wi' rwoses out in flow'r, bezide the bow'r, vorsook o' birds, an' listen'd to my true-love's words. a-risèn to her comely height, she push'd the swingèn ceäsement round; and i could hear, beyond my zight, the win'-blow'd beech-tree softly sound, on higher ground, a-swayèn slow, on drough my happy hour below. an' tho' the darkness then did hide the dewy rwose's blushèn bloom, he still did cast sweet aïr inside to jeäne, a-chattèn in the room; an' though the gloom did hide her feäce, her words did bind me to the pleäce. an' there, while she, wi' runnèn tongue, did talk unzeen 'ithin the hall, i thought her like the rwose that flung his sweetness vrom his darken'd ball, 'ithout the wall, an' sweet's the zight ov her bright feäce by mornèn light. come. wull ye come in eärly spring, come at easter, or in maÿ? or when whitsuntide mid bring longer light to show your waÿ? wull ye come, if you be true, vor to quicken love anew. wull ye call in spring or fall? come now soon by zun or moon? wull ye come? come wi' vaïce to vaïce the while all their words be sweet to hear; come that feäce to feäce mid smile, while their smiles do seem so dear; come within the year to seek woone you have sought woonce a week? come while flow'rs be on the bow'rs. and the bird o' zong's a-heärd. wull ye come? ees come _to_ ye, an' come _vor_ ye, is my word, i wull come. zummer winds. let me work, but mid noo tie hold me vrom the oben sky, when zummer winds, in plaÿsome flight, do blow on vields in noon-day light, or ruslèn trees, in twilight night. sweet's a stroll, by flow'ry knowl, or blue-feäcèd pool that zummer win's do ruffle cool. when the moon's broad light do vill plaïns, a-sheenèn down the hill; a-glitterèn on window glass, o then, while zummer win's do pass the rippled brook, an' swaÿèn grass, sweet's a walk, where we do talk, wi' feäces bright, in whispers in the peacevul night. when the swaÿèn men do mow flow'ry grass, wi' zweepèn blow, in het a-most enough to dry the flat-spread clote-leaf that do lie upon the stream a-stealèn by, sweet's their rest, upon the breast o' knap or mound out where the goocoo's vaïce do sound. where the sleek-heäir'd maïd do zit out o' door to zew or knit, below the elem where the spring 's a-runnèn, an' the road do bring the people by to hear her zing, on the green, where she's a-zeen, an' she can zee, o gaÿ is she below the tree. come, o zummer wind, an' bring sounds o' birds as they do zing, an' bring the smell o' bloomèn maÿ, an' bring the smell o' new-mow'd haÿ; come fan my feäce as i do straÿ, fan the heäir o' jessie feäir; fan her cool, by the weäves o' stream or pool. the neÄme letters. when high-flown larks wer on the wing, a warm-aïr'd holiday in spring, we stroll'd, 'ithout a ceäre or frown, up roun' the down at meldonley; an' where the hawthorn-tree did stand alwone, but still wi' mwore at hand, we zot wi' sheädes o' clouds on high a-flittèn by, at meldonley. an' there, the while the tree did sheäde their gigglèn heads, my knife's keen bleäde carved out, in turf avore my knee, j. l., *t. d., at meldonley. 'twer jessie lee j. l. did meän, t. d. did stan' vor thomas deäne; the "l" i scratch'd but slight, vor he mid soon be d, at meldonley. an' when the vields o' wheat did spread vrom hedge to hedge in sheets o' red. an' bennets wer a-sheäkèn brown. upon the down at meldonley, we stroll'd ageän along the hill, an' at the hawthorn-tree stood still, to zee j. l. vor jessie lee, an' my t. d., at meldonley. the grey-poll'd bennet-stems did hem each half-hid letter's zunken rim, by leädy's-vingers that did spread in yollow red, at meldonley. an' heärebells there wi' light blue bell shook soundless on the letter l, to ment the bells when l vor lee become a d at meldonley. vor jessie, now my wife, do strive wi' me in life, an' we do thrive; two sleek-heäired meäres do sprackly pull my waggon vull, at meldonley; an' small-hoof'd sheep, in vleeces white, wi' quickly-pankèn zides, do bite my thymy grass, a-mark'd vor me in black, t. d., at meldonley. the new house a-gettÈn wold. ah! when our wedded life begun, theäse clean-wall'd house of ours wer new; wi' thatch as yollor as the zun avore the cloudless sky o' blue; the sky o' blue that then did bound the blue-hilled worold's flow'ry ground. an' we've a-vound it weather-brown'd, as spring-tide blossoms oben'd white, or fall did shed, on zunburnt ground, red apples from their leafy height: their leafy height, that winter soon left leafless to the cool-feäced moon. an' raïn-bred moss ha' staïn'd wi' green the smooth-feäced wall's white-morter'd streaks, the while our childern zot between our seats avore the fleäme's red peaks: the fleäme's red peaks, till axan white did quench em vor the long-sleep'd night. the bloom that woonce did overspread your rounded cheäk, as time went by, a-shrinkèn to a patch o' red, did feäde so soft's the evenèn sky: the evenèn sky, my faithful wife, o' days as feäir's our happy life. zunday. in zummer, when the sheädes do creep below the zunday steeple, round the mossy stwones, that love cut deep wi' neämes that tongues noo mwore do sound, the leäne do lose the stalkèn team, an' dry-rimm'd waggon-wheels be still, an' hills do roll their down-shot stream below the restèn wheel at mill. o holy day, when tweil do ceäse, sweet day o' rest an' greäce an' peäce! the eegrass, vor a while unwrung by hoof or shoe, 's a sheenèn bright, an' clover flowers be a-sprung on new-mow'd knaps in beds o' white, an' sweet wild rwoses, up among the hedge-row boughs, do yield their smells. to aïer that do bear along the loud-rung peals o' zunday bells, upon the day o' days the best, the day o' greäce an' peäce an' rest. by brightshod veet, in peäir an' peäir, wi' comely steps the road's a-took to church, an' work-free han's do beär woone's walkèn stick or sister's book; an' there the bloomèn niece do come to zee her aunt, in all her best; or married daughter do bring hwome her vu'st sweet child upon her breast, as she do seek the holy pleäce, the day o' rest an' peäce an' greäce. the pillar'd geÄte. as i come by, zome years agoo, a-burnt below a sky o' blue, 'ithin the pillar'd geäte there zung a vaïce a-soundèn sweet an' young, that meäde me veel awhile to zwim in weäves o' jaÿ to hear its hymn; vor all the zinger, angel-bright, wer then a-hidden vrom my zight, an' i wer then too low to seek a meäte to match my steäte 'ithin the lofty-pillar'd geäte, wi' stwonèn balls upon the walls: oh, no! my heart, no, no. another time as i come by the house, below a dark-blue sky, the pillar'd geäte wer oben wide, an' who should be a-show'd inside, but she, the comely maïd whose hymn woonce meäde my giddy braïn to zwim, a-zittèn in the sheäde to zew, a-clad in robes as white as snow. what then? could i so low look out a meäte ov higher steäte so gaÿ 'ithin a pillar'd geäte, wi' high walls round the smooth-mow'd ground? oh, no! my heart, no, no. long years stole by, a-glidèn slow, wi' winter cwold an' zummer glow, an' she wer then a widow, clad in grey; but comely, though so sad; her husband, heartless to his bride, spent all her store an' wealth, an' died, though she noo mwore could now rejaïce, yet sweet did sound her zongless vaïce. but had she, in her woe, the higher steäte she had o' leäte 'ithin the lofty pillar'd geäte, wi' stwonèn balls upon the walls? oh, no! my heart, no, no. but while she vell, my meäker's greäce led me to teäke a higher pleäce, an' lighten'd up my mind wi' lore, an' bless'd me wi' a worldly store; but still noo winsome feäce or vaïce, had ever been my wedded chaïce; an' then i thought, why do i mwope alwone without a jaÿ or hope? would she still think me low? or scorn a meäte, in my feäir steäte, in here 'ithin a pillar'd geäte, a happy pleäce wi' her kind feäce? oh, no! my hope, no, no. i don't stand out 'tis only feäte do gi'e to each his wedded meäte; but eet there's woone above the rest, that every soul can like the best. an' my wold love's a-kindled new, an' my wold dream's a-come out true; but while i had noo soul to sheäre my good an' ill, an' jäy an ceäre, should i have bliss below, in gleämèn pleäte an' lofty steäte 'ithin the lofty pillar'd geäte, wi' feäirest flow'rs, an' ponds an' tow'rs? oh, no! my heart, no, no. zummer stream. ah! then the grassy-meäded maÿ did warm the passèn year, an' gleam upon the yellow-grounded stream, that still by beech-tree sheädes do straÿ. the light o' weäves, a-runnèn there, did plaÿ on leaves up over head, an' vishes sceäly zides did gleäre, a-dartèn on the shallow bed, an' like the stream a-slidèn on, my zun out-measur'd time's agone. there by the path, in grass knee-high, wer buttervlees in giddy flight, all white above the deäisies white, or blue below the deep blue sky. then glowèn warm wer ev'ry brow, o' maïd, or man, in zummer het, an' warm did glow the cheäks i met that time, noo mwore to meet em now. as brooks, a-slidèn on their bed, my season-measur'd time's a-vled. vrom yonder window, in the thatch, did sound the maïdens' merry words, as i did stand, by zingèn birds, bezide the elem-sheäded hatch. 'tis good to come back to the pleäce, back to the time, to goo noo mwore; 'tis good to meet the younger feäce a-mentèn others here avore. as streams do glide by green mead-grass, my zummer-brighten'd years do pass. linda deÄne. the bright-tunn'd house, a-risèn proud, stood high avore a zummer cloud, an' windy sheädes o' tow'rs did vall upon the many-window'd wall; an' on the grassy terrace, bright wi' white-bloom'd zummer's deaïsy beds, an' snow-white lilies noddèn heads, sweet linda deäne did walk in white; but ah! avore too high a door, wer linda deäne ov ellendon. when sparklèn brooks an' grassy ground, by keen-aïr'd winter's vrost wer bound, an' star-bright snow did streak the forms o' beäre-lim'd trees in darksome storms, sweet linda deäne did lightly glide, wi' snow-white robe an' rwosy feäce, upon the smooth-vloor'd hall, to treäce the merry dance o' chris'mas tide; but oh! not mine be balls so fine as linda deäne's at ellendon. sweet linda deäne do match the skies wi' sheenèn blue o' glisnèn eyes, an' feaïrest blossoms do but show her forehead's white, an' feäce's glow; but there's a winsome jaÿ above, the brightest hues ov e'th an' skies. the dearest zight o' many eyes, would be the smile o' linda's love; but high above my lowly love is linda deäne ov ellendon. [gothic: eclogue.] come and zee us in the zummer. _john; william; william's bwoy; and william's maïd at feäir._ john. zoo here be your childern, a-sheärèn your feäir-day, an' each wi' a feäirèn. william. aye, well, there's noo peace 'ithout comèn to stannèn an' show, in the zummer. john. an' how is your jeäne? still as merry as ever, wi' cheäks lik' a cherry? william. still merry, but beauty's as feädesome 's the raïn's glowèn bow in the zummer. john. well now, i do hope we shall vind ye come soon, wi' your childern behind ye, to stowe, while o' bwoth zides o' hedges, the zunsheen do glow in the zummer. william. well, aye, when the mowèn is over, an' ee-grass do whiten wi' clover. a man's a-tired out, vor much walken, the while he do mow in the zummer. william's bwoy. i'll goo, an' we'll zet up a wicket, an' have a good innèns at cricket; an' teäke a good plounce in the water. where clote-leaves do grow in the zummer. william's maid. i'll goo, an' we'll play "thread the needle" or "huntèn the slipper," or wheedle young jemmy to fiddle, an' reely so brisk to an' fro in the zummer. john. an' jeäne. mind you don't come 'ithout her, my wife is a-thinkèn about her; at our house she'll find she's as welcome 's the rwose that do blow in the zummer. lindenore. at lindenore upon the steep, bezide the trees a-reachèn high, the while their lower limbs do zweep the river-stream a-flowèn by; by grægle bells in beds o' blue, below the tree-stems in the lew, calm aïr do vind the rwose-bound door, ov ellen dare o' lindenore. an' there noo foam do hiss avore swift bwoats, wi' water-plowèn keels, an' there noo broad high-road's a-wore by vur-brought trav'lers' cracklèn wheels; noo crowd's a-passèn to and fro, upon the bridge's high-sprung bow: an' vew but i do seek the door ov ellen dare o' lindenore. vor there the town, wi' zun-bright walls, do sheen vur off, by hills o' grey, an' town-vo'k ha' but seldom calls o' business there, from day to day: but ellen didden leäve her ruf to be admir'd, an' that's enough-- vor i've a-vound 'ithin her door, feäir ellen dare o' lindenore. me'th below the tree. o when theäse elems' crooked boughs, a'most too thin to sheäde the cows, did slowly swing above the grass as winds o' spring did softly pass, an' zunlight show'd the shiftèn sheäde, while youthful me'th wi' laughter loud, did twist his lim's among the crowd down there below; up there above wer bright-ey'd me'th below the tree. down there the merry vo'k did vill the stwonèn doorway, now so still; an' zome did joke, wi' ceäsement wide, wi' other vo'k a-stood outside, wi' words that head by head did heed. below blue sky an' blue-smok'd tun, 'twer jaÿ to zee an' hear their fun, but sweeter jaÿ up here above wi' bright-ey'd me'th below the tree. now unknown veet do beät the vloor, an' unknown han's do shut the door, an' unknown men do ride abrode, an' hwome ageän on thik wold road, drough geätes all now a-hung anew. noo mind but mine ageän can call wold feäces back around the wall, down there below, or here above, wi' bright-ey'd me'th below the tree. aye, pride mid seek the crowded pleäce to show his head an' frownèn feäce, an' pleasure vlee, wi' goold in hand, vor zights to zee vrom land to land, where winds do blow on seas o' blue:-- noo wealth wer mine to travel wide vor jaÿ, wi' pleasure or wi' pride: my happiness wer here above the feäst, wi' me'th below the tree. the wild rwose now do hang in zight, to mornèn zun an' evenèn light, the bird do whissle in the gloom, avore the thissle out in bloom, but here alwone the tree do leän. the twig that woonce did whiver there is now a limb a-wither'd beäre: zoo i do miss the sheäde above my head, an' me'th below the tree. treat well your wife. no, no, good meäster collins cried, why you've a good wife at your zide; zoo do believe the heart is true that gi'ed up all bezide vor you, an' still beheäve as you begun to seek the love that you've a-won when woonce in dewy june, in hours o' hope soft eyes did flash, each bright below his sheädy lash, a-glisnèn to the moon. think how her girlhood met noo ceäre to peäle the bloom her feäce did weär, an' how her glossy temple prest her pillow down, in still-feäced rest, while sheädes o' window bars did vall in moonlight on the gloomy wall, in cool-aïr'd nights o' june; the while her lids, wi' bendèn streäks o' lashes, met above her cheäks, a-bloomèn to the moon. think how she left her childhood's pleäce, an' only sister's long-known feäce, an' brother's jokes so much a-miss'd, an' mother's cheäk, the last a-kiss'd; an' how she lighted down avore her new abode, a husband's door, your weddèn night in june; wi' heart that beät wi' hope an' fear, while on each eye-lash hung a tear, a-glisnèn to the moon. think how her father zot all dum', a-thinkèn on her, back at hwome, the while grey axan gather'd thick, on dyèn embers, on the brick; an' how her mother look'd abrode, drough window, down the moon-bright road, thik cloudless night o' june, wi' tears upon her lashes big as raïn-drops on a slender twig, a-glisnèn to the moon. zoo don't zit thoughtless at your cup an' keep your wife a-wäitèn up, the while the clock's a-tickèn slow the chilly hours o' vrost an' snow, until the zinkèn candle's light is out avore her drowsy sight, a-dimm'd wi' grief too soon; a-leävèn there alwone to murn the feädèn cheäk that woonce did burn, a-bloomèn to the moon. the child an' the mowers. o, aye! they had woone child bezide, an' a finer your eyes never met, 'twer a dear little fellow that died in the zummer that come wi' such het; by the mowers, too thoughtless in fun, he wer then a-zent off vrom our eyes, vrom the light ov the dew-dryèn zun,-- aye! vrom days under blue-hollow'd skies. he went out to the mowers in meäd, when the zun wer a-rose to his height, an' the men wer a-swingèn the sneäd, wi' their eärms in white sleeves, left an' right; an' out there, as they rested at noon, o! they drench'd en vrom eäle-horns too deep, till his thoughts wer a-drown'd in a swoon; aye! his life wer a-smother'd in sleep. then they laid en there-right on the ground, on a grass-heap, a-zweltrèn wi' het, wi' his heäir all a-wetted around his young feäce, wi' the big drops o' zweat; in his little left palm he'd a-zet, wi' his right hand, his vore-vinger's tip, as for zome'hat he woulden vorget,-- aye! zome thought that he woulden let slip. then they took en in hwome to his bed, an' he rose vrom his pillow noo mwore, vor the curls on his sleek little head to be blown by the wind out o' door. vor he died while the häy russled grey on the staddle so leätely begun: lik' the mown-grass a-dried by the day,-- aye! the zwath-flow'r's a-killed by the zun. the love child. where the bridge out at woodley did stride, wi' his wide arches' cool sheäded bow, up above the clear brook that did slide by the popples, befoam'd white as snow: as the gilcups did quiver among the white deäisies, a-spread in a sheet. there a quick-trippèn maïd come along,-- aye, a girl wi' her light-steppèn veet. an' she cried "i do praÿ, is the road out to lincham on here, by the meäd?" an' "oh! ees," i meäde answer, an' show'd her the way it would turn an' would leäd: "goo along by the beech in the nook, where the childern do play in the cool, to the steppèn stwones over the brook,-- aye, the grey blocks o' rock at the pool." "then you don't seem a-born an' a-bred," i spoke up, "at a place here about;" an' she answer'd wi' cheäks up so red as a pi'ny but leäte a-come out, "no, i liv'd wi' my uncle that died back in eäpril, an' now i'm a-come here to ham, to my mother, to bide,-- aye, to her house to vind a new hwome." i'm asheämed that i wanted to know any mwore of her childhood or life, but then, why should so feäir a child grow where noo father did bide wi' his wife; then wi' blushes of zunrisèn morn, she replied "that it midden be known, "oh! they zent me away to be born,--[c] aye, they hid me when zome would be shown." oh! it meäde me a'most teary-ey'd, an' i vound i a'most could ha' groan'd-- what! so winnèn, an' still cast a-zide-- what! so lovely, an' not to be own'd; oh! a god-gift a-treated wi' scorn, oh! a child that a squier should own; an' to zend her away to be born!-- aye, to hide her where others be shown! [footnote c: words once spoken to the writer.] hawthorn down. all up the down's cool brow i work'd in noontide's gleäre, on where the slow-wheel'd plow 'd a-wore the grass half bare. an' gil'cups quiver'd quick, as aïr did pass, an' deäisies huddled thick among the grass. the while my eärms did swing wi' work i had on hand, the quick-wing'd lark did zing above the green-tree'd land, an' bwoys below me chafed the dog vor fun, an' he, vor all they laef'd, did meäke em run. the south zide o' the hill, my own tun-smoke rose blue,-- in north coomb, near the mill, my mother's wer in view-- where woonce her vier vor all ov us did burn, as i have childern small round mine in turn. an' zoo i still wull cheer her life wi' my small store, as she do drop a tear bezide her lwonesome door. the love that i do owe her ruf, i'll paÿ, an' then zit down below my own wi' jaÿ. oben vields. well, you mid keep the town an' street, wi' grassless stwones to beät your veet, an' zunless windows where your brows be never cooled by swaÿèn boughs; an' let me end, as i begun, my days in oben aïr an' zun, where zummer win's a-blowèn sweet, wi' blooth o' trees as white's a sheet; or swaÿèn boughs, a-bendèn low wi' rip'nèn apples in a row, an' we a-risèn rathe do meet the bright'nèn dawn wi' dewy veet, an' leäve, at night, the vootless groves, to rest 'ithin our thatchen oves. an' here our childern still do bruise the deäisy buds wi' tiny shoes, as we did meet avore em, free vrom ceäre, in play below the tree. an' there in me'th their lively eyes do glissen to the zunny skies, as aïr do blow, wi' leäzy peäce to cool, in sheäde, their burnèn feäce. where leaves o' spreadèn docks do hide the zawpit's timber-lwoaded zide, an' trees do lie, wi' scraggy limbs, among the deäisy's crimson rims. an' they, so proud, wi' eärms a-spread to keep their balance good, do tread wi' ceäreful steps o' tiny zoles the narrow zides o' trees an' poles. an' zoo i'll leäve vor your light veet the peävement o' the zunless street, while i do end, as i begun, my days in oben aïr an' zun. what john wer a-tellÈn his mis'ess out in the corn ground. ah! mam! you woonce come here the while the zun, long years agoo, did shed his het upon the wheat in hile, wi' yollow hau'm an' ears o' red, wi' little shoes too thin vor walks upon the scratchèn stubble-stalks; you hardly reach'd wi' glossy head, the vore wheel's top o' dousty red. how time's a-vled! how years do vlee! an' there you went an' zot inzide a hile, in aïr a-streamèn cool, as if 'ithin a room, vull wide an' high, you zot to guide an' rule. you leäz'd about the stubbly land, an' soon vill'd up your small left hand wi' ruddy ears your right hand vound, an' traïl'd the stalks along the ground. how time's a-gone! how years do goo! then in the waggon you did teäke a ride, an' as the wheels vell down vrom ridge to vurrow, they did sheäke on your small head your poppy crown, an' now your little maïd, a dear, your childhood's very daps, is here, zoo let her staÿ, that her young feäce mid put a former year in pleäce. how time do run! how years do roll! sheÄdes. come here an' zit a while below theäse tower, grey and ivy-bound, in sheäde, the while the zun do glow so hot upon the flow'ry ground; an' winds in flight, do briskly smite the blossoms bright, upon the gleäde, but never stir the sleepèn sheäde. as when you stood upon the brink o' yonder brook, wi' back-zunn'd head, your zunny-grounded sheäde did zink upon the water's grav'lly bed, where weäves could zweep away, or keep, the gravel heap that they'd a-meäde, but never wash away the sheäde. an' zoo, when you can woonce vulvil what's feäir, a-tried by heaven's light, why never fear that evil will can meäke a wrong o' your good right. the right wull stand, vor all man's hand, till streams on zand, an' wind in gleädes, can zweep awaÿ the zuncast sheädes. times o' year. here did swäy the eltrot flow'rs, when the hours o' night wer vew, an' the zun, wi' eärly beams brighten'd streams, an' dried the dew, an' the goocoo there did greet passers by wi' dousty veet. there the milkmaïd hung her brow by the cow, a-sheenèn red; an' the dog, wi' upward looks, watch'd the rooks above his head, an' the brook, vrom bow to bow, here went swift, an' there wer slow. now the cwolder-blowèn blast, here do cast vrom elems' heads feäded leaves, a-whirlèn round, down to ground, in yollow beds, ruslèn under milkers' shoes, when the day do dry the dews. soon shall grass, a-vrosted bright, glisten white instead o' green, an' the wind shall smite the cows, where the boughs be now their screen. things do change as years do vlee; what ha' years in store vor me? [gothic: eclogue.] racketÈn joe. _racketèn joe; his sister; his cousin fanny; and the dog._ racketÈn joe. heigh! heigh! here. who's about? his sister. oh! lauk! here's joe, a rantèn lout, a-meäkèn his wild randy-rout. racketÈn joe. heigh! fanny! how d'ye do? (_slaps her._) fanny. oh! fie; why all the woo'se vor you a-slappèn o' me, black an' blue, my back! his sister. a whack! you loose-eärm'd chap, to gi'e your cousin sich a slap! fanny. i'll pull the heäir o'n, i do vow; his sister. i'll pull the ears o'n. there. the dog. wowh! wow! fanny. a-comèn up the drong, how he did smack his leather thong, a-zingèn, as he thought, a zong; his sister. an' there the pigs did scote azide, in fright, wi' squeakèn droat, wi' geese a pitchèn up a note. look there. fanny. his chair! his sister. he thump'd en down, as if he'd het en into ground. racketÈn joe. heigh! heigh! look here! the vier is out. his sister. how he do knock the tongs about! fanny. now theäre's his whip-nob, plum upon the teäble vor a drum; his sister. an' there's a dent so big's your thumb. racketÈn joe. my hat's awore so quaer. his sister. 'tis quaer enough, but not wi' wear; but dabs an' dashes he do bear. racketÈn joe. the zow! his sister. what now? racketÈn joe. she's in the plot. a-routèn up the flower knot. ho! towzer! here, rout out the zow, heigh! here, hie at her. tiss! the dog. wowh! wow! his sister. how he do rant and roar, an' stump an' stamp about the vloor, an' swing, an' slap, an' slam the door! he don't put down a thing, but he do dab, an' dash, an' ding it down, till all the house do ring. racketÈn joe. she's out. fanny. noo doubt. his sister. athirt the bank, look! how the dog an' he do pank. fanny. staÿ out, an' heed her now an' then, to zee she don't come in ageän. zummer an' winter. when i led by zummer streams the pride o' lea, as naïghbours thought her, while the zun, wi' evenèn beams, did cast our sheädes athirt the water; winds a-blowèn, streams a-flowèn, skies a-glowèn, tokens ov my jaÿ zoo fleetèn, heighten'd it, that happy meetèn. then, when maïd an' man took pleäces, gaÿ in winter's chris'mas dances, showèn in their merry feäces kindly smiles an' glisnèn glances; stars a-winkèn, day a-shrinkèn, sheädes a-zinkèn, brought anew the happy meetèn, that did meake the night too fleetèn. to me. at night, as drough the meäd i took my waÿ, in aïr a-sweeten'd by the new-meäde haÿ, a stream a-vallèn down a rock did sound, though out o' zight wer foam an' stwone to me. behind the knap, above the gloomy copse, the wind did russle in the trees' high tops, though evenèn darkness, an' the risèn hill, kept all the quiv'rèn leaves unshown to me, within the copse, below the zunless sky, i heärd a nightèngeäle, a-warblèn high her lwoansome zong, a-hidden vrom my zight, an' showèn nothèn but her mwoan to me. an' by a house, where rwoses hung avore the thatch-brow'd window, an' the oben door, i heärd the merry words, an' hearty laugh o' zome feäir maid, as eet unknown to me. high over head the white-rimm'd clouds went on, wi' woone a-comèn up, vor woone a-gone; an' feäir they floated in their sky-back'd flight, but still they never meäde a sound to me. an' there the miller, down the stream did float wi' all his childern, in his white-saïl'd bwoat, vur off, beyond the stragglèn cows in meäd, but zent noo vaïce, athirt the ground, to me. an' then a buttervlee, in zultry light, a-wheelèn on about me, vier-bright, did show the gaÿest colors to my eye, but still did bring noo vaïce around to me. i met the merry laugher on the down, bezide her mother, on the path to town, an' oh! her sheäpe wer comely to the zight, but wordless then wer she a-vound to me. zoo, sweet ov unzeen things mid be sound, an' feäir to zight mid soundless things be vound, but i've the laugh to hear, an' feäce to zee, vor they be now my own, a-bound to me. two an' two. the zun, o jessie, while his feäce do rise in vi'ry skies, a-sheddèn out his light on yollow corn a-weävèn down below his yollow glow, is gaÿ avore the zight. by two an' two, how goodly things do goo, a-matchèn woone another to fulvill the goodness ov their meäkèr's will. how bright the spreadèn water in the lew do catch the blue, a-sheenèn vrom the sky; how true the grass do teäke the dewy bead that it do need, while dousty roads be dry. by peäir an' peäir each thing's a-meäde to sheäre the good another can bestow, in wisdom's work down here below. the lowest lim's o' trees do seldom grow a-spread too low to gi'e the cows a sheäde; the aïr's to bear the bird, the bird's to rise; vor light the eyes, vor eyes the light's a-meäde. 'tis gi'e an' teäke, an' woone vor others' seäke; in peäirs a-workèn out their ends, though men be foes that should be friends. the lew o' the rick. at eventide the wind wer loud by trees an' tuns above woone's head, an' all the sky wer woone dark cloud, vor all it had noo raïn to shed; an' as the darkness gather'd thick, i zot me down below a rick, where straws upon the win' did ride wi' giddy flights, along my zide, though unmolestèn me a-restèn, where i laÿ 'ithin the lew. my wife's bright vier indoors did cast its fleäme upon the window peänes that screen'd her teäble, while the blast vled on in music down the leänes; an' as i zot in vaïceless thought ov other zummer-tides, that brought the sheenèn grass below the lark, or left their ricks a-wearèn dark, my childern voun' me, an' come roun' me, where i lay 'ithin the lew. the rick that then did keep me lew would be a-gone another fall, an' i, in zome years, in a vew, mid leäve the childern, big or small; but he that meäde the wind, an' meäde the lewth, an' zent wi' het the sheäde, can keep my childern, all alwone o' under me, an' though vull grown or little lispers, wi' their whispers, there a-lyèn in the lew. the wind in woone's feÄce. there lovely jenny past, while the blast did blow on over ashknowle hill to the mill below; a-blinkèn quick, wi' lashes long, above her cheäks o' red, ageän the wind, a-beätèn strong, upon her droopèn head. oh! let dry win' blow bleäk, on her cheäk so heäle, but let noo raïn-shot chill meäke her ill an' peäle; vor healthy is the breath the blast upon the hill do yield, an' healthy is the light a cast vrom lofty sky to vield. an' mid noo sorrow-pang ever hang a tear upon the dark lash-heäir ov my feäirest dear; an' mid noo unkind deed o' mine spweil what my love mid gaïn, nor meäke my merry jenny pine at last wi' dim-ey'd païn. tokens. green mwold on zummer bars do show that they've a-dripp'd in winter wet; the hoof-worn ring o' groun' below the tree, do tell o' storms or het; the trees in rank along a ledge do show where woonce did bloom a hedge; an' where the vurrow-marks do stripe the down, the wheat woonce rustled ripe. each mark ov things a-gone vrom view-- to eyezight's woone, to soulzight two. the grass ageän the mwoldrèn door 's a tóken sad o' vo'k a-gone, an' where the house, bwoth wall an' vloor, 's a-lost, the well mid linger on. what tokens, then, could meäry gi'e thät she'd a-liv'd, an' liv'd vor me, but things a-done vor thought an' view? good things that nwone ageän can do, an' every work her love ha' wrought, to eyezight's woone, but two to thought. tweil. the rick ov our last zummer's haulèn now vrom grey's a-feäded dark, an' off the barken raïl's a-vallèn, day by day, the rottèn bark.-- but short's the time our works do stand, so feäir's we put em out ov hand, vor time a-passèn, wet an' dry, do spweïl em wi' his changèn sky, the while wi' strivèn hope, we men, though a-ruèn time's undoèn, still do tweil an' tweil ageän. in wall-zide sheädes, by leafy bowers, underneath the swayèn tree, o' leäte, as round the bloomèn flowers, lowly humm'd the giddy bee, my childern's small left voot did smite their tiny speäde, the while the right did trample on a deäisy head, bezïde the flower's dousty bed, an' though their work wer idle then, they a-smilèn, an' a-tweilèn, still did work an' work ageän. now their little limbs be stronger, deeper now their vaïce do sound; an' their little veet be longer, an' do tread on other ground; an' rust is on the little bleädes ov all the broken-hafted speädes, an' flow'rs that wer my hope an' pride ha' long agoo a-bloom'd an' died, but still as i did leäbor then vor love ov all them childern small, zoo now i'll tweil an' tweil ageän. when the smokeless tun's a-growèn cwold as dew below the stars, an' when the vier noo mwore's a-glowèn red between the window bars, we then do lay our weary heads in peace upon their nightly beds, an' gi'e woone sock, wi' heavèn breast, an' then breathe soft the breath o' rest, till day do call the sons o' men vrom night-sleep's blackness, vull o' sprackness, out abroad to tweil ageän. where the vaïce o' the winds is mildest, in the plaïn, their stroke is keen; where their dreatnèn vaïce is wildest, in the grove, the grove's our screen. an' where the worold in their strife do dreatèn mwost our tweilsome life, why there almighty ceäre mid cast a better screen ageän the blast. zoo i woon't live in fear o' men, but, man-neglected, god-directed, still wull tweil an' tweil ageän. fancy. in stillness we ha' words to hear, an' sheäpes to zee in darkest night, an' tongues a-lost can haïl us near, an' souls a-gone can smile in zight; when fancy now do wander back to years a-spent, an' bring to mind zome happy tide a-left behind in' weästèn life's slow-beatèn track. when feädèn leaves do drip wi' raïn, our thoughts can ramble in the dry; when winter win' do zweep the plaïn we still can have a zunny sky. vor though our limbs be winter-wrung, we still can zee, wi' fancy's eyes, the brightest looks ov e'th an' skies, that we did know when we wer young. in païn our thoughts can pass to eäse, in work our souls can be at plaÿ, an' leäve behind the chilly leäse vor warm-aïr'd meäds o' new mow'd haÿ. when we do vlee in fancy's flight vrom daily ills avore our feäce, an' linger in zome happy pleäce ov mè'th an' smiles, an' warmth an' light. the broken heart. news o' grief had overteäken dark-ey'd fanny, now vorseäken; there she zot, wi' breast a-heavèn, while vrom zide to zide, wi' grievèn, vell her head, wi' tears a-creepèn down her cheäks, in bitter weepèn. there wer still the ribbon-bow she tied avore her hour ov woe, an' there wer still the han's that tied it hangèn white, or wringèn tight, in ceäre that drown'd all ceäre bezide it. when a man, wi' heartless slightèn, mid become a maïden's blightèn, he mid ceärlessly vorseäke her, but must answer to her meäker; he mid slight, wi' selfish blindness, all her deeds o' lovèn-kindness, god wull waïgh em wi' the slightèn that mid be her love's requitèn; he do look on each deceiver, he do know what weight o' woe do breäk the heart ov ev'ry griever. evenÈn light. the while i took my bit o' rest, below my house's eastern sheäde, the things that stood in vield an' gleäde wer bright in zunsheen vrom the west. there bright wer east-ward mound an' wall, an' bright wer trees, arisèn tall, an' bright did break 'ithin the brook, down rocks, the watervall. there deep 'ithin my pworches bow did hang my heavy woaken door, an' in beyond en, on the vloor, the evenèn dusk did gather slow; but bright did gleäre the twinklèn spwokes o' runnèn carriage wheels, as vo'ks out east did ride along the road, bezide the low-bough'd woaks, an' i'd a-lost the zun vrom view, until ageän his feäce mid rise, a-sheenèn vrom the eastern skies to brighten up the rwose-borne dew; but still his lingrèn light did gi'e my heart a touchèn jaÿ, to zee his beams a-shed, wi' stratchèn sheäde, on east-ward wall an' tree. when jaÿ, a-zent me vrom above, vrom my sad heart is now agone, an' others be a-walkèn on, amid the light ov heavèn's love, oh! then vor lovèn-kindness seäke, mid i rejäice that zome do teäke my hopes a-gone, until ageän my happy dawn do breäk. vields by watervalls. when our downcast looks be smileless, under others' wrongs an' slightèns, when our daily deeds be guileless, an' do meet unkind requitèns, you can meäke us zome amends vor wrongs o' foes, an' slights o' friends;-- o flow'ry-gleäded, timber-sheäded vields by flowèn watervalls! here be softest aïrs a-blowèn drough the boughs, wi' zingèn drushes, up above the streams, a-flowèn under willows, on by rushes. here below the bright-zunn'd sky the dew-bespangled flow'rs do dry, in woody-zided, stream-divided vields by flowèn watervalls. waters, wi' their giddy rollèns; breezes wi' their plaÿsome wooèns; here do heal, in soft consolèns, hearts a-wrung wi' man's wrong doèns. day do come to us as gaÿ as to a king ov widest swaÿ, in deäisy-whitèn'd, gil'cup-brightèn'd vields by flowèn watervalls. zome feäir buds mid outlive blightèns, zome sweet hopes mid outlive sorrow. after days of wrongs an' slightèns there mid break a happy morrow. we mid have noo e'thly love; but god's love-tokens vrom above here mid meet us, here mid greet us, in the vields by watervalls. the wheel routs. 'tis true i brought noo fortune hwome wi' jenny, vor her honey-moon, but still a goodish hansel come behind her perty soon, vor stick, an' dish, an' spoon, all vell to jeäne, vrom aunt o' camwy dell. zoo all the lot o' stuff a-tied upon the plow, a tidy tod, on gravel-crunchèn wheels did ride, wi' ho'ses, iron-shod, that, as their heads did nod, my whip did guide along wi' lightsome flip. an' there it rod 'ithin the rwope, astraïn'd athirt, an' straïn'd along, down thornhay's evenèn-lighted slope an' up the beech-tree drong; where wheels a-bound so strong, cut out on either zide a deep-zunk rout. an' when at fall the trees wer brown, above the bennet-bearèn land, when beech-leaves slowly whiver'd down. by evenèn winds a-fann'd; the routs wer each a band o' red, a-vill'd by drifted beech-leaves dead. an' when, in winter's leafless light, the keener eastern wind did blow. an' scatter down, avore my zight, a chilly cwoat o' snow; the routs ageän did show vull bright, in two long streaks o' glitt'rèn white. but when, upon our weddèn night, the cart's light wheels, a-rollèn round, brought jenny hwome, they run too light to mark the yieldèn ground; or welcome would be vound a peäir o' green-vill'd routs a-runnèn there. zoo let me never bring 'ithin my dwellèn what's a-won by wrong, an' can't come in 'ithout a sin; vor only zee how long the waggon marks in drong, did show wï' leaves, wi' grass, wi' groun' wi' snow. nanny's new abode. now day by day, at lofty height, o zummer noons, the burnèn zun 've a-show'd avore our eastward zight, the sky-blue zide ov hameldon, an' shone ageän, on new-mow'd ground, wi' haÿ a-piled up grey in pook, an' down on leäzes, bennet-brown'd, an' wheat a-vell avore the hook; till, under elems tall, the leaves do lie on leänèn lands, in leäter light o' fall. an' last year, we did zee the red o' dawn vrom ash-knap's thatchen oves, an' walk on crumpled leaves a-laid in grassy rook-trees' timber'd groves, now, here, the cooler days do shrink to vewer hours o' zunny sky, while zedge, a-weävèn by the brink o' shallow brooks, do slowly die. an' on the timber tall, the boughs, half beäre, do bend above the bulgèn banks in fall. there, we'd a spring o' water near, here, water's deep in wink-draïn'd wells, the church 'tis true, is nigh out here, too nigh wi' vive loud-boomèn bells. there, naïghbours wer vull wide a-spread, but vo'k be here too clwose a-stow'd. vor childern now do stun woone's head, wi' naïsy plaÿ bezide the road, where big so well as small, the little lad, an' lump'rèn lout, do leäp an' laugh theäse fall. leaves a-vallÈn. there the ash-tree leaves do vall in the wind a-blowèn cwolder, an' my childern, tall or small, since last fall be woone year wolder. woone year wolder, woone year dearer, till when they do leave my he'th, i shall be noo mwore a hearer o' their vaïces or their me'th. there dead ash leaves be a-toss'd in the wind, a-blowèn stronger, an' our life-time, since we lost souls we lov'd, is woone year longer. woone year longer, woone year wider, vrom the friends that death ha' took, as the hours do teäke the rider vrom the hand that last he shook. no. if he do ride at night vrom the zide the zun went under, woone hour vrom his western light needen meäke woone hour asunder; woone hour onward, woone hour nigher to the hopeful eastern skies, where his mornèn rim o' vier soon ageän shall meet his eyes. leaves be now a-scatter'd round in the wind, a-blowèn bleaker, an' if we do walk the ground wi' our life-strangth woone year weaker. woone year weaker, woone year nigher to the pleäce where we shall vind woone that's deathless vor the dier, voremost they that dropp'd behind. lizzie. o lizzie is so mild o' mind, vor ever kind, an' ever true; a-smilèn, while her lids do rise to show her eyes as bright as dew. an' comely do she look at night, a-dancèn in her skirt o' white, an' blushèn wi' a rwose o' red bezide her glossy head. feäir is the rwose o' blushèn hue, behung wi' dew, in mornèn's hour, feäir is the rwose, so sweet below the noontide glow, bezide the bow'r. vull feäir, an' eet i'd rather zee the rwose a-gather'd off the tree, an' bloomèn still with blossom red, by lizzie's glossy head. mid peace droughout her e'thly day, betide her way, to happy rest, an' mid she, all her weanèn life, or maïd or wife, be loved and blest. though i mid never zing anew to neäme the maïd so feäir an' true, a-blushèn, wi' a rwose o' red, bezide her glossy head. blessens a-left. lik' souls a-toss'd at sea i bore sad strokes o' trial, shock by shock, an' now, lik' souls a-cast ashore to rest upon the beäten rock, i still do seem to hear the sound o' weäves that drove me vrom my track, an' zee my strugglèn hopes a-drown'd, an' all my jaÿs a-floated back. by storms a-toss'd, i'll gi'e god praïse, wi' much a-lost i still ha' jaÿs. my peace is rest, my faïth is hope, an' freedom's my unbounded scope. vor faïth mid blunt the sting o' fear, an' peace the pangs ov ills a-vound, an' freedom vlee vrom evils near, wi' wings to vwold on other ground, wi' much a-lost, my loss is small, vor though ov e'thly goods bereft, a thousand times well worth em all be they good blessèns now a-left. what e'th do own, to e'th mid vall, but what's my own my own i'll call, my faïth, an' peäce, the gifts o' greäce, an' freedom still to shift my pleäce. when i've a-had a tree to screen my meal-rest vrom the high zunn'd-sky, or ivy-holdèn wall between my head an' win's a-rustlèn by, i had noo call vor han's to bring their seäv'ry daïnties at my nod, but stoop'd a-drinkèn vrom the spring, an' took my meal, wi' thanks to god, wi' faïth to keep me free o' dread, an' peäce to sleep wi' steadvast head, an' freedom's hands, an' veet unbound to woone man's work, or woone seäme ground. fall time. the gather'd clouds, a-hangèn low, do meäke the woody ridge look dim; an' raïn-vill'd streams do brisker flow, arisèn higher to their brim. in the tree, vrom lim' to lim', leaves do drop vrom the top, all slowly down, yollow, to the gloomy groun'. the rick's a-tipp'd an' weather-brown'd, an' thatch'd wi' zedge a-dried an' dead; an' orcha'd apples, red half round, have all a-happer'd down, a-shed underneath the trees' wide head. ladders long, rong by rong, to clim' the tall trees, be hung upon the wall. the crumpled leaves be now a-shed in mornèn winds a-blowèn keen; when they wer green the moss wer dead, now they be dead the moss is green. low the evenèn zun do sheen by the boughs, where the cows do swing their taïls over the merry milkers' païls. fall. now the yollow zun, a-runnèn daily round a smaller bow, still wi' cloudless sky's a-zunnèn all the sheenèn land below. vewer blossoms now do blow, but the fruit's a-showèn reds an' blues, an' purple hues, by the leaves a-glowèn. now the childern be a-pryèn roun' the berried bremble-bow, zome a-laughèn, woone a-cryèn vor the slent her frock do show. bwoys be out a-pullèn low slooe-boughs, or a-runnèn where, on zides of hazzle-wrides, nuts do hang a-zunnèn. where do reach roun' wheat-ricks yollow oves o' thatch, in long-drawn ring, there, by stubbly hump an' hollow, russet-dappled dogs do spring. soon my apple-trees wull fling bloomèn balls below em, that shall hide, on ev'ry zide ground where we do drow em. the zilver-weed. the zilver-weed upon the green, out where my sons an' daughters play'd, had never time to bloom between the litty steps o' bwoy an' maïd. but rwose-trees down along the wall, that then wer all the maïden's ceäre, an' all a-trimm'd an' traïn'd, did bear their bloomèn buds vrom spring to fall. but now the zilver leaves do show to zummer day their goolden crown, wi' noo swift shoe-zoles' litty blow, in merry plaÿ to beät em down. an' where vor years zome busy hand did traïn the rwoses wide an' high; now woone by woone the trees do die, an' vew of all the row do stand. the widow's house. i went hwome in the dead o' the night, when the vields wer all empty o' vo'k, an' the tuns at their cool-winded height wer all dark, an' all cwold 'ithout smoke; an' the heads o' the trees that i pass'd wer a-swayèn wi' low-ruslèn sound, an' the doust wer a-whirl'd wi' the blast, aye, a smeech wi' the wind on the ground. then i come by the young widow's hatch, down below the wold elem's tall head, but noo vinger did lift up the latch, vor the vo'k wer so still as the dead; but inside, to a tree a-meäde vast, wer the childern's light swing, a-hung low, an' a-rock'd by the brisk-blowèn blast, aye, a-swung by the win' to an' fro. vor the childern, wi' pillow-borne head, had vorgotten their swing on the lawn, an' their father, asleep wi' the dead, had vorgotten his work at the dawn; an' their mother, a vew stilly hours, had vorgotten where he sleept so sound, where the wind wer a-sheäkèn the flow'rs, aye, the blast the feäir buds on the ground. oh! the moon, wi' his peäle lighted skies, have his sorrowless sleepers below. but by day to the zun they must rise to their true lives o' tweil an' ov ho. then the childern wull rise to their fun, an' their mother mwore sorrow to veel, while the aïr is a-warm'd by the zun, aye, the win' by the day's vi'ry wheel. the child's greÄve. avore the time when zuns went down on zummer's green a-turn'd to brown, when sheädes o' swaÿèn wheat-eärs vell upon the scarlet pimpernel; the while you still mid goo, an' vind 'ithin the geärden's mossy wall, sweet blossoms, low or risèn tall, to meäke a tutty to your mind, in churchyard heav'd, wi' grassy breast, the greäve-mound ov a beäby's rest. an' when a high day broke, to call a throng 'ithin the churchyard wall, the mother brought, wi' thoughtvul mind, the feäirest buds her eyes could vind, to trim the little greäve, an' show to other souls her love an' loss, an' meäde a seävior's little cross o' brightest flow'rs that then did blow, a-droppèn tears a-sheenèn bright, among the dew, in mornèn light an' woone sweet bud her han' did pleäce up where did droop the seävior's feäce; an' two she zet a-bloomèn bright, where reach'd his hands o' left an' right; two mwore feäir blossoms, crimson dyed, did mark the pleäces ov his veet, an' woone did lie, a-smellèn sweet, up where the spear did wound the zide ov him that is the life ov all greäve sleepers, whether big or small. the mother that in faïth could zee the seävior on the high cross tree mid be a-vound a-grievèn sore, but not to grieve vor evermwore, vor he shall show her faïthvul mind, his chaïce is all that she should choose, an' love that here do grieve to lose, shall be, above, a jaÿ to vind, wi' him that evermwore shall keep the souls that he do lay asleep. went vrom hwome. the stream-be-wander'd dell did spread vrom height to woody height, an' meäds did lie, a grassy bed, vor elem-sheädèn light. the milkmaïd by her white-horn'd cow, wi' païl so white as snow, did zing below the elem bough a-swaÿèn to an' fro. an' there the evenèn's low-shot light did smite the high tree-tops, an' rabbits vrom the grass, in fright, did leäp 'ithin the copse. an' there the shepherd wi' his crook. an' dog bezide his knee, went whisslèn by, in aïr that shook the ivy on the tree. an' on the hill, ahead, wer bars a-showèn dark on high, avore, as eet, the evenèn stars did twinkle in the sky, an' then the last sweet evenèn-tide that my long sheäde vell there, i went down brindon's thymy zide, to my last sleep at ware. the fancy feÄir at maÏden newton. the frome, wi' ever-water'd brink, do run where shelvèn hills do zink wi' housen all a-cluster'd roun' the parish tow'rs below the down. an' now, vor woonce, at leäst, ov all the pleäcen where the stream do vall, there's woone that zome to-day mid vind, wi' things a-suited to their mind. an' that's out where the fancy feäir is on at maïden newton. an' vo'k, a-smarten'd up, wull hop out here, as ev'ry traïn do stop, vrom up the line, a longish ride, an' down along the river-zide. an' zome do beät, wi' heels an' tooes, the leänes an' paths, in nimble shoes, an' bring, bezides, a biggish knot, ov all their childern that can trot, a-vlockèn where the fancy feäir is here at maïden newton. if you should goo, to-day, avore a _chilfrome_ house or _downfrome_ door, or _frampton's_ park-zide row, or look drough quiet _wraxall's_ slopy nook, or elbow-streeted _catt'stock_, down by _castlehill's_ cwold-winded crown, an' zee if vo'k be all at hwome, you'd vind em out--they be a-come out hither, where the fancy feäir is on at maïden newton. come, young men, come, an' here you'll vind a gift to please a maïden's mind; come, husbands, here be gifts to please your wives, an' meäke em smile vor days; come, so's, an' buy at fancy feäir a keepseäke vor your friends elsewhere; you can't but stop an' spend a cwein wi' leädies that ha' goods so fine; an' all to meake, vor childern's seäke, the school at maïden newton. things do come round. above the leafless hazzle-wride the wind-drove raïn did quickly vall, an' on the meäple's ribby zide did hang the raïn-drops quiv'rèn ball; out where the brook o' foamy yollow roll'd along the meäd's deep hollow, an' noo birds wer out to beät, wi' flappèn wings, the vleèn wet o' zunless clouds on flow'rless ground. how time do bring the seasons round! the moss, a-beät vrom trees, did lie upon the ground in ashen droves, an' western wind did huffle high, above the sheds' quick-drippèn oves. an' where the ruslèn straw did sound so dry, a-shelter'd in the lew, i staïed alwone, an' weather-bound, an' thought on times, long years agoo, wi' water-floods on flow'rless ground. how time do bring the seasons round! we then, in childhood plaÿ, did seem in work o' men to teäke a peärt, a-drevèn on our wild bwoy team, or lwoadèn o' the tiny cart. or, on our little refters, spread the zedgen ruf above our head, but coulden tell, as now we can, where each would goo to tweil a man. o jaÿs a-lost, an' jaÿs a-vound, how providence do bring things round! where woonce along the sky o' blue the zun went roun' his longsome bow, an' brighten'd, to my soul, the view about our little farm below. there i did plaÿ the merry geäme, wi' childern ev'ry holitide, but coulden tell the vaïce or neäme that time would vind to be my bride. o hwome a-left, o wife a-vound, how providence do bring things round! an' when i took my manhood's pleäce, a husband to a wife's true vow, i never thought by neäme or feäce o' childern that be round me now. an' now they all do grow vrom small, drough life's feäir sheäpes to big an' tall, i still be blind to god's good plan, to pleäce em out as wife, or man. o thread o' love by god unwound, how he in time do bring things round; zummer thoughts in winter time. well, aye, last evenèn, as i shook my locks ov haÿ by leecombe brook. the yollow zun did weakly glance upon the winter meäd askance, a-castèn out my narrow sheäde athirt the brook, an' on the meäd. the while ageän my lwonesome ears did russle weatherbeäten spears, below the withy's leafless head that overhung the river's bed; i there did think o' days that dried the new-mow'd grass o' zummer-tide, when white-sleev'd mowers' whetted bleädes rung sh'ill along the green-bough'd gleädes, an' maïdens gaÿ, wi' plaÿsome chaps, a-zot wi' dinners in their laps, did talk wi' merry words that rung around the ring, vrom tongue to tongue; an' welcome, when the leaves ha' died, be zummer thoughts in winter-tide. i'm out o' door. i'm out, when, in the winter's blast, the zun, a-runnèn lowly round, do mark the sheädes the hedge do cast at noon, in hoarvrost, on the ground, i'm out when snow's a-lyèn white in keen-aïr'd vields that i do pass, an' moonbeams, vrom above, do smite on ice an' sleeper's window-glass. i'm out o' door, when win' do zweep, by hangèn steep, or hollow deep, at lindenore. o welcome is the lewth a-vound by rustlèn copse, or ivied bank, or by the haÿ-rick, weather-brown'd by barken-grass, a-springèn rank; or where the waggon, vrom the team a-freed, is well a-housed vrom wet, an' on the dousty cart-house beam do hang the cobweb's white-lin'd net. while storms do roar, an' win' do zweep, by hangèn steep, or hollow deep, at lindenore. an' when a good day's work's a-done an' i do rest, the while a squall do rumble in the hollow tun, an' ivy-stems do whip the wall. then in the house do sound about my ears, dear vaïces vull or thin, a praÿèn vor the souls vur out at sea, an' cry wi' bibb'rèn chin-- oh! shut the door. what soul can sleep, upon the deep, when storms do zweep at lindenore. grief an' gladness. "can all be still, when win's do blow? look down the grove an' zee the boughs a-swingèn on the tree, an' beäten weäves below. zee how the tweilèn vo'k do bend upon their windward track, wi' ev'ry string, an' garment's end, a-flutt'rèn at their back." i cried, wi' sorrow sore a-tried, an' hung, wi' jenny at my zide, my head upon my breast. wi' strokes o' grief so hard to bear, 'tis hard vor souls to rest. can all be dull, when zuns do glow? oh! no; look down the grove, where zides o' trees be bright above; an' weäves do sheen below; an' neäked stems o' wood in hedge do gleäm in streäks o' light, an' rocks do gleäre upon the ledge o' yonder zunny height, "no, jeäne, wi' trials now withdrawn, lik' darkness at a happy dawn." i cried, "noo mwore despair; wi' our lost peace ageän a-vound, 'tis wrong to harbour ceäre." slidÈn. when wind wer keen, where ivy-green did clwosely wind roun' woak-tree rind, an' ice shone bright, an' meäds wer white, wi' thin-spread snow then on the pond, a-spreadèn wide, we bwoys did zweep along the slide, a-strikèn on in merry row. there ruddÿ-feäced, in busy heäste, we all did wag a spankèn lag, to win good speed, when we, straïght-knee'd, wi' foreright tooes, should shoot along the slipp'ry track, wi' grindèn sound, a-gettèn slack, the slower went our clumpèn shoes. vor zome slow chap, did teäke mishap, as he did veel his hinder heel a-het a thump, wi' zome big lump, o' voot an' shoe. down vell the voremost wi' a squall, an' down the next went wi' a sprawl, an' down went all the laughèn crew. as to an' fro, in merry row, we all went round on ice, on ground the maïdens nigh a-stannèn shy, did zee us slide, an' in their eäprons small, did vwold their little hands, a-got red-cwold, or slide on ice o' two veet wide. by leafless copse, an' beäre tree-tops, an' zun's low beams, an' ice-boun' streams, an' vrost-boun' mill, a-stannèn still. come wind, blow on, an' gi'e the bwoys, this chris'mas tide, the glitt'rèn ice to meäke a slide, as we had our slide, years agone. lwonesomeness. as i do zew, wi' nimble hand, in here avore the window's light, how still do all the housegear stand around my lwonesome zight. how still do all the housegear stand since willie now 've a-left the land. the rwose-tree's window-sheädèn bow do hang in leaf, an' win'-blow'd flow'rs, avore my lwonesome eyes do show theäse bright november hours. avore my lwonesome eyes do show wi' nwone but i to zee em blow. the sheädes o' leafy buds, avore the peänes, do sheäke upon the glass, an' stir in light upon the vloor, where now vew veet do pass, an' stir in light upon the vloor, where there's a-stirrèn nothèn mwore. this win' mid dreve upon the maïn, my brother's ship, a-plowèn foam, but not bring mother, cwold, nor raïn, at her now happy hwome. but not bring mother, cwold, nor raïn, where she is out o' pain. zoo now that i'm a-mwopèn dumb, a-keepèn father's house, do you come of'en wi' your work vrom hwome, vor company. now do. come of'en wi' your work vrom hwome, up here a-while. do come. a snowy night. 'twer at night, an' a keen win' did blow vrom the east under peäle-twinklèn stars, all a-zweepèn along the white snow; on the groun', on the trees, on the bars, vrom the hedge where the win' russled drough, there a light-russlèn snow-doust did vall; an' noo pleäce wer a-vound that wer lew, but the shed, or the ivy-hung wall. then i knock'd at the wold passage door wi' the win'-driven snow on my locks; till, a-comèn along the cwold vloor, there my jenny soon answer'd my knocks. then the wind, by the door a-swung wide, flung some snow in her clear-bloomèn feäce, an' she blink'd wi' her head all a-zide, an' a-chucklèn, went back to her pleäce. an' in there, as we zot roun' the brands, though the talkers wer maïnly the men, bloomèn jeäne, wi' her work in her hands, did put in a good word now an' then. an' when i took my leave, though so bleäk wer the weather, she went to the door, wi' a smile, an' a blush on the cheäk that the snow had a-smitten avore. the year-clock. we zot bezide the leäfy wall, upon the bench at evenfall, while aunt led off our minds vrom ceäre wi' veäiry teäles, i can't tell where: an' vound us woone among her stock o' feäbles, o' the girt year-clock. his feäce wer blue's the zummer skies, an' wide's the zight o' lookèn eyes, for hands, a zun wi' glowèn feäce, an' peäler moon wi' swifter peäce, did wheel by stars o' twinklèn light, by bright-wall'd day, an' dark-treed night; an' down upon the high-sky'd land, a-reachèn wide, on either hand, wer hill an' dell wi' win'-swaÿ'd trees, an' lights a-zweepèn over seas, an' gleamèn cliffs, an' bright-wall'd tow'rs, wi' sheädes a-markèn on the hours; an' as the feäce, a-rollèn round, brought comely sheäpes along the ground. the spring did come in winsome steäte below a glowèn raïnbow geäte; an' fan wi' aïr a-blowèn weak, her glossy heäir, an' rwosy cheäk, as she did shed vrom oben hand, the leäpèn zeed on vurrow'd land; the while the rook, wi' heästy flight, a-floatèn in the glowèn light, did bear avore her glossy breast a stick to build her lofty nest, an' strong-limb'd tweil, wi' steady hands, did guide along the vallow lands the heavy zull, wi' bright-sheär'd beam, avore the weäry oxen team, wi' spring a-gone there come behind sweet zummer, jaÿ ov ev'ry mind, wi' feäce a-beamèn to beguile our weäry souls ov ev'ry tweil. while birds did warble in the dell in softest aïr o' sweetest smell; an' she, so winsome-feäir did vwold her comely limbs in green an' goold, an' wear a rwosy wreath, wi' studs o' berries green, an' new-born buds, a-fring'd in colours vier-bright, wi' sheäpes o' buttervlees in flight. when zummer went, the next ov all did come the sheäpe o' brown-feäc'd fall, a-smilèn in a comely gown o' green, a-shot wi' yellow-brown, a-border'd wi' a goolden stripe o' fringe, a-meäde o' corn-ears ripe, an' up ageän her comely zide, upon her rounded eärm, did ride a perty basket, all a-twin'd o' slender stems wi' leaves an' rind, a-vill'd wi' fruit the trees did shed, all ripe, in purple, goold, an' red; an' busy leäbor there did come a-zingèn zongs ov harvest hwome, an' red-ear'd dogs did briskly run roun' cheervul leisure wi' his gun, or stan' an' mark, wi' stedvast zight, the speckled pa'tridge rise in flight. an' next ageän to mild-feäc'd fall did come peäle winter, last ov all, a-bendèn down, in thoughtvul mood, her head 'ithin a snow-white hood a-deck'd wi' icy-jewels, bright an' cwold as twinklèn stars o' night; an' there wer weary leäbor, slack o' veet to keep her vrozen track, a-lookèn off, wi' wistful eyes, to reefs o' smoke, that there did rise a-meltèn to the peäle-feäc'd zun, above the houses' lofty tun. an' there the girt year-clock did goo by day an' night, vor ever true, wi' mighty wheels a-rollèn round 'ithout a beät, 'ithout a sound. not goo hwome to-night. no, no, why you've noo wife at hwome abidèn up till you do come, zoo leäve your hat upon the pin, vor i'm your waïter. here's your inn, wi' chair to rest, an' bed to roost; you have but little work to do this vrosty time at hwome in mill, your vrozen wheel's a-stannèn still, the sleepèn ice woont grind vor you. no, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, good robin white, o' craglin mill. as i come by, to-day, where stood wi' neäked trees, the purple wood, the scarlet hunter's ho'ses veet tore up the sheäkèn ground, wind-fleet, wi' reachèn heads, an' pankèn hides; the while the flat-wing'd rooks in vlock. did zwim a-sheenèn at their height; but your good river, since last night, wer all a-vroze so still's a rock. no, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, good robin white, o' craglin mill. zee how the hufflèn win' do blow, a-whirlèn down the giddy snow: zee how the sky's a-weärèn dim, behind the elem's neäked lim'. that there do leän above the leäne: zoo teäke your pleäce bezide the dogs, an' sip a drop o' hwome-brew'd eäle, an' zing your zong or tell your teäle, while i do baït the vier wi' logs. no, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, good robin white, o' craglin mill. your meäre's in steäble wi' her hocks in straw above her vetterlocks, a-reachèn up her meäney neck, an' pullèn down good hay vrom reck, a-meäkèn slight o' snow an' sleet; she don't want you upon her back, to vall upon the slippery stwones on hollyhül, an' break your bwones, or miss, in snow, her hidden track. no, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, good robin white, o' craglin mill. here, jenny, come pull out your key an' hansel, wi' zome tidy tea, the zilver pot that we do owe to your prize butter at the show, an' put zome bread upon the bwoard. ah! he do smile; now that 'ull do, he'll stay. here, polly, bring a light, we'll have a happy hour to-night, i'm thankvul we be in the lew. no, no, he woont goo hwome to-night, not robin white, o' craglin mill. the humstrum. why woonce, at chris'mas-tide, avore the wold year wer a-reckon'd out, the humstrums here did come about, a-soundèn up at ev'ry door. but now a bow do never screäpe a humstrum, any where all round, an' zome can't tell a humstrum's sheäpe, an' never heärd his jinglèn sound. as _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string, as _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang. the strings a-tighten'd lik' to crack athirt the canister's tin zide, did reach, a glitt'rèn, zide by zide, above the humstrum's hollow back. an' there the bwoy, wi' bended stick, a-strung wi' heäir, to meäke a bow, did dreve his elbow, light'nèn quick, athirt the strings from high to low. as _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string, as _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang. the mother there did stan' an' hush her child, to hear the jinglèn sound, the merry maïd, a-scrubbèn round her white-steäv'd païl, did stop her brush. the mis'ess there, vor wold time's seäke, had gifts to gi'e, and smiles to show, an' meäster, too, did stan' an' sheäke his two broad zides, a-chucklèn low, while _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string, while _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang. the plaÿers' pockets wer a-strout, wi' wold brown pence, a-rottlèn in, their zwangèn bags did soon begin, wi' brocks an' scraps, to plim well out. the childern all did run an' poke their heads vrom hatch or door, an' shout a-runnèn back to wolder vo'k. why, here! the humstrums be about! as _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string, as _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang. shaftesbury feÄir. when hillborne paladore did show so bright to me down miles below. as woonce the zun, a-rollèn west, did brighten up his hill's high breast. wi' walls a-lookèn dazzlèn white, or yollow, on the grey-topp'd height of paladore, as peäle day wore awaÿ so feäir. oh! how i wish'd that i wer there. the pleäce wer too vur off to spy the livèn vo'k a-passèn by; the vo'k too vur vor aïr to bring the words that they did speak or zing. all dum' to me wer each abode, an' empty wer the down-hill road vrom paladore, as peäle day wore awaÿ so feäir; but how i wish'd that i wer there. but when i clomb the lofty ground where livèn veet an' tongues did sound, at feäir, bezide your bloomèn feäce, the pertiest in all the pleäce, as you did look, wi' eyes as blue as yonder southern hills in view, vrom paladore--o polly dear, wi' you up there, how merry then wer i at feäir. since vu'st i trod thik steep hill-zide my grievèn soul 'v a-been a-tried wi' païn, an' loss o' worldly geär, an' souls a-gone i wanted near; but you be here to goo up still, an' look to blackmwore vrom the hill o' paladore. zoo, polly dear, we'll goo up there, an' spend an hour or two at feäir. the wold brown meäre's a-brought vrom grass, an' rubb'd an' cwomb'd so bright as glass; an' now we'll hitch her in, an' start to feäir upon the new green cart, an' teäke our little poll between our zides, as proud's a little queen, to paladore. aye, poll a dear, vor now 'tis feäir, an' she's a longèn to goo there. while paladore, on watch, do straïn her eyes to blackmwore's blue-hill'd pläin, while duncliffe is the traveller's mark, or cloty stour's a-rollèn dark; or while our bells do call, vor greäce, the vo'k avore their seävior's feäce, mid paladore, an' poll a dear, vor ever know o' peäce an' plenty down below. the beÄten path. the beäten path where vo'k do meet a-comèn on vrom vur an' near; how many errands had the veet that wore en out along so clear! where eegrass bleädes be green in meäd, where bennets up the leäze be brown, an' where the timber bridge do leäd athirt the cloty brook to town, along the path by mile an' mile, athirt the yield, an' brook, an' stile, there runnèn childern's hearty laugh do come an' vlee along--win' swift: the wold man's glossy-knobbèd staff do help his veet so hard to lift; the maïd do bear her basket by, a-hangèn at her breäthèn zide; an' ceäreless young men, straïght an' spry, do whissle hwome at eventide, along the path, a-reachèn by below tall trees an' oben sky. there woone do goo to jaÿ a-head; another's jaÿ's behind his back. there woone his vu'st long mile do tread, an' woone the last ov all his track. an' woone mid end a hopevul road, wi' hopeless grief a-teäkèn on, as he that leätely vrom abroad come hwome to seek his love a-gone, noo mwore to tread, wi' comely eäse, the beäten path athirt the leäze. in tweilsome hardships, year by year, he drough the worold wander'd wide, still bent, in mind, both vur an' near to come an' meäke his love his bride. an' passèn here drough evenèn dew he heästen'd, happy, to her door, but vound the wold vo'k only two, wi' noo mwore vootsteps on the vloor, to walk ageän below the skies, where beäten paths do vall an' rise; vor she wer gone vrom e'thly eyes to be a-kept in darksome sleep, until the good ageän do rise a-jaÿ to souls they left to weep. the rwose wer doust that bound her brow; the moth did eat her zunday ceäpe; her frock wer out o' fashion now; her shoes wer dried up out o' sheäpe-- the shoes that woonce did glitter black along the leäzes beäten track. ruth a-ridÈn. ov all the roads that ever bridge did bear athirt a river's feäce, or ho'ses up an' down the ridge did wear to doust at ev'ry peäce, i'll teäke the stalton leäne to tread, by banks wi' primrwose-beds bespread, an' steätely elems over head, where ruth do come a-ridèn. an' i would rise when vields be grey wi' mornèn dew, avore 'tis dry, an' beät the doust droughout the day to bluest hills ov all the sky; if there, avore the dusk o' night, the evenèn zun, a-sheenèn bright, would pay my leäbors wi' the zight o' ruth--o' ruth a-ridèn. her healthy feäce is rwosy feäir, she's comely in her gaït an' lim', an' sweet's the smile her feäce do wear, below her cap's well-rounded brim; an' while her skirt's a-spreädèn wide, in vwolds upon the ho'se's zide, he'll toss his head, an' snort wi' pride, to trot wi' ruth a-ridèn. an' as her ho'se's rottlèn peäce do slacken till his veet do beät a slower trot, an' till her feäce do bloom avore the tollman's geäte; oh! he'd be glad to oben wide his high-back'd geäte, an' stand azide, a-givèn up his toll wi' pride, vor zight o' ruth a-ridèn. an' oh! that ruth could be my bride, an' i had ho'ses at my will, that i mid teäke her by my zide, a-ridèn over dell an' hill; i'd zet wi' pride her litty tooe 'ithin a stirrup, sheenèn new, an' leäve all other jaÿs to goo along wi' ruth a-ridèn. if maïdens that be weäk an' peäle a-mwopèn in the house's sheäde, would wish to be so blithe and heäle as you did zee young ruth a-meäde; then, though the zummer zun mid glow, or though the winter win' mid blow, they'd leäp upon the saddle's bow, an' goo, lik' ruth, a-ridèn. while evenèn light do sof'ly gild the moss upon the elem's bark, avore the zingèn bird's a-still'd, or woods be dim, or day is dark, wi' quiv'rèn grass avore his breast, in cowslip beds, do lie at rest, the ho'se that now do goo the best wi' rwosy ruth a-ridèn. beauty undecked. the grass mid sheen when wat'ry beäds o' dew do glitter on the meäds, an' thorns be bright when quiv'rèn studs o' raïn do hang upon their buds-- as jewels be a-meäde by art to zet the plaïnest vo'k off smart. but sheäkèn ivy on its tree, an' low-bough'd laurel at our knee, be bright all daÿ, without the gleäre, o' drops that duller leäves mid weär-- as jeäne is feäir to look upon in plaïnest gear that she can don. my love is good. my love is good, my love is feäir, she's comely to behold, o, in ev'rything that she do wear, altho' 'tis new or wold, o. my heart do leäp to see her walk, so straïght do step her veet, o, my tongue is dum' to hear her talk, her vaïce do sound so sweet, o. the flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green do bear but vew, so good an' true. when she do zit, then she do seem the feäirest to my zight, o, till she do stan' an' i do deem, she's feäirest at her height, o. an' she do seem 'ithin a room the feäirest on a floor, o, till i ageän do zee her bloom still feäirer out o' door, o. where flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green do bear but vew, so good an' true. an' when the deäisies be a-press'd below her vootsteps waïght, o, do seem as if she look'd the best ov all in walkèn gaït, o. till i do zee her zit upright behind the ho'ses neck, o, a-holdèn wi' the raïn so tight his tossèn head in check, o, where flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green do bear but vew, so good an' true. i wish i had my own free land to keep a ho'se to ride, o, i wish i had a ho'se in hand to ride en at her zide, o. vor if i wer as high in rank as any duke or lord, o, or had the goold the richest bank can shovel from his horde, o, i'd love her still, if even then she wer a leäser in a glen. heedless o' my love. oh! i vu'st know'd o' my true love, as the bright moon up above, though her brightness wer my pleasure, she wer heedless o' my love. tho' 'twer all gaÿ to my eyes, where her feäir feäce did arise, she noo mwore thought upon my thoughts, than the high moon in the skies. oh! i vu'st heärd her a-zingèn, as a sweet bird on a tree, though her zingèn wer my pleasure, 'twer noo zong she zung to me. though her sweet vaïce that wer nigh, meäde my wild heart to beat high, she noo mwore thought upon my thoughts, than the birds would passers by. oh! i vu'st know'd her a-weepèn, as a raïn-dimm'd mornèn sky, though her teär-draps dimm'd her blushes, they wer noo draps i could dry. ev'ry bright tear that did roll, wer a keen païn to my soul, but noo heärt's pang she did then veel, wer vor my words to console. but the wold times be a-vanish'd, an' my true love is my bride. an' her kind heart have a-meäde her. as an angel at my zide; i've her best smiles that mid plaÿ, i've her me'th when she is gaÿ, when her tear-draps be a-rollèn, i can now wipe em awaÿ. the do'set militia. hurrah! my lads, vor do'set men! a-muster'd here in red ageän; all welcome to your ranks, a-spread up zide to zide, to stand, or wheel, an' welcome to your files, to head the steady march wi' tooe to heel; welcome to marches slow or quick! welcome to gath'rèns thin or thick; god speed the colonel on the hill,[d] an' mrs bingham,[e] off o' drill. when you've a-handled well your lock, an' flung about your rifle stock vrom han' to shoulder, up an' down; when you've a-lwoaded an' a-vired, till you do come back into town, wi' all your loppèn limbs a-tired, an you be dry an' burnèn hot, why here's your tea an' coffee pot at mister greenèn's penny till, wi' mrs bingham off o' drill. last year john hinley's mother cried, "why my bwoy john is quite my pride! vor he've a-been so good to-year, an' han't a-mell'd wi' any squabbles, an' han't a-drown'd his wits in beer, an' han't a-been in any hobbles. i never thought he'd turn out bad, he always wer so good a lad; but now i'm sure he's better still, drough mrs bingham, off o' drill." jeäne hart, that's joey duntley's chaïce, do praise en up wi' her sweet vaïce, vor he's so strait's a hollyhock (vew hollyhocks be up so tall), an' he do come so true's the clock to mrs bingham's coffee-stall; an' jeäne do write, an' brag o' joe to teäke the young recruits in tow, an' try, vor all their good, to bring em, a-come from drill, to mrs bingham. god speed the colonel, toppèn high, an' officers wi' sworded thigh, an' all the sargeants that do bawl all day enough to split their droats, an' all the corporals, and all the band a-plaÿèn up their notes, an' all the men vrom vur an' near we'll gi'e em all a hearty cheer. an' then another cheerèn still vor mrs bingham, off o' drill. [footnote d: poundbury, dorchester, the drill ground.] [footnote e: the colonel's wife, who opened a room with a coffee-stall, and entertainments for the men off drill.] a do'set sale. with a mistake. (_thomas and mr auctioneer._) _t._ well here, then, mister auctioneer, be theäse the virs, i bought, out here? _a._ the firs, the fir-poles, you bought? who? 'twas _furze_, not _firs_, i sold to you. _t._ i bid vor _virs_, and not vor _vuzzen_, vor vir-poles, as i thought, two dozen. _a._ two dozen faggots, and i took your bidding for them. here's the book. _t._ i wont have what i diddèn buy. i don't want _vuzzen_, now. not i. why _firs_ an' _furze_ do sound the seäme. why don't ye gi'e a thing his neäme? aye, _firs_ and _furze_! why, who can tell which 'tis that you do meän to zell? no, no, be kind enough to call em _virs_, and _vuzzen_, then, that's all. don't ceÄre. at the feäst, i do mind very well, all the vo'ks wer a-took in a happerèn storm, but we chaps took the maïdens, an' kept em wi' clokes under shelter, all dry an' all warm; an' to my lot vell jeäne, that's my bride, that did titter, a-hung at my zide; zaid her aunt, "why the vo'k 'ull talk finely o' you," an', cried she, "i don't ceäre if they do." when the time o' the feäst wer ageän a-come round, an' the vo'k wer a-gather'd woonce mwore, why she guess'd if she went there, she'd soon be a-vound an' a-took seäfely hwome to her door. zaid her mother, "'tis sure to be wet." zaid her cousin, "'t'ull raïn by zunzet." zaid her aunt, "why the clouds there do look black an' blue," an' zaid she, "i don't ceäre if they do." an' at last, when she own'd i mid meäke her my bride, vor to help me, an' sheäre all my lot, an' wi' faïthvulness keep all her life at my zide, though my waÿ mid be happy or not. zaid her naïghbours, "why wedlock's a clog, an' a wife's a-tied up lik' a dog." zaid her aunt, "you'll vind trials enough vor to rue," an', zaid she, "i don't ceäre if i do." * * * * * now she's married, an' still in the midst ov her tweils she's as happy's the daylight is long, she do goo out abroad wi' her feäce vull o' smiles, an' do work in the house wi' a zong. an', zays woone, "she don't grieve, you can tell." zays another, "why, don't she look well!" zays her aunt, "why the young vo'k do envy you two," an', zays she, "i don't ceäre if they do." now vor me i can zing in my business abrode, though the storm do beät down on my poll, there's a wife-brighten'd vier at the end o' my road, an' her love vor the jaÿ o' my soul. out o' door i wi' rogues mid be tried: out o' door be brow-beäten wi' pride; men mid scowl out o' door, if my wife is but true-- let em scowl, "i don't ceäre if they do." changes. by time's a-brought the mornèn light, by time the light do weäne; by time's a-brought the young man's might, by time his might do weäne; the winter snow do whitèn grass, the zummer flow'rs do brightèn grass, vor zome things we do lose wi' païn, we've mwore that mid be jaÿ to gaïn, an' my dear life do seem the seäme while at my zide there still do bide your welcome feäce an' hwomely neäme. wï' ev'ry day that woonce come on i had to choose a jaÿ, wi' many that be since a-gone i had to lose a jaÿ. drough longsome years a-wanderèn, drough lwonesome rest a-ponderèn, woone peaceful daytime wer a-bro't to heal the heart another smote; but my dear life do seem the seäme while i can hear, a-soundèn near, your answ'rèn vaïce an' long-call'd neäme. an' oh! that hope, when life do dawn, should rise to light our waÿ, an' then, wi' weänèn het withdrawn, should soon benight our waÿ. whatever mid beval me still, wherever chance mid call me still, though leäte my evenèn tweil mid cease, an' though my night mid lose its peace, my life will seem to me the seäme while you do sheäre my daily ceäre, an' answer to your long-call'd neäme. kindness. good meäster collins heärd woone day a man a-talkèn, that did zay it woulden answer to be kind, he thought, to vo'k o' grov'lèn mind, vor they would only teäke it wrong, that you be weak an' they be strong. "no," cried the goodman, "never mind, let vo'k be thankless,--you be kind; don't do your good for e'thly ends at man's own call vor man's amends. though souls befriended should remaïn as thankless as the sea vor raïn, on them the good's a-lost 'tis true, but never can be lost to you. look on the cool-feäced moon at night wi' light-vull ring, at utmost height, a-castèn down, in gleamèn strokes, his beams upon the dim-bough'd woaks, to show the cliff a-risèn steep, to show the stream a-vallèn deep, to show where windèn roads do leäd, an' prickly thorns do ward the meäd. while sheädes o' boughs do flutter dark upon the woak-trees' moon-bright bark. there in the lewth, below the hill, the nightèngeäle, wi' ringèn bill, do zing among the soft-aïr'd groves, while up below the house's oves the maïd, a-lookèn vrom her room drough window, in her youthvul bloom, do listen, wi' white ears among her glossy heäirlocks, to the zong. if, then, the while the moon do lïght the lwonesome zinger o' the night, his cwold-beam'd light do seem to show the prowlèn owls the mouse below. what then? because an evil will, ov his sweet good, mid meäke zome ill, shall all his feäce be kept behind the dark-brow'd hills to leäve us blind?" withstanders. when weakness now do strive wi' might in struggles ov an e'thly trial, might mid overcome the right, an' truth be turn'd by might's denial; withstanders we ha' mwost to feär, if selfishness do wring us here, be souls a-holdèn in their hand, the might an' riches o' the land. but when the wicked, now so strong, shall stan' vor judgment, peäle as ashes, by the souls that rued their wrong, wi' tears a-hangèn on their lashes-- then wïthstanders they shall deäre the leäst ov all to meet wi' there, mid be the helpless souls that now below their wrongvul might mid bow. sweet childern o' the dead, bereft ov all their goods by guile an' forgèn; souls o' driven sleäves that left their weäry limbs a-mark'd by scourgèn; they that god ha' call'd to die vor truth ageän the worold's lie, an' they that groan'd an' cried in vaïn, a-bound by foes' unrighteous chaïn. the maïd that selfish craft led on to sin, an' left wi' hope a-blighted; starvèn workmen, thin an' wan, wi' hopeless leäbour ill requited; souls a-wrong'd, an' call'd to vill wi' dread, the men that us'd em ill. when might shall yield to right as pliant as a dwarf avore a giant. when there, at last, the good shall glow in starbright bodies lik' their seäviour, vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show, the marks o' man's unkind beheäviour: wi' speechless tongue, an' burnèn cheak, the strong shall bow avore the weäk, an' vind that helplessness, wi' right, is strong beyond all e'thly might. daniel dwithen, the wise chap. dan dwithen wer the chap to show his naïghbours mwore than they did know, vor he could zee, wi' half a thought, what zome could hardly be a-taught; an' he had never any doubt whatever 'twer, but he did know't, an' had a-reach'd the bottom o't, or soon could meäke it out. wi' narrow feäce, an' nose so thin that light a'most shone drough the skin, as he did talk, wi' his red peäir o' lips, an' his vull eyes did steäre, what nippy looks friend daniel wore, an' how he smiled as he did bring such reasons vor to clear a thing, as dather'd vo'k the mwore! when woonce there come along the road at night, zome show-vo'k, wi' a lwoad ov half the wild outlandïsh things that crawl'd, or went wi' veet, or wings; their elephant, to stratch his knees, walk'd up the road-zide turf, an' left his tracks a-zunk wi' all his heft as big's a vinny cheese. an' zoo next mornèn zome vo'k vound the girt round tracks upon the ground, an' view'd em all wi' stedvast eyes, an' wi' their vingers spann'd their size, an' took their depth below the brink: an' whether they mid be the tracks o' things wi' witches on their backs, or what, they coulden think. at last friend dan come up, an' brought his wit to help their dizzy thought, an' lookèn on an' off the ea'th, he cried, a-drawèn a vull breath, why, i do know; what, can't ye zee 't? i'll bet a shillèn 'twer a deer broke out o' park, an' sprung on here, wi' quoits upon his veet. turnÈn things off. upzides wi' polly! no, he'd vind that poll would soon leäve him behind. to turn things off! oh! she's too quick to be a-caught by ev'ry trick. woone day our jimmy stole down steäirs on merry polly unaweäres, the while her nimble tongue did run a-tellèn, all alive wi' fun, to sister anne, how simon heäre did hanker after her at feäir. "he left," cried polly, "cousin jeäne, an' kept wi' us all down the leäne, an' which way ever we did leäd he vollow'd over hill an' meäd; an' wi' his head o' shaggy heäir, an' sleek brown cwoat that he do weäre, an' collar that did reach so high 's his two red ears, or perty nigh, he swung his täil, wi' steps o' pride, back right an' left, vrom zide to zide, a-walkèn on, wi' heavy strides a half behind, an' half upzides." "who's that?" cried jimmy, all agog; an' thought he had her now han'-pat, "that's simon heäre," but no, "who's that?" cried she at woonce, "why uncle's dog, wi' what have you a-been misled i wonder. tell me what i zaid." woone evenèn as she zot bezide the wall the ranglèn vine do hide, a-prattlèn on, as she did zend her needle, at her vinger's end. on drough the work she had in hand, zome bran-new thing that she'd a-plann'd, jim overheärd her talk ageän o' robin hine, ov ivy leäne, "oh! no, what he!" she cried in scorn, "i wouldèn gie a penny vor'n; the best ov him's outzide in view; his cwoat is gaÿ enough, 'tis true, but then the wold vo'k didden bring en up to know a single thing, an' as vor zingèn,--what do seem his zingèn's nothèn but a scream." "so ho!" cried jim, "who's that, then, meäry, that you be now a-talkèn o'?" he thought to catch her then, but, no, cried polly, "oh! why jeäne's caneäry, wi' what have you a-been misled, i wonder. tell me what i zaid." the giants in treÄdes. gramfer's feÄble. (_how the steam engine come about._) _vier, aïr, e'th, water_, wer a-meäde good workers, each o'm in his treäde, an' _aïr_ an' _water_, wer a-match vor woone another in a mill; the giant _water_ at a hatch, an' _aïr_ on the windmill hill. zoo then, when _water_ had a-meäde zome money, _Äir_ begrudg'd his treäde, an' come by, unaweäres woone night, an' vound en at his own mill-head, an' cast upon en, iron-tight, an icy cwoat so stiff as lead. an' there he wer so good as dead vor grindèn any corn vor bread. then _water_ cried to _vier_, "alack! look, here be i, so stiff's a log, thik fellor _aïr_ do keep me back vrom grindèn. i can't wag a cog. if i, dear _vier_, did ever souse your nimble body on a house, when you wer on your merry pranks wi' thatch or refters, beams or planks, vorgi'e me, do, in pity's neäme, vor 'twerden i that wer to bleäme, i never wagg'd, though i be'nt cringèn, till men did dreve me wi' their engine. do zet me free vrom theäse cwold jacket, vor i myzelf shall never crack it." "well come," cried _vier_, "my vo'k ha' meäde an engine that 'ull work your treäde. if _e'th_ is only in the mood, while i do work, to gi'e me food, i'll help ye, an' i'll meäke your skill a match vor mister _aïr's_ wold mill." "what food," cried _e'th_, "'ull suit your bwoard?" "oh! trust me, i ben't over nice," cried _vier_, "an' i can eat a slice ov any thing you can avword." "i've lots," cried _e'th_, "ov coal an' wood." "ah! that's the stuff," cried _vier_, "that's good." zoo _vier_ at woonce to _water_ cried, "here, _water_, here, you get inside o' theäse girt bwoiler. then i'll show how i can help ye down below, an' when my work shall woonce begin you'll be a thousand times so strong, an' be a thousand times so long an' big as when you vu'st got in. an' i wull meäke, as sure as death, thik fellor _aïr_ to vind me breath, an' you shall grind, an' pull, an' dreve, an' zaw, an' drash, an' pump, an' heave, an' get vrom _aïr_, in time, i'll lay a pound, the drevèn ships at sea." an' zoo 'tis good to zee that might wull help a man a-wrong'd, to right. the little worold. my hwome wer on the timber'd ground o' duncombe, wi' the hills a-bound: where vew from other peärts did come, an' vew did travel vur from hwome, an' small the worold i did know; but then, what had it to bestow but fanny deäne so good an' feäir? 'twer wide enough if she wer there. in our deep hollow where the zun did eärly leäve the smoky tun, an' all the meäds a-growèn dim, below the hill wi' zunny rim; oh! small the land the hills did bound, but there did walk upon the ground young fanny deäne so good an' feäir: 'twer wide enough if she wer there. o' leäte upon the misty plaïn i staÿ'd vor shelter vrom the raïn, where sharp-leav'd ashès' heads did twist in hufflèn wind, an' driftèn mist, an' small the worold i could zee; but then it had below the tree my fanny deäne so good an' feäir: 'twer wide enough if she wer there. an' i've a house wi' thatchen ridge, below the elems by the bridge: wi' small-peän'd windows, that do look upon a knap, an' ramblèn brook; an' small's my house, my ruf is low, but then who mid it have to show but fanny deäne so good an' feäir? 'tis fine enough if peace is there. bad news. i do mind when there broke bitter tidèns, woone day, on their ears, an' their souls wer a-smote wi' a stroke as the lightnèn do vall on the woak, an' the things that wer bright all around em seem'd dim drough their tears. then unheeded wer things in their vingers, their grief wer their all. all unheeded wer zongs o' the birds, all unheeded the child's perty words, all unheeded the kitten a-rollèn the white-threaded ball. oh! vor their minds the daylight around em had nothèn to show. though it brighten'd their tears as they vell, an' did sheen on their lips that did tell, in their vaïces all thrillèn an' mwoansome, o' nothèn but woe. but they vound that, by heavenly mercy, the news werden true; an' they shook, wi' low laughter, as quick as a drum when his blows do vall thick, an' wer eärnest in words o' thanksgivèn, vor mercies anew. the turnstile. ah! sad wer we as we did peäce the wold church road, wi' downcast feäce, the while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep above our child a-left asleep, wer now a-zingèn all alive wi' tother bells to meäke the vive. but up at woone pleäce we come by, 'twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry: on steän-cliff road, 'ithin the drong, up where, as vo'k do pass along, the turnèn stile, a-païnted white, do sheen by day an' show by night. vor always there, as we did goo to church, thik stile did let us drough, wi' spreadèn eärms that wheel'd to guide us each in turn to tother zide. an' vu'st ov all the traïn he took my wife, wi' winsome gaït an' look; an' then zent on my little maïd, a-skippèn onward, overjaÿ'd to reach ageän the pleäce o' pride, her comely mother's left han' zide. an' then, a-wheelèn roun', he took on me, 'ithin his third white nook. an' in the fourth, a-sheäkèn wild, he zent us on our giddy child. but eesterday he guided slow my downcast jenny, vull o' woe, an' then my little maïd in black, a-walkèn softly on her track; an' after he'd a-turn'd ageän, to let me goo along the leäne, he had noo little bwoy to vill his last white eärms, an' they stood still. the better vor zeÈn o' you. 'twer good what meäster collins spoke o' spite to two poor spitevul vo'k, when woone twold tother o' the two "i be never the better vor zeèn o' you." if soul to soul, as christians should, would always try to do zome good, "how vew," he cried, "would zee our feäce a-brighten'd up wi' smiles o' greäce, an' tell us, or could tell us true, i be never the better vor zeèn o' you." a man mus' be in evil ceäse to live 'ithin a land o' greäce, wi' nothèn that a soul can read o' goodness in his word or deed; to still a breast a-heav'd wi' sighs, or dry the tears o' weepèn eyes; to staÿ a vist that spite ha' wrung, or cool the het ov anger's tongue: or bless, or help, or gi'e, or lend; or to the friendless stand a friend, an' zoo that all could tell en true, "i be never the better vor zeèn o' you." oh! no, mid all o's try to spend our passèn time to zome good end, an' zoo vrom day to day teäke heed, by mind, an' han', by word or deed; to lessen evil, and increase the growth o' righteousness an' peäce, a-speakèn words o' lovèn-kindness, openèn the eyes o' blindness; helpèn helpless striver's weakness, cheerèn hopeless grievers' meekness, meäkèn friends at every meetèn, veel the happier vor their greetèn; zoo that vew could tell us true, "i be never the better vor zeèn o' you." no, let us even try to win zome little good vrom sons o' sin, an' let their evils warn us back vrom teäkèn on their hopeless track, where we mid zee so clear's the zun that harm a-done is harm a-won, an' we mid cry an' tell em true, "i be even the better vor zeèn o' you." pity. good meäster collins! aye, how mild he spoke woone day o' mercy to zome cruel vo'k. "no, no. have mercy on a helpless head, an' don't be cruel to a zoul," he zaid. "when babylon's king woonce cast 'ithin the viery furnace, in his spite, the vetter'd souls whose only sin wer praÿer to the god o' might, he vound a fourth, 'ithout a neäme, a-walkèn wi' em in the fleäme. an' zoo, whenever we mid hurt, vrom spite, or vrom disdaïn, a brother's soul, or meäke en smert wi' keen an' needless païn, another that we midden know is always wi' en in his woe. vor you do know our lord ha' cried, "by faïth my bretheren do bide in me the livèn vine, as branches in a livèn tree; whatever you've a-done to mine is all a-done to me. oh! when the new-born child, the e'th's new guest, do lie an' heave his little breast, in pillow'd sleep, wi' sweetest breath o' sinless days drough rwosy lips a-drawn; then, if a han' can smite en in his dawn o' life to darksome death, oh! where can pity ever vwold her wings o' swiftness vrom their holy flight, to leäve a heart o' flesh an' blood so cwold at such a touchèn zight? an' zoo mid meek-soul'd pity still be zent to check our evil will, an' keep the helpless soul from woe, an' hold the hardened heart vrom sin. vor they that can but mercy show shall all their father's mercy win." john bloom in lon'on. (_all true._) john bloom he wer a jolly soul, a grinder o' the best o' meal, bezide a river that did roll, vrom week to week, to push his wheel. his flour wer all a-meäde o' wheat; an' fit for bread that vo'k mid eat; vor he would starve avore he'd cheat. "'tis pure," woone woman cried; "aye, sure," woone mwore replied; "you'll vind it nice. buy woonce, buy twice," cried worthy bloom the miller. athirt the chest he wer so wide as two or dree ov me or you. an' wider still vrom zide to zide, an' i do think still thicker drough. vall down, he coulden, he did lie when he wer up on-zide so high as up on-end or perty nigh. "meäke room," woone naïghbour cried; "'tis bloom," woone mwore replied; "good morn t'ye all, bwoth girt an' small," cried worthy bloom the miller. noo stings o' conscience ever broke his rest, a-twitèn o'n wi' wrong, zoo he did sleep till mornèn broke, an' birds did call en wi' their zong. but he did love a harmless joke, an' love his evenèn whiff o' smoke, a-zittèn in his cheäir o' woak. "your cup," his daughter cried; "vill'd up," his wife replied; "aye, aye; a drap avore my nap," cried worthy bloom the miller. when lon'on vok did meäke a show o' their girt glassen house woone year, an' people went, bwoth high an' low, to zee the zight, vrom vur an' near, "o well," cried bloom, "why i've a right so well's the rest to zee the zight; i'll goo, an' teäke the raïl outright." "your feäre," the booker cried; "there, there," good bloom replied; "why this june het do meäke woone zweat," cried worthy bloom the miller, then up the guard did whissle sh'ill, an' then the engine pank'd a-blast, an' rottled on so loud's a mill, avore the traïn, vrom slow to vast. an' oh! at last how they did spank by cuttèn deep, an' high-cast bank the while their iron ho'se did pank. "do whizzy," woone o'm cried; "i'm dizzy," woone replied; "aye, here's the road to hawl a lwoad," cried worthy bloom the miller. in lon'on john zent out to call a tidy trap, that he mid ride to zee the glassen house, an' all the lot o' things a-stow'd inside. "here, boots, come here," cried he, "i'll dab a sixpence in your han' to nab down street a tidy little cab." "a feäre," the boots then cried; "i'm there," the man replied. "the glassen pleäce, your quickest peäce," cried worthy bloom the miller. the steps went down wi' rottlèn slap, the zwingèn door went open wide: wide? no; vor when the worthy chap stepp'd up to teäke his pleäce inside, breast-foremost, he wer twice too wide vor thik there door. an' then he tried to edge in woone an' tother zide. "'twont do," the drever cried; "can't goo," good bloom replied; "that you should bring theäse vooty thing!" cried worthy bloom the miller. "come," cried the drever. "pay your feäre you'll teäke up all my time, good man." "well," answer'd bloom, "to meäke that square, you teäke up me, then, if you can." "i come at call," the man did nod. "what then?" cried bloom, "i han't a-rod, an' can't in thik there hodmadod." "girt lump," the drever cried; "small stump," good bloom replied; "a little mite, to meäke so light, o' jolly bloom the miller." "you'd best be off now perty quick," cried bloom. "an' vind a lighter lwoad, or else i'll vetch my voot, an' kick the vooty thing athirt the road." "who is the man?" they cried, "meäke room," "a halfstarv'd do'set man," cried bloom; "you be?" another cried; "hee! hee!" woone mwore replied. "aye, shrunk so thin, to bwone an' skin," cried worthy bloom the miller. a lot o' maÏdens a-runnÈn the vields.[f] "come on. be sprack, a-laggèn back." "oh! be there any cows to hook?" "lauk she's afraïd, a silly maïd," cows? no, the cows be down by brook. "o here then, oh! here is a lot." "a lot o' what? what is it? what?" "why blackberries, as thick as ever they can stick." "i've dewberries, oh! twice as good as they; so nice." "look here. theäse boughs be all but blue wi' snags." "oh! gi'e me down a vew." "come here, oh! do but look." "what's that? what is it now?" "why nuts a-slippèn shell." "hee! hee! pull down the bough." "i wish i had a crook." "there zome o'm be a-vell." (_one sings_) "i wish i was on bimport hill i would zit down and cry my vill." "hee! hee! there's jenny zomewhere nigh, a-zingèn that she'd like to cry." (_jenny sings_) "i would zit down and cry my vill until my tears would dreve a mill." "oh! here's an ugly crawlèn thing, a sneäke." "a slooworm; he wont sting." "hee! hee! how she did squal an' hop, a-spinnèn roun' so quick's a top." "look here, oh! quick, be quick." "what is it? what then? where?" "a rabbit." "no, a heäre." "ooh! ooh! the thorns do prick," "how he did scote along the ground as if he wer avore a hound." "now mind the thistles." "hee, hee, hee, why they be knapweeds." "no." "they be." "i've zome'hat in my shoe." "zit down, an' sheäke it out." "oh! emmets, oh! ooh, ooh, a-crawlèn all about." "what bird is that, o harken, hush. how sweetly he do zing." "a nightingeäle." "la! no, a drush." "oh! here's a funny thing." "oh! how the bull do hook, an' bleäre, an' fling the dirt." "oh! wont he come athirt?" "no, he's beyond the brook." "o lauk! a hornet rose up clwose avore my nose." "oh! what wer that so white rush'd out o' thik tree's top?" "an owl." "how i did hop, how i do sheäke wi' fright." "a musheroom." "o lau! a twoadstool! pwoison! augh." "what's that, a mouse?" "o no, teäke ceäre, why 'tis a shrow." "be sure don't let en come an' run athirt your shoe he'll meäke your voot so numb that you wont veel a tooe."[g] "oh! what wer that so loud a-rumblèn?" "why a clap o' thunder. here's a cloud o' raïn. i veel a drap." "a thunderstorm. do raïn. run hwome wi' might an' main." "hee! hee! oh! there's a drop a-trïckled down my back. hee! hee!" "my head's as wet's a mop." "oh! thunder," "there's a crack. oh! oh!" "oh! i've a-got the stitch, oh!" "oh! i've a-lost my shoe, oh!" "there's fanny into ditch, oh!" "i'm wet all drough an' drough, oh!" [footnote f: the idea, though but little of the substance, of this poem, will be found in a little italian poem called _caccia_, written by franco sacchetti.] [footnote g: the folklore is, that if a shrew-mouse run over a person's foot, it will lame him.] * * * * * a list of some dorset words with a few hints on dorset word-shapes. the main sounds. . _ee_ in beet. . _e_ in dorset (a sound between and .) . _a_ in mate. . _i_ in birth. . _a_ in father. . _aw_ in awe. . _o_ in dote. . _oo_ in rood. in dorset words which are forms of book-english ones, the dorset words differ from the others mainly by grimm's law, that "likes shift into likes," and i have given a few hints by which the putting of an english heading for the dorset one will give the english word. if the reader is posed by _dreaten_, he may try for _dr_, _thr_, which will bring out _threaten_. see _dr_ under _d_. a. _a_ in father, and _au_ in daughter are, in "blackmore," often _a_ = . so king alfred gives a legacy to his _yldsta dehter_--oldest daehter. _a_ is a fore-eking to participles of a fore time, as _a-vound_; also for the anglo-saxon _an_, _in_ or _on_, as _a-huntèn_ for _an huntunge_. _aï_, _aÿ_ ( , ), maïd, maÿ. (_note_--the numbers (as , ) refer to the foregiven table.) _ag_, often for _eg_, as bag, agg, beg, egg. _anewst_, _anighst_, very near, or nearly. _a'r a_, ever a, as. _a'r a dog_, ever a dog. _amper_, pus. _a'r'n_, e'er a one. _a-stooded_ (as a waggon), with wheels sunk fast into rotten ground. _a-stogged_, _a-stocked_, with feet stuck fast in clay. _a-strout_, stiff stretched. _a-thirt_, athwart (_th_ soft). _a-vore_, afore, before. _ax_, ask. _axan_, ashes (of fire). _a-zew_, dry, milkless. b. _backbran' (brand)_, _backbron' (brond)_, a big brand or block of wood put on the back of the fire. _ballywrag_, scold. _bandy_, a long stick with a bent end to beat abroad cow-dung. _barken_, _barton_, a stack-yard or cow yard. _bavèn_, a faggot of long brushwood. _beä'nhan'_ ( , , ), bear in hand, uphold or maintain, as an opinion or otherwise. _beät_ ( , ), _up_, to beat one's way up. _bennets_, flower-stalks of grass. _be'th_, birth. _bibber_, to shake with cold. [this is a friesic and not an anglo-saxon form of the word, and halbertsma, in his "lexicon frisicum," gives it, among others, as a token that frisians came into wessex with the saxons. _see_ eltrot.] _bissen_, thou bist not. _bittle_, a beetle. _blatch_, black stuff; smut. _blather_, a bladder. _bleäre_ ( , ), to low as a cow. _blind-buck o' davy_, blindman's buff. _bloodywarrior_, the ruddy stock gilliflower. _blooèns_, blossoms. _blooth_, blossom in the main. _bluevinny_, blue mouldy. _brack_, a breach. "neither brack nor crack in it." _bran'_, a brand. _brantèn_, brazen-faced. _bring-gwaïn_ (bring-going), to bring one on his way. _brocks_, broken pieces (as of food). _bron'_, a brand. _bruckly_, _bruckle_, brittle. _bundle_, to bound off; go away quickly. _bu'st_, burst. c. _caddle_, a muddle; a puzzling plight amid untoward things, such that a man knows not what to do first. _car_, to carry. _cassen_, _casn_, canst not. _chanker_, a wide chink. _charlick_, _charlock_, field-mustard; _sinapis arvensis_. _charm_, a noise as of many voices. _choor_, _a chare_, a (weekly) job as of house work. _chuck_, to throw underhanded to a point, or for a catch. _clack_, _clacker_, a bird-clacker; a bird-boy's clacking tool, to fray away birds; also the tongue. _clavy_, _clavy-bwoard_, the mantel-shelf. _clèden_, cleavers, goosegrass; _galium aparine._ _clips_, to clasp. _clitty_, clingy. _clocks_, ornaments on the ankles of stockings. _clom'_, clomb, climbed. _clote_, the yellow water-lily; _nuphar lutea_. _clout_, a blow with the flat hand. _clum_, to handle clumsily. _cluster o' vive_ (cluster of five), the fist or hand with its five fingers; wording taken from a cluster of nuts. _cockle_, _cuckle_, the bur of the burdock. _cockleshell_, snail shell. _colepexy_, to glean the few apples left on the tree after intaking. _coll_ ( ), to embrace the neck. _conker_, the hip, or hep; the fruit of the briar. _cothe_, _coath_ (_th_ soft), a disease of sheep, the plaice or flook, a flat worm _distoma nepaticum_ in the stomach. _cou'den_, could not. _coussen_, _coossen_, _coosn_, couldest not. _craze_, to crack a little. _critch_, a big pitcher. _crock_, an iron cooking-pot. _croodle_, to crow softly. _croop_, _croopy-down_, to bend down the body; to stoop very low. _crope_, crept. _crowshell_, shell of the fresh-water mussel, as taken out of the river for food by crows. _cubby-hole_, _cubby-house_, between the father's knees. _culver_, the wood pigeon. _cutty_, _cut_, the kittywren. _cweïn_, _cwoïn_, ( , ) coin. _cwoffer_ ( , , ), a coffer. d. _dadder_, _dather_, _dudder_, to maze or bewilder. _dag_, _childag_, a chilblain. _dake_, to ding or push forth. _daps_, the very likeness, as that of a cast from the same mould. _dather_, see _dadder_. _dent_, a dint. _dewberry_, a big kind of blackberry. _dibs_, coins; but truly, the small knee bones of a sheep used in the game of dibs. _didden (didn)_, did not. _do_, the _o_, when not under a strain of voice, is ( ) as _e_ in 'the man' or as _e_ in the french _le_. _dod_, a dump. _dogs_, andirons. _don_, to put on. _doust_, dust. _dr_ for _thr_ in some words, as drash, thresh. _drashel_, threshold. _dreaten_, threaten. _dree_, three. _dringe_, _drunge_, to throng; push as in a throng. _droat_, throat. _drong_, throng; also a narrow way. _drough_, through. _drow_, throw. _drub_, throb. _drush_, thrush. _drust_, thrust. _drean_, _drène_ ( ), to drawl. _drève_ ( ), drive. _duck_, a darkening, dusk. _dumbledore_, the humble bee. _dummet_, dusk. _dunch_, dull of hearing, or mind. _dunch-nettle_, the dead nettle, _lamium_. _dunch-pudden_, pudding of bare dough. _dungpot_, a dungcart. _dunt_, to blunten as an edge or pain. _durns_, the side posts of a door. e. long itself alone has mostly the dorset sound ( .) _eä_ ( , ) for _ea_, with the _a_ unsounded as lead, mead, leäd, meäd. _eä_ ( , ) for the long _a_, , as in lade, made, leäde, meäde. _ea_ of one sound ( ) as meat. _e_ is put in before s after st, as nestes, nests, vistes, fists. the two sundry soundings of _ea_ and do not go by our spelling _ea_ for both, but have come from earlier forms of the words. after a roof letter it may stay as it is, a roof letter, as madden, madd'n; rotten, rott'n. so with _en_ for him, tell en, tell'n. the _en_ sometimes at the end of words means not, as bisse'n, bist not; coust'en, cous'n, could'st not; i didd'n, i did not; diss'n, didst not; hadd'n, had not; muss'n, must not; midd'n, mid not; should'n, should not; 'tis'n, 'tis not; would'n, would not. _en_--not _èn_--in dorset, as well as in book english, as an ending of some kinds of words often, in running talk, loses the _e_, and in some cases shifts into a sound of the kind of the one close before it. after a lip-letter it becomes a lip-letter _m_, as rub en, rub-him; rub'n, rub'm; oven, ov'm; open, op'n op'm, in dorset mostly oben, ob'n, ob'm. so after _f'_, deafen, deaf'n, deaf m, heaven, heav'n, heav'm, in dorset sometimes heab'm. zeven, zeb'n, zeb'm. after a throat-letter it becomes a throat one, _ng_, as token, tok'n, tok'ng. _[=e]_ ( ). _eegrass_, aftermath. _eltrot_, eltroot, cowparsley (_myrrhis_). [elt is freisic, robustus, vegetus, as cowparsley is among other kinds.] _see_ bibber. _emmet_, an ant. _emmetbut_, an anthill. _en_, him; a.-saxon, _hine_. _Èn_, for ing, zingèn, singing. _eve_, to become wet as a cold stone floor from thickened steam in some weather. _evet_, eft, newt. _exe_, an axle. f. _fakket_, a faggot. _fall_, autumn; to fall down is _vall_. _faÿ_ ( , ) to speed, succeed. _feäst_ ( , ), a village wake or festival; _festa_. _flag_, a water plant. _flinders_, flying pieces of a body smashed; "hit it all to flinders." _flounce_, a flying fall as into water. _flout_, a flinging, or blow of one. _flush_, fledged. _footy_, unhandily little. g. _gally_, to frighten, fray. _gee_, _jee_, to go, fit, speed. _giddygander_, the meadow orchis. _gil'cup_, gilt cup, the buttercup. _girt_, great. _gl[=e]ne_ ( ), to smile sneeringly. _glutch_, to swallow. _gnang_, to mock one with jaw waggings, and noisy sounds. _gnot_, a gnat. _goo_, go. _goocoo flower_, _cardamine pratensis_. _goodnow_, goodn'er, good neighbour; my good friend; "no, no; not i, goodnow;" "no, no; not i, my good friend." _goolden chain_, the laburnum. _gout_, an underground gutter. _grægle_, _greygle_, the wild hyacinth, _hyacinthus nonscriptus_. _gramfer_, grandfather. _ground-ash_, an ash stick that springs from the ground, and so is tough; "ground the pick," to put the stem of it on the ground, to raise a pitch of hay. _gwoad_ ( , ), a goad. h. _hacker_, a hoe. _hagrod_, hagridden in sleep, if not under the nightmare. _haïn_ ( , ), to fence in ground or shut up a field for mowing. _ha'me_, see _hau'm_. _hangèn_, sloping ground. _hansel_, _handsel_, a hand gift. _hansel_, _handsel_, to use a new thing for the first time. _happer_, to hop up as hailstones or rain-drops from ground or pavement in a hard storm, or as down-shaken apples; to fall so hard as to hop up at falling. _haps_, a hasp. _ha'skim_, halfskim cheese of milk skimmed only once. _hassen_, hast not. _haum_, _haulm_, _hulm_, the hollow stalks of plants. _teätie haum_ potatoe stalks. _hatch_, a low wicket or half door. _haÿmeäkèn_, haymaking. the steps of haymaking by hand, in the rich meadow lands of blackmore, ere machines were brought into the field, were these:--the grass being mown, and laying in _swath_ it was ( ) _tedded_, spread evenly over the ground; ( ) it was _turned_ to dry the under side; ( ) it was in the evening raked up into _rollers_, each roller of the grass of the stretch of one rake, and the rollers were sometimes put up into hay cocks; ( ) in the morning the rollers were cast abroad into _pa'sels_ (parcels) or broad lists, with clear ground between each two; ( ) the parcels were turned, and when dry they were pushed up into _weäles_ (weales) or long ridges, and, with a fear of rain, the weäles were put up into _pooks_, or big peaked heaps; the waggon (often called the _plow_) came along between two weäles or rows of pooks, with two loaders, and a pitcher on each side pitched up to them the hay of his side, while two women raked after plow, or raked up the leavings of the pitchers, who stepped back from time to time to take it from them. _hazen_, to forebode. _hazzle_, hazel. _heal_ ( ), hide, to cover. _heal pease_, to hoe up the earth on them. _heän_ ( , ), a haft, handle. _heft_, weight. _herence_, hence. _here right_, here on the spot, etc. _het_, heat, also a heat in running. _het_, to hit. _heth_, a hearth, a heath. _hick_, to hop on one leg. _hidelock_, _hidlock_, a hiding place. "he is in hidelock." he is absconded. _hidybuck_, hide-and-seek, the game. _hile of sheaves_, ten, against in a ridge, and at each end. _ho_, to feel misgiving care. _hodmadod_, a little dod or dump; in some parts of england a snail. _holm_, ho'me, holly. _hook_, to gore as a cow. _honeyzuck_, honeysuckle. _ho'se-tinger_, the dragon-fly, _libellula_. _horse_ does not mean a horse, but is an adjective meaning coarse or big of its kind, as in horse-radish, or horse-chesnut; most likely the old form of the word gave name to the horse as the big beast where there was not an elephant or other greater one. the dragon-fly is, in some parts called the "tanging ether" or tanging adder, from _tang_, a long thin body, and a sting. very few dorset folk believe that the dragon-fly stings horses any more than that the horse eats horse-brambles or horse-mushrooms. _hud_, a pod, a hood-like thing. _ho'se_, hoss, a board on which a ditcher may stand in a wet ditch. _huddick_ (hoodock), a fingerstall. _hull_, a pod, a hollow thing. _humbuz_, a notched strip of lath, swung round on a string, and humming or buzzing. _humstrum_, a rude, home made musical instrument, now given up. j. _jack-o'-lent_, a man-like scarecrow. the true jack-o'-lent was, as we learn from taylor, the water poet, a ragged, lean-like figure which went as a token of lent, in olden times, in lent processions. _jist_, just. _jut_, to nudge or jog quickly. k. _kag_, a keg. _kapple cow_, a cow with a white muzzle. _kern_, to grow into fruit. _ketch_, _katch_, to thicken or harden from thinness, as melted fat. _kecks_, _kex_, a stem of the hemlock or cowparsley. _keys_, ( ), the seed vessels of the sycamore. _kid_, a pod, as of the pea. _kittyboots_, low uplaced boots, a little more than ancle high. _knap_, a hillock, a head, or knob, ( .) a knob-like bud, as of the potatoe. "the teäties be out in knap." l. _läiter_ ( , ), one run of laying of a hen. _leän_ ( , ), to lean. _leäne_ ( , ), a lane. _leäse_ ( , ), to glean. _leäse_ ( , ), _leäze_, an unmown field, stocked through the spring and summer. _leer_, _leery_, empty. _lence_, a loan, a lending. _levers_, _livers_, the corn flag. _lew_, sheltered from cold wind. _lewth_, lewness. _libbets_, loose-hanging rags. _limber_, limp. _linch_, _linchet_, a ledge on a hill-side. _litsome_, lightsome, gay. _litty_, light and brisk of body. _lo't_ ( ), loft, an upper floor. _lowl_, to loll loosely. _lumper_, a loose step. m. _maesh_ ( ), _mesh_, (blackmore) moss, also a hole or run of a hare, fox, or other wild animal. _mammet_, an image, scarecrow. _marrels_, _merrels_, the game of nine men's morris. _mawn_, m[=a]n, ( ) a kind of basket. _meäden_ ( , ), stinking chamomile. _ment_ ( ), to imitate, be like. _m[=e]sh_, ( ) moss. _mid_, might. _miff_, a slight feud, a tiff. _min_ ( ), observe. you must know. _mither ho_, come hither. a call to a horse on the road. _moot_, the bottom and roots of a felled tree. _more_, a root, taproot. _muggy_, misty, damp (weather). n. _na'r a_, never a (man). _nar'n_, never a one. _n'eet_, not yet. _n[=e]sh_ ( ), soft. _nesthooden_, a hooding over a bird's nest, as a wren's. _netlèns_, a food of a pig's inwards tied in knots. _never'stide_, never at all. _nicky_, a very small fagot of sticks. _nïppy_, hungry, catchy. _nitch_, a big fagot of wood; a load; a fagot of wood which custom allows a hedger to carry home at night. _not_ (hnot or knot), hornless. _nother_, neither (adverb). _nunch_, a nog or knob of food. _nut_ (of a wheel), the stock or nave. o. _o'_, of. _o'm_ ( ), of em, them. _o'n_ ( ), of him. _o's_ ( ), of us. _orts_, leavings of hay put out in little heaps in the fields for the cows. _over-right_, opposite. _oves_, eaves. p. _paladore_, a traditional name of shaftesbury, the british _caer paladr_, said by british history to have been founded by _rhun paladr-bras_, 'rhun of the stout spear.' _pank_, pant. _par_, to shut up close; confine. _parrick_, a small enclosed field; a paddock--but paddock was an old word for a toad or frog. _pa'sels_, parcels. _see_ haÿmeäkèn. _peärt_ ( , ), pert; lively. _peaze_, _peeze_ ( ), to ooze. _peewit_, the lapwing. _pitch._ _see_ haÿmeäkèn. _plesh_, ( ) _plush_ (a hedge), to lay it. to cut the stems half off and peg them down on the bank where they sprout upward. to plush, shear, and trim a hedge are sundry handlings of it. _plim_, to swell up. _plock_, a hard block of wood. _plow_, a waggon, often so called. the plough or plow for ploughing is the zull. _plounce_, a strong plunge. _pluffy_, plump. _pont_, to hit a fish or fruit, so as to bring on a rotting. _pooks._ _see_ haÿmeäkèn. _popple_, a pebble. _praïse_ ( , ), prize, to put forth or tell to others a pain or ailing. "i had a risèn on my eärm, but i didden praïse it," say anything about it. _pummy_, pomice. _ps_ for _sp_ in clasp, claps; hasp, haps; wasp, waps. q. _quaer_, queer. _quag_, a quaking bog. _quar_, a quarry. _quarrel_, a square window pane. _quid_, a cud. _quirk_, to grunt with the breath without the voice. r. _r_, at the head of a word, is strongly breathed, as _hr_ in anglo-saxon, as _hhrong_, the rong of a ladder. _r_ is given in dorset by a rolling of the tongue back under the roof. for _or_, as an ending sometimes given before a free breathing, or _h_, try _ow_,--_hollor_, hollow. _r_ before _s_, _st_, and _th_ often goes out, as bu'st, burst; ve'ss, verse; be'th, birth; cu'st, curst; fwo'ce, force; me'th, mirth. _raft_, to rouse, excite. _rake_, to reek. _ram_, _rammish_, rank of smell. _rammil_, raw milk (cheese), of unskimmed milk. _ramsclaws_, the creeping crowfoot. _ranunculus repens._ _randy_, a merry uproar or meeting. _rangle_, to range or reach about. _rathe_, early; whence rather. _ratch_, to stretch. _readship_, criterion, counsel. _reämes_, ( , ), skeleton, frame. _reän_ ( , ), to reach in greedily in eating. _reäves_, a frame of little rongs on the side of a waggon. _reed_ ( ), wheat hulm drawn for thatching. _reely_, to dance a reel. _reem_, to stretch, broaden. _rick_, a stack. _rig_, to climb about. _rivel_, shrivel; to wrinkle up. _robin hood_, the red campion. _roller_ ( , ). _see_ haÿmeäkèn. a roller was also a little roll of wool from the card of a woolcomber. _rottlepenny_, the yellow rattle. _rhinanthus crista-galli._ _rouet_, a rough tuft of grass. s. _sammy_, soft, a soft head; simpleton. _sar_, to serve or give food to (cattle). _sarch_, to search. _scote_, to shoot along fast in running. _scrag_, a crooked branch of a tree. _scraggle_, to screw scramly about (of a man), to screw the limbs scramly as from rheumatism. _scram_, distorted, awry. _scroff_, bits of small wood or chips, as from windfalls or hedge plushing. _scroop_, to skreak lowly as new shoes or a gate hinge. _scud_, a sudden or short down-shooting of rain, a shower. _scwo'ce_, chop or exchange. _settle_, a long bench with a high planken back. _shard_, a small gap in a hedge. _sharps_, shafts of a waggon. _shatten_, shalt not. _shroud_ (trees), to cut off branches. _sheeted cow_, with a broad white band round her body. _shoulden (shoodn)_, should not. _shrow_, _sh'ow_, _sh'ow-crop_, the shrew mouse. _skim_, _skimmy_, grass; to cut off rank tuffs, or rouets. _slaït_, ( , ) _slite_, a slade, or sheep run. _slent_, a tear in clothes. _slidder_, to slide about. _slim_, sly. _sloo_, sloe. _slooworm_, the slow-worm. _smame_, to smear. _smeech_, a cloud of dust. _smert_, to smart; pain. _snabble_, to snap up quickly. _snags_, small pea-big sloes, also stumps. _sneäd_ ( , ), a scythe stem. _snoatch_, to breathe loudly through the nose. _snoff_, a snuff of a candle. _sock_, a short loud sigh. _spur (dung)_, to cast it abroad. _squaïl_ ( , ), to fling something at a bird or ought else. _squot_, to flatten by a blow. _sowel_, _zowel_, a hurdle stake. _sparbill_, _sparrabill_, a kind of shoe nail. _spars_, forked sticks used in thatching. _speäker_ ( ), a long spike of wood to bear the hedger's nitch on his shoulder. _spears_, _speers_, the stalks of reed grass. _spik_, spike, lavender. _sprack_, active. _sprethe_ ( ), to chap as of the skin, from cold. _spry_, springy in leaping, or limb work. _staddle_, a bed or frame for ricks. _staïd_ ( , ), steady, oldish. _stannèns_, stalls in a fair or market. _steän_ ( , ) (a road), to lay it in stone. _steärt_ ( , ), a tail or outsticking thing. _stout_, the cowfly, _tabanus_. _stitch_ (of corn), a conical pile of sheaves. _strawèn_, a strewing. all the potatoes of one mother potatoe. _strawmote_, a straw or stalk. _strent_, a long slent or tear. _streech_, an outstretching (as of a rake in raking); a-strout stretched out stiffly like frozen linen. _stubbard_, a kind of apple. _stunpoll_ ( ), stone head, blockhead; also an old tree almost dead. t. _th_ is soft (as _th_ in thee), as a heading of these words:-- thatch, thief, thik, thimble, thin, think, thumb. _tack_, a shelf on a wall. _taffle_, to tangle, as grass or corn beaten down by storms. _taït_, to play at see-saw. _tamy_ ( , ), _tammy_ ( , ), tough, that may be drawn out in strings, as rich toasted cheese. _teäve_, ( , ), to reach about strongly as in work or a struggle. _teery_, _tewly_, weak of growth. _tewly_, weakly. _theäse_, this or these. _theasum_ ( , ), these. _tidden (tidn)_, it is not. _tilty_, touchy, irritable. _timmersome_, restless. _tine_, to kindle, also to fence in ground. _tistytosty_, a toss ball of cowslip blooms. _to-year_, this year (as to-day.) _tranter_, a common carrier. _trendel_, a shallow tub. _tump_, a little mound. _tun_, the top of the chimney above the roof ridge. _tut_ (work), piecework. _tutty_, a nosegay. _tweil_, ( , ) toil. _twite_, to twit reproach. u. _unheal_, uncover, unroof. v. _v_ is taken for _f_ as the heading of some purely english words, as vall, fall, vind, find. _veag_, _v[=e]g_ ( ), a strong fit of anger. _vern_, fern. _ve'se_, vess, a verse. _vinny cheese_, cheese with fen or blue-mould. _vitty_, nice in appearance. _vlanker_, a flake of fire. _vlee_, fly. _vo'k_, folk. _vooty_, unhandily little. _vuz_, _vuzzen_, furze, gorse. w. _wo_ ( , ), for the long o, , as bwold, bold; cwold, cold. _wag_, to stir. _wagwanton_, quaking grass. _weäse_, ( , ) a pad or wreath for the head under a milkpail. _weäle_ ( , ), a ridge of dried hay; see _haÿmeäkèn_. _welshnut_, a walnut. _werden_, were not or was not. _wevet_, a spider's web. _whindlèn_, weakly, small of growth. _whicker_, to neigh. _whiver_, to hover, quiver. _whog_, go off; to a horse. _whur_, to fling overhanded. _wi'_, with. _widdicks_, withes or small brushwood. _wink_, a winch; crank of a well. _withwind_, the bindweed, _wont_, a mole. _wops_, wasp. _ps_, not _sp_, in anglo-saxon, and now in holstein. _wotshed_, _wetshod_, wet-footed. _wride_, to spread out in growth. _wride_, the set of stems or stalks from one root or grain of corn. _writh_, a small wreath of tough wands, to link hurdles to the sowels (stakes). _wrix_, wreathed or wattle work, as a fence. y. _yop_, yelp. z. _z_ for _s_ as a heading of some, not all, pure saxon words, nor [or?] for _s_ of inbrought foreign words. _zand_, sand. _zennit_, _zennight_, seven night; "this day zennit." _zew, azew_, milkless. _zoo_, so. _zive_, a scythe. _zull_ a plough to plough ground. _zwath_, a swath. * * * * * _turnbull & spears, printers._ * * * * * transcriber's note: toc: corrected to page : replaced missing end-quote. page : replaced missing end-quote. page : changed jäy to jaÿ. page : replaced two periods with commas. page : restored title: bleÄke's house in blackmwore. page : replaced missing end-quote. page : changed jäy to jaÿ. page : changed däy to daÿ. page : replaced missing end-quote. index: added missing stops to e, f, g, h. realigned 'scote' alphabetically. the nebuly coat, by john meade falkner. ________________________________________________________________________ this extraordinary book was acclaimed on its publication in as one of the very best books ever written in the english language. we have worked for this transcription from the first edition, which was given two printings, of which we used the second. there are not so many actors in the story that the reader is baffled, and each of them is beautifully drawn, so that their characters stand out clearly and consistently. it appears that the action of the story was set in the s. there is a sudden death. was it a murder? it was recorded as an accidental death in the inquest. if it was a murder then who did it? there is one possibility, but it is unthinkable. through a very minor accident the whole situation becomes clear: the mystery is unravelled; the reasons for various earlier actions become known to us. from the very beginning of the book there is sustained tension, and our interest is kept with ever increasing intensity until we reach the extraordinary climax in the last words of the book. ________________________________________________________________________ the nebuly coat, by john meade falkner. prologue. sir george farquhar, baronet, builder of railway-stations, and institutes, and churches, author, antiquarian, and senior partner of farquhar and farquhar, leant back in his office chair and turned it sideways to give more point to his remarks. before him stood an understudy, whom he was sending to superintend the restoration work at cullerne minster. "well, good-bye, westray; keep your eyes open, and don't forget that you have an important job before you. the church is too big to hide its light under a bushel, and this society-for-the-conservation-of-national-inheritances has made up its mind to advertise itself at our expense. ignoramuses who don't know an aumbry from an abacus, charlatans, amateur faddists, they _will_ abuse our work. good, bad, or indifferent, it's all one to them; they are pledged to abuse it." his voice rang with a fine professional contempt, but he sobered himself and came back to business. "the south transept roof and the choir vaulting will want careful watching. there is some old trouble, too, in the central tower; and i should like later on to underpin the main crossing piers, but there is no money. for the moment i have said nothing about the tower; it is no use raising doubts that one can't set at rest; and i don't know how we are going to make ends meet, even with the little that it is proposed to do now. if funds come in, we must tackle the tower; but transept and choir-vaults are more pressing, and there is no risk from the bells, because the cage is so rotten that they haven't been rung for years. "you must do your best. it isn't a very profitable stewardship, so try to give as good an account of it as you can. we shan't make a penny out of it, but the church is too well known to play fast-and-loose with. i have written to the parson--a foolish old fellow, who is no more fit than a lady's-maid to be trusted with such a church as cullerne--to say you are coming to-morrow, and will put in an appearance at the church in the afternoon, in case he wishes to see you. the man is an ass, but he is legal guardian of the place, and has not done badly in collecting money for the restoration; so we must bear with him." chapter one. cullerne wharf of the ordnance maps, or plain cullerne as known to the countryside, lies two miles from the coast to-day; but it was once much nearer, and figures in history as a seaport of repute, having sent six ships to fight the armada, and four to withstand the dutch a century later. but in fulness of time the estuary of the cull silted up, and a bar formed at the harbour mouth; so that sea-borne commerce was driven to seek other havens. then the cull narrowed its channel, and instead of spreading itself out prodigally as heretofore on this side or on that, shrunk to the limits of a well-ordered stream, and this none of the greatest. the burghers, seeing that their livelihood in the port was gone, reflected that they might yet save something by reclaiming the salt-marshes, and built a stone dyke to keep the sea from getting in, with a sluice in the midst of it to let the cull out. thus were formed the low-lying meadows called cullerne flat, where the freemen have a right to pasture sheep, and where as good-tasting mutton is bred as on any _pre-sale_ on the other side of the channel. but the sea has not given up its rights without a struggle, for with a south-east wind and spring-tide the waves beat sometimes over the top of the dyke; and sometimes the cull forgets its good behaviour, and after heavy rainfalls inland breaks all bonds, as in the days of yore. then anyone looking out from upper windows in cullerne town would think the little place had moved back once more to the seaboard; for the meadows are under water, and the line of the dyke is scarcely broad enough to make a division in the view, between the inland lake and the open sea beyond. the main line of the great southern railway passes seven miles to the north of this derelict port, and converse with the outer world was kept up for many years by carriers' carts, which journeyed to and fro between the town and the wayside station of cullerne road. but by-and-by deputations of the corporation of cullerne, properly introduced by sir joseph carew, the talented and widely-respected member for that ancient borough, persuaded the railway company that better communication was needed, and a branch-line was made, on which the service was scarcely less primitive than that of the carriers in the past. the novelty of the railway had not altogether worn off at the time when the restorations of the church were entrusted to messrs. farquhar and farquhar; and the arrival of the trains was still attended by cullerne loungers as a daily ceremonial. but the afternoon on which westray came, was so very wet that there were no spectators. he had taken a third-class ticket from london to cullerne road to spare his pocket, and a first-class ticket from the junction to cullerne to support the dignity of his firm. but this forethought was wasted, for, except certain broken-down railway officials, who were drafted to cullerne as to an asylum, there were no witnesses of his advent. he was glad to learn that the enterprise of the blandamer arms led that family and commercial hotel to send an omnibus to meet all trains, and he availed himself the more willingly of this conveyance because he found that it would set him down at the very door of the church itself. so he put himself and his modest luggage inside--and there was ample room to do this, for he was the only passenger--plunged his feet into the straw which covered the floor, and endured for ten minutes such a shaking and rattling as only an omnibus moving over cobble-stones can produce. with the plans of cullerne minster mr westray was thoroughly familiar, but the reality was as yet unknown to him; and when the omnibus lumbered into the market-place, he could not suppress an exclamation as he first caught sight of the great church of saint sepulchre shutting in the whole south side of the square. the drenching rain had cleared the streets of passengers, and save for some peeping-toms who looked over the low green blinds as the omnibus passed, the place might indeed have been waiting for lady godiva's progress, all was so deserted. the heavy sheets of rain in the air, the misty water-dust raised by the drops as they struck the roofs, and the vapour steaming from the earth, drew over everything a veil invisible yet visible, which softened outlines like the gauze curtain in a theatre. through it loomed the minster, larger and far more mysteriously impressive than westray had in any moods imagined. a moment later the omnibus drew up before an iron gate, from which a flagged pathway led through the churchyard to the north porch. the conductor opened the carriage-door. "this is the church, sir," he said, somewhat superfluously. "if you get out here, i will drive your bag to the hotel." westray fixed his hat firmly on his head, turned up the collar of his coat, and made a dash through the rain for the door. deep puddles had formed in the worn places of the gravestones that paved the alley, and he splashed himself in his hurry before he reached the shelter of the porch. he pulled aside the hanging leather mattress that covered a wicket in the great door, and found himself inside the church. it was not yet four o'clock, but the day was so overcast that dusk was already falling in the building. a little group of men who had been talking in the choir turned round at the sound of the opening door, and made towards the architect. the protagonist was a clergyman past middle age, who wore a stock, and stepped forward to greet the young architect. "sir george farquhar's assistant, i presume. one of sir george farquhar's assistants i should perhaps say, for no doubt sir george has more than one assistant in carrying out his many and varied professional duties." westray made a motion of assent, and the clergyman went on: "let me introduce myself as canon parkyn. you will no doubt have heard of me from sir george, with whom i, as rector of this church, have had exceptional opportunities of associating. on one occasion, indeed, sir george spent the night under my own roof, and i must say that i think any young man should be proud of studying under an architect of such distinguished ability. i shall be able to explain to you very briefly the main views which sir george has conceived with regard to the restoration; but in the meantime let me make you known to my worthy parishioners--and friends," he added in a tone which implied some doubt as to whether condescension was not being stretched too far, in qualifying as friends persons so manifestly inferior. "this is mr sharnall, the organist, who under my direction presides over the musical portion of our services; and this is dr ennefer, our excellent local practitioner; and this is mr joliffe, who, though engaged in trade, finds time as churchwarden to assist me in the supervision of the sacred edifice." the doctor and the organist gave effect to the presentation by a nod, and something like a shrug of the shoulders, which deprecated the rector's conceited pomposity, and implied that if such an exceedingly unlikely contingency as their making friends with mr westray should ever happen, it would certainly not be due to any introduction of canon parkyn. mr joliffe, on the other hand, seemed fully to recognise the dignity to which he was called by being numbered among the rector's friends, and with a gracious bow, and a polite "your servant, sir," made it plain that he understood how to condescend in his turn, and was prepared to extend his full protection to a young and struggling architect. beside these leading actors, there were present the clerk, and a handful of walking-gentlemen in the shape of idlers who had strolled in from the street, and who were glad enough to find shelter from the rain, and an afternoon's entertainment gratuitously provided. "i thought you would like to meet me here," said the rector, "so that i might point out to you at once the more salient features of the building. sir george farquhar, on the occasion of his last visit, was pleased to compliment me on the lucidity of the explanations which i ventured to offer." there seemed to be no immediate way of escape, so westray resigned himself to the inevitable, and the little group moved up the nave, enveloped in an atmosphere of its own, of which wet overcoats and umbrellas were resolvable constituents. the air in the church was raw and cold, and a smell of sodden matting drew westray's attention to the fact that the roofs were not water-tight, and that there were pools of rain-water on the floor in many places. "the nave is the oldest part," said the cicerone, "built about by walter le bec." "i am very much afraid our friend is too young and inexperienced for the work here. what do _you_ think?" he put in as a rapid aside to the doctor. "oh, i dare say if you take him in hand and coach him a little he will do all right," replied the doctor, raising his eyebrows for the organist's delectation. "yes, this is all le bec's work," the rector went on, turning back to westray. "so sublime the simplicity of the norman style, is it not? the nave arcades will repay your close attention; and look at these wonderful arches in the crossing. norman, of course, but how light; and yet strong as a rock to bear the enormous weight of the tower which later builders reared on them. wonderful, wonderful!" westray recalled his chief's doubts about the tower, and looking up into the lantern saw on the north side a seam of old brick filling; and on the south a thin jagged fissure, that ran down from the sill of the lantern-window like the impress of a lightning-flash. there came into his head an old architectural saw, "the arch never sleeps"; and as he looked up at the four wide and finely-drawn semicircles they seemed to say: "the arch never sleeps, never sleeps. they have bound on us a burden too heavy to be borne. we are shifting it. the arch never sleeps." "wonderful, wonderful!" the rector still murmured. "daring fellows, these norman builders." "yes, yes," westray was constrained to say; "but they never reckoned that the present tower would be piled upon their arches." "what, _you_ think them a little shaky?" put in the organist. "well, i have fancied so, many a time, myself." "oh, i don't know. i dare say they will last our time," westray answered in a nonchalant and reassuring tone; for he remembered that, as regards the tower, he had been specially cautioned to let sleeping dogs lie, but he thought of the ossa heaped on pelion above their heads, and conceived a mistrust of the wide crossing-arches which he never was able entirely to shake off. "no, no, my young friend," said the rector with a smile of forbearance for so mistaken an idea, "do not alarm yourself about these arches. `mr rector,' said sir george to me the very first time we were here together, `you have been at cullerne forty years; have you ever observed any signs of movement in the tower?' `sir george,' i said, `will you wait for your fees until my tower tumbles down?' ha, ha, ha! he saw the joke, and we never heard anything more about the tower. sir george has, no doubt, given you all proper instructions; but as i had the privilege of personally showing him the church, you must forgive me if i ask you to step into the south transept for a moment, while i point out to you what sir george considered the most pressing matter." they moved into the transept, but the doctor managed to buttonhole westray for a moment _en route_. "you will be bored to death," he said, "with this man's ignorance and conceit. don't pay the least attention to him, but there _is_ one thing i want to take the first opportunity of pressing on you. whatever is done or not done, however limited the funds may be, let us at least have a sanitary floor. you must have all these stones up, and put a foot or two of concrete under them. can anything be more monstrous than that the dead should be allowed to poison the living? there must be hundreds of burials close under the floor, and look at the pools of water standing about. can anything, i say, be more insanitary?" they were in the south transept, and the rector had duly pointed out the dilapidations of the roof, which, in truth, wanted but little showing. "some call this the blandamer aisle," he said, "from a noble family of that name who have for many years been buried here." "_their_ vaults are, no doubt, in a most insanitary condition," interpolated the doctor. "these blandamers ought to restore the whole place," the organist said bitterly. "they would, if they had any sense of decency. they are as rich as croesus, and would miss pounds less than most people would miss pennies. not that i believe in any of this sanitary talk--things have gone on well enough as they are; and if you go digging up the floors you will only dig up pestilences. keep the fabric together, make the roofs water-tight, and spend a hundred or two on the organ. that is all we want, and these blandamers would do it, if they weren't curmudgeons and skinflints." "you will forgive me, mr sharnall," said the rector, "if i remark that an hereditary peerage is so important an institution, that we should be very careful how we criticise any members of it. at the same time," he went on, turning apologetically to westray, "there is perhaps a modicum of reason in our friend's remarks. i had hoped that lord blandamer would have contributed handsomely to the restoration fund, but he has not hitherto done so, though i dare say that his continued absence abroad accounts for some delay. he only succeeded his grandfather last year, and the late lord never showed much interest in this place, and was indeed in many ways a very strange character. but it's no use raking up these stories; the old man is gone, and we must hope for better things from the young one." "i don't know why you call him young," said the doctor. "he's young, maybe, compared to his grandfather, who died at eighty-five; but he must be forty, if he's a day." "oh, impossible; and yet i don't know. it was in my first year at cullerne that his father and mother were drowned. you remember that, mr sharnall--when the _corisande_ upset in pallion bay?" "ay, i mind that well enough," struck in the clerk; "and i mind their being married, becos' we wor ringing of the bells, when old mason parmiter run into the church, and says: `do'ant-'ee, boys--do'ant-'ee ring 'em any more. these yere old tower'll never stand it. i see him rock,' he says, `and the dust a-running out of the cracks like rain.' so out we come, and glad enough to stop it, too, because there wos a feast down in the meadows by the london road, and drinks and dancing, and we wanted to be there. that were two-and-forty years ago come lady day, and there was some shook their heads, and said we never ought to have stopped the ring, for a broken peal broke life or happiness. but what was we to do?" "did they strengthen the tower afterwards?" westray asked. "do you find any excessive motion when the peal is rung now?" "lor' bless you, sir; them bells was never rung for thirty years afore that, and wouldn't a been rung then, only tom leech, he says: `the ropes is there, boys; let's have a ring out of these yere tower. he ain't been rung for thirty year. none on us don't recollect the last time he _was_ rung, and if 'er were weak then, 'ers had plenty of time to get strong again, and there'll be half a crown a man for ringing of a peal.' so up we got to it, till old parmiter come in to stop us. and you take my word for it, they never have been rung since. there's only that rope there"--and he pointed to a bell-rope that came down from the lantern far above, and was fastened back against the wall--"wot we tolls the bell with for service, and that ain't the big bell neither." "did sir george farquhar know all this?" westray asked the rector. "no, sir; sir george did not know it," said the rector, with some tartness in his voice, "because it was not material that he should know it; and sir george's time, when he was here, was taken up with more pressing matters. i never heard this old wife's tale myself till the present moment, and although it is true that we do not ring the bells, this is on account of the supposed weakness of the cage in which they swing, and has nothing whatever to do with the tower itself. you may take my word for that. `sir george,' i said, when sir george asked me--`sir george, i have been here forty years, and if you will agree not to ask for your fees till my tower tumbles down, why, i shall be very glad.' ha, ha, ha! how sir george enjoyed that joke! ha, ha, ha!" westray turned away with a firm resolve to report to headquarters the story of the interrupted peal, and to make an early examination of the tower on his own behalf. the clerk was nettled that the rector should treat his story with such scant respect, but he saw that the others were listening with interest, and he went on: "well, 'taint for i to say the old tower's a-going to fall, and i hope sir jarge won't ever live to larf the wrong side o' his mouth; but stopping of a ring never brought luck with it yet, and it brought no luck to my lord. first he lost his dear son and his son's wife in cullerne bay, and i remember as if 'twas yesterday how we grappled for 'em all night, and found their bodies lying close together on the sand in three fathoms, when the tide set inshore in the morning. and then he fell out wi' my lady, and she never spoke to him again--no, not to the day of her death. they lived at fording--that's the great hall over there," he said to westray, jerking his thumb towards the east--"for twenty years in separate wings, like you mi'd say each in a house to themselves. and then he fell out wi' mr fynes, his grandson, and turned him out of house and lands, though he couldn't leave them anywhere else when he died. 'tis mr fynes as is the young lord now, and half his life he's bin a wandrer in foreign parts, and isn't come home yet. maybe he never will come back. it's like enough he's got killed out there, or he'd be tied to answer parson's letters. wouldn't he, mr sharnall?" he said, turning abruptly to the organist with a wink, which was meant to retaliate for the slight that the rector had put on his stories. "come, come; we've had enough of these tales," said the rector. "your listeners are getting tired." "the man's in love with his own voice," he added in a lower tone, as he took westray by the arm; "when he's once set off there's no stopping him. there are still a good many points which sir george and i discussed, and on which i shall hope to give you our conclusions; but we shall have to finish our inspection to-morrow, for this talkative fellow has sadly interrupted us. it is a great pity the light is failing so fast just now; there is some good painted glass in this end window of the transept." westray looked up and saw the great window at the end of the transept shimmering with a dull lustre; light only in comparison with the shadows that were falling inside the church. it was an insertion of perpendicular date, reaching from wall to wall, and almost from floor to roof. its vast breadth, parcelled out into eleven lights, and the infinite division of the stonework in the head, impressed the imagination; while mullions and tracery stood out in such inky contrast against the daylight yet lingering outside, that the architect read the scheme of subarcuation and the tracery as easily as if he had been studying a plan. sundown had brought no gleam to lift the pall of the dying day, but the monotonous grey of the sky was still sufficiently light to enable a practised eye to make out that the head of the window was filled with a broken medley of ancient glass, where translucent blues and yellows and reds mingled like the harmony of an old patchwork quilt. of the lower divisions of the window, those at the sides had no colour to clothe their nakedness, and remained in ghostly whiteness; but the three middle lights were filled with strong browns and purples of the seventeenth century. here and there in the rich colour were introduced medallions, representing apparently scriptural scenes, and at the top of each light, under the cusping, was a coat of arms. the head of the middle division formed the centre of the whole scheme, and seemed to represent a shield of silver-white crossed by waving sea-green bars. westray's attention was attracted by the unusual colouring, and by the transparency of the glass, which shone as with some innate radiance where all was dim. he turned almost unconsciously to ask whose arms were thus represented, but the rector had left him for a minute, and he heard an irritating "ha, ha, ha!" at some distance down the nave, that convinced him that the story of sir george farquhar and the postponed fees was being retold in the dusk to a new victim. someone, however, had evidently read the architect's thoughts, for a sharp voice said: "that is the coat of the blandamers--barry nebuly of six, argent and vert." it was the organist who stood near him in the deepening shadows. "i forgot that such jargon probably conveys no meaning to you, and, indeed, i know no heraldry myself excepting only this one coat of arms, and sometimes wish," he said with a sigh, "that i knew nothing of that either. there have been queer tales told of that shield, and maybe there are queerer yet to be told. it has been stamped for good or evil on this church, and on this town, for centuries, and every tavern loafer will talk to you about the `nebuly coat' as if it was a thing he wore. you will be familiar enough with it before you have been a week at cullerne." there was in the voice something of melancholy, and an earnestness that the occasion scarcely warranted. it produced a curious effect on westray, and led him to look closely at the organist; but it was too dark to read any emotion in his companion's face, and at this moment the rector rejoined them. "eh, what? ah, yes; the nebuly coat. nebuly, you know, from the latin _nebulum, nebulus_ i should say, a cloud, referring to the wavy outline of the bars, which are supposed to represent cumulus clouds. well, well, it is too dark to pursue our studies further this evening, but to-morrow i can accompany you the whole day, and shall be able to tell you much that will interest you." westray was not sorry that the darkness had put a stop to further investigations. the air in the church grew every moment more clammy and chill, and he was tired, hungry, and very cold. he was anxious, if possible, to find lodgings at once, and so avoid the expense of an hotel, for his salary was modest, and farquhar and farquhar were not more liberal than other firms in the travelling allowances which they granted their subordinates. he asked if anyone could tell him of suitable rooms. "i am sorry," the rector said, "not to be able to offer you the hospitality of my own house, but the indisposition of my wife unfortunately makes that impossible. i have naturally but a very slight acquaintance with lodging-houses or lodging-house keepers; but mr sharnall, i dare say, may be able to give you some advice. perhaps there may be a spare room in the house where mr sharnall lodges. i think your landlady is a relation of our worthy friend joliffe, is she not, mr sharnall? and no doubt herself a most worthy woman." "pardon, mr rector," said the churchwarden, in as offended a tone as he dared to employ in addressing so superior a dignitary--"pardon, no relation at all, i assure you. a namesake, or, at the nearest, a very distant connection of whom--i speak with all christian forbearance--my branch of the family have no cause to be proud." the organist had scowled when the rector was proposing westray as a fellow-lodger, but joliffe's disclaimer of the landlady seemed to pique him. "if no branch of your family brings you more discredit than my landlady, you may hold your head high enough. and if all the pork you sell is as good as her lodgings, your business will thrive. come along," he said, taking westray by the arm; "i have no wife to be indisposed, so i can offer you the hospitality of my house; and we will stop at mr joliffe's shop on our way, and buy a pound of sausages for tea." chapter two. there was a rush of outer air into the building as they opened the door. the rain still fell heavily, but the wind was rising, and had in it a clean salt smell, that contrasted with the close and mouldering atmosphere of the church. the organist drew a deep breath. "ah," he said, "what a blessed thing to be in the open air again--to be quit of all their niggling and naggling, to be quit of that pompous old fool the rector, and of that hypocrite joliffe, and of that pedant of a doctor! why does he want to waste money on cementing the vaults? it's only digging up pestilences; and they won't spend a farthing on the organ. not a penny on the _father smith_, clear and sweet-voiced as a mountain brook. oh," he cried, "it's too bad! the naturals are worn down to the quick, you can see the wood in the gutters of the keys, and the pedal-board's too short and all to pieces. ah well! the organ's like me--old, neglected, worn-out. i wish i was dead." he had been talking half to himself, but he turned to westray and said: "forgive me for being peevish; you'll be peevish, too, when you come to my age--at least, if you're as poor then as i am, and as lonely, and have nothing to look forward to. come along." they stepped out into the dark--for night had fallen--and plashed along the flagged path which glimmered like a white streamlet between the dark turves. "i will take you a short-cut, if you don't mind some badly-lighted lanes," said the organist, as they left the churchyard; "it's quicker, and we shall get more shelter." he turned sharply to the left, and plunged into an alley so narrow and dark that westray could not keep up with him, and fumbled anxiously in the obscurity. the little man reached up, and took him by the arm. "let me pilot you," he said; "i know the way. you can walk straight on; there are no steps." there was no sign of life, nor any light in the houses, but it was not till they reached a corner where an isolated lamp cast a wan and uncertain light that westray saw that there was no glass in the windows, and that the houses were deserted. "it's the old part of the town," said the organist; "there isn't one house in ten with anyone in it now. all we fashionables have moved further up. airs from the river are damp, you know, and wharves so very vulgar." they left the narrow street, and came on to what westray made out to be a long wharf skirting the river. on the right stood abandoned warehouses, square-fronted, and huddled together like a row of gigantic packing-cases; on the left they could hear the gurgle of the current among the mooring-posts, and the flapping of the water against the quay wall, where the east wind drove the wavelets up the river. the lines of what had once been a horse-tramway still ran along the quay, and the pair had some ado to thread their way without tripping, till a low building on the right broke the line of lofty warehouses. it seemed to be a church or chapel, having mullioned windows with stone tracery, and a bell-turret at the west end; but its most marked feature was a row of heavy buttresses which shored up the side facing the road. they were built of brick, and formed triangles with the ground and the wall which they supported. the shadows hung heavy under the building, but where all else was black the recesses between the buttresses were blackest. westray felt his companion's hand tighten on his arm. "you will think me as great a coward as i am," said the organist, "if i tell you that i never come this way after dark, and should not have come here to-night if i had not had you with me. i was always frightened as a boy at the very darkness in the spaces between the buttresses, and i have never got over it. i used to think that devils and hobgoblins lurked in those cavernous depths, and now i fancy evil men may be hiding in the blackness, all ready to spring out and strangle one. it is a lonely place, this old wharf, and after nightfall--" he broke off, and clutched westray's arm. "look," he said; "do you see nothing in the last recess?" his abruptness made westray shiver involuntarily, and for a moment the architect fancied that he discerned the figure of a man standing in the shadow of the end buttress. but, as he took a few steps nearer, he saw that he had been deceived by a shadow, and that the space was empty. "your nerves are sadly overstrung," he said to the organist. "there is no one there; it is only some trick of light and shade. what is the building?" "it was once a chantry of the grey friars," mr sharnall answered, "and afterwards was used for excise purposes when cullerne was a real port. it is still called the bonding-house, but it has been shut up as long as i remember it. do you believe in certain things or places being bound up with certain men's destinies? because i have a presentiment that this broken-down old chapel will be connected somehow or other with a crisis of my life." westray remembered the organist's manner in the church, and began to suspect that his mind was turned. the other read his thoughts, and said rather reproachfully: "oh no, i am not mad--only weak and foolish and very cowardly." they had reached the end of the wharf, and were evidently returning to civilisation, for a sound of music reached them. it came from a little beer-house, and as they passed they heard a woman singing inside. it was a rich contralto, and the organist stopped for a moment to listen. "she has a fine voice," he said, "and would sing well if she had been taught. i wonder how she comes here." the blind was pulled down, but did not quite reach the bottom of the window, and they looked in. the rain blurred the pains on the outside, and the moisture had condensed within, so that it was not easy to see clearly; but they made out that a creole woman was singing to a group of topers who sat by the fire in a corner of the room. she was middle-aged, but sang sweetly, and was accompanied on the harp by an old man: "oh, take me back to those i love! or bring them here to me! i have no heart to rove, to rove across the rolling sea." "poor thing!" said the organist; "she has fallen on bad days to have so scurvy a company to sing to. let us move on." they turned to the right, and came in a few minutes to the highroad. facing them stood a house which had once been of some pretensions, for it had a porch carried on pillars, under which a semicircular flight of steps led up to the double door. a street-lamp which stood before it had been washed so clean in the rain that the light was shed with unusual brilliance, and showed even at night that the house was fallen from its high estate. it was not ruinous, but _ichabod_ was written on the paintless window-frames and on the rough-cast front, from which the plaster had fallen away in more than one place. the pillars of the porch had been painted to imitate marble, but they were marked with scabrous patches, where the brick core showed through the broken stucco. the organist opened the door, and they found themselves in a stone-floored hall, out of which dingy doors opened on both sides. a broad stone staircase, with shallow steps and iron balustrades, led from the hall to the next story, and there was a little pathway of worn matting that threaded its way across the flags, and finally ascended the stairs. "here is my town house," said mr sharnall. "it used to be a coaching inn called the hand of god, but you must never breathe a word of that, because it is now a private mansion, and miss joliffe has christened it bellevue lodge." a door opened while he was speaking, and a girl stepped into the hall. she was about nineteen, and had a tall and graceful figure. her warm brown hair was parted in the middle, and its profusion was gathered loosely up behind in the half-formal, half-natural style of a preceding generation. her face had lost neither the rounded outline nor the delicate bloom of girlhood, but there was something in it that negatived any impression of inexperience, and suggested that her life had not been free from trouble. she wore a close-fitting dress of black, and had a string of pale corals round her neck. "good-evening, mr sharnall," she said. "i hope you are not very wet"-- and gave a quick glance of inquiry at westray. the organist did not appear pleased at seeing her. he grunted testily, and, saying "where is your aunt? tell her i want to speak to her," led westray into one of the rooms opening out of the hall. it was a large room, with an upright piano in one corner, and a great litter of books and manuscript music. a table in the middle was set for tea; a bright fire was burning in the grate, and on either side of it stood a rush-bottomed armchair. "sit down," he said to westray; "this is my reception-room, and we will see in a minute what miss joliffe can do for _you_." he glanced at his companion, and added, "that was her niece we met in the passage," in so unconcerned a tone as to produce an effect opposite to that intended, and to lead westray to wonder whether there was any reason for his wishing to keep the girl in the background. in a few moments the landlady appeared. she was a woman of sixty, tall and spare, with a sweet and even distinguished face. she, too, was dressed in black, well-worn and shabby, but her appearance suggested that her thinness might be attributed to privation or self-denial, rather than to natural habit. preliminaries were easily arranged; indeed, the only point of discussion was raised by westray, who was disturbed by scruples lest the terms which miss joliffe offered were too low to be fair to herself. he said so openly, and suggested a slight increase, which, after some demur, was gratefully accepted. "you are too poor to have so fine a conscience," said the organist snappishly. "if you are so scrupulous now, you will be quite unbearable when you get rich with battening and fattening on this restoration." but he was evidently pleased with westray's consideration for miss joliffe, and added with more cordiality: "you had better come down and share my meal; your rooms will be like an ice-house such a night as this. don't be long, or the turtle will be cold, and the ortolans baked to a cinder. i will excuse evening dress, unless you happen to have your court suit with you." westray accepted the invitation with some willingness, and an hour later he and the organist were sitting in the rush-bottomed armchairs at either side of the fireplace. miss joliffe had herself cleared the table, and brought two tumblers, wine-glasses, sugar, and a jug of water, as if they were natural properties of the organist's sitting-room. "i did churchwarden joliffe an injustice," said mr sharnall, with the reflective mood that succeeds a hearty meal; "his sausages are good. put on some more coal, mr westray; it is a sinful luxury, a fire in september, and coal at twenty-five shillings a ton; but we must have _some_ festivity to inaugurate the restoration and your advent. fill a pipe yourself, and then pass me the tobacco." "thank you, i do not smoke," westray said; and, indeed, he did not look like a smoker. he had something of the thin, unsympathetic traits of the professional water-drinker in his face, and spoke as if he regarded smoking as a crime for himself, and an offence for those of less lofty principles than his own. the organist lighted his pipe, and went on: "this is an airy house--sanitary enough to suit our friend the doctor; every window carefully ventilated on the crack-and-crevice principle. it was an old inn once, when there were more people hereabouts; and if the rain beats on the front, you can still read the name through the colouring--the hand of god. there used to be a market held outside, and a century or more ago an apple-woman sold some pippins to a customer just before this very door. he said he had paid for them, and she said he had not; they came to wrangling, and she called heaven to justify her. `god strike me dead if i have ever touched your money!' she was taken at her word, and fell dead on the cobbles. they found clenched in her hand the two coppers for which she had lost her soul, and it was recognised at once that nothing less than an inn could properly commemorate such an exhibition of divine justice. so the hand of god was built, and flourished while cullerne flourished, and fell when cullerne fell. it stood empty ever since i can remember it, till miss joliffe took it fifteen years ago. she elevated it into bellevue lodge, a select boarding-house, and spent what little money that niggardly landlord old blandamer would give for repairs, in painting out the hand of god on the front. it was to be a house of resort for americans who came to cullerne. they say in our guide-book that americans come to see cullerne church because some of the pilgrim fathers' fathers are buried in it; but i've never seen any americans about. they never come to me; i have been here boy and man for sixty years, and never knew an american do a pennyworth of good to cullerne church; and they never did a pennyworth of good for miss joliffe, for none of them ever came to bellevue lodge, and the select boarding-house is so select that you and i are the only boarders." he paused for a minute and went on: "americans--no, i don't think much of americans; they're too hard for me--spend a lot of money on their own pleasure, and sometimes cut a dash with a big donation, where they think it will be properly trumpeted. but they haven't got warm hearts. i don't care for americans. still, if you know any about, you can say i am quite venal; and if any one of them restores my organ, i am prepared to admire the whole lot. only they must give a little water-engine for blowing it into the bargain. shutter, the organist of carisbury cathedral, has just had a water-engine put in, and, now we've got our own new waterworks at cullerne, we could manage it very well here too." the subject did not interest westray, and he flung back: "is miss joliffe very badly off?" he asked; "she looks like one of those people who have seen better days." "she is worse than badly off--i believe she is half starved. i don't know how she lives at all. i wish i could help her, but i haven't a copper myself to jingle on a tombstone, and she is too proud to take it if i had." he went to a cupboard in a recess at the back of the room, and took out a squat black bottle. "poverty's a chilly theme," he said; "let's take something to warm us before we go on with the variations." he pushed the bottle towards his friend, but, though westray felt inclined to give way, the principles of severe moderation which he had recently adopted restrained him, and he courteously waved away the temptation. "you're hopeless," said the organist. "what are we to do for you, who neither smoke nor drink, and yet want to talk about poverty? this is some _eau-de-vie_ old martelet the solicitor gave me for playing the wedding march at his daughter's marriage. `the wedding march was magnificently rendered by the organist, mr john sharnall,' you know, as if it was the fourth organ-sonata. i misdoubt this ever having paid duty; he's not the man to give away six bottles of anything he'd paid the excise upon." he poured out a portion of spirit far larger than westray had expected, and then, becoming intuitively aware of his companion's surprise, said rather sharply: "if you despise good stuff, i must do duty for us both. up to the top of the church windows is a good maxim." and he poured in yet more, till the spirit rose to the top of the cuts, which ran higher than half-way up the sides of the tumbler. there was silence for a few minutes, while the organist puffed testily at his pipe; but a copious draught from the tumbler melted his chagrin, and he spoke again: "i've had a precious hard life, but miss joliffe's had a harder; and i've got myself to thank for my bad luck, while hers is due to other people. first, her father died. he had a farm at wydcombe, and people thought he was well off; but when they came to reckon up, he only left just enough to go round among his creditors; so miss euphemia gave up the house, and came into cullerne. she took this rambling great place because it was cheap at twenty pounds a year, and lived, or half lived, from hand to mouth, giving her niece (the girl you saw) all the grains, and keeping the husks for herself. then a year ago turned up her brother martin, penniless and broken, with paralysis upon him. he was a harum-scarum ne'er-do-well. don't stare at me with that saul-among-the-prophets look; _he_ never drank; he would have been a better man if he had." and the organist made a further call on the squat bottle. "he would have given her less bother if he had drunk, but he was always getting into debt and trouble, and then used to come back to his sister, as to a refuge, because he knew she loved him. he was clever enough--brilliant they call it now--but unstable as water, with no lasting power. i don't believe he meant to sponge on his sister; i don't think he knew he did sponge, only he sponged. he would go off on his travels, no one knew where, though they knew well what he was seeking. sometimes he was away two months, and sometimes he was away two years; and then, when miss joliffe had kept anastasia--i mean her niece--all the time, and perhaps got a summer lodger, and seemed to be turning the corner, back would come martin again to beg money for debts, and eat them out of house and home. i've seen that many a time, and many a time my heart has ached for them; but what could i do to help? i haven't a farthing. last he came back a year ago, with death written on his face. i was glad enough to read it there, and think he was come for the last time to worry them; but it was paralysis, and he a strong man, so that it took that fool ennefer a long time to kill him. he only died two months ago; here's better luck to him where he's gone." the organist drank as deeply as the occasion warranted. "don't look so glum, man," he said; "i'm not always as bad as this, because i haven't always the means. old martelet doesn't give me brandy every day." westray smoothed away the deprecating expression with which he had felt constrained to discountenance such excesses, and set mr sharnall's tongue going again with a question: "what did you say joliffe used to go away for?" "oh, it's a long story; it's the nebuly coat again. i spoke of it in the church--the silver and sea-green that turned his head. he would have it he wasn't a joliffe at all, but a blandamer, and rightful heir to fording. as a boy, he went to cullerne grammar school, and did well, and got a scholarship at oxford. he did still better there, and just when he seemed starting strong in the race of life, this nebuly coat craze seized him and crept over his mind, like the paralysis that crept over his body later on." "i don't quite follow you," westray said. "why did he think he was a blandamer? did he not know who his father was?" "he was brought up as a son of old michael joliffe, a yeoman who died fifteen years ago. but michael married a woman who called herself a widow, and brought a three-year-old son ready-made to his wedding; and that son was martin. old michael made the boy his own, was proud of his cleverness, would have him go to college, and left him all he had. there was no talk of martin being anything but a joliffe till oxford puffed him up, and then he got this crank, and spent the rest of his life trying to find out who his father was. it was a forty-years' wandering in the wilderness; he found this clue and that, and thought at last he had climbed pisgah and could see the promised land. but he had to be content with the sight, or mirage i suppose it was, and died before he tasted the milk and honey." "what was his connection with the nebuly coat? what made him think he was a blandamer?" "oh, i can't go into that now," the organist said; "i have told you too much, perhaps, already. you won't let miss joliffe guess i have said anything, will you? she is michael joliffe's own child--his only child--but she loved her half-brother dearly, and doesn't like his cranks being talked about. of course, the cullerne wags had many a tale to tell of him, and when he came back, greyer each time and wilder-looking, from his wanderings, they called him `old nebuly,' and the boys would make their bow in the streets, and say `good-morning, lord blandamer.' you'll hear stories enough about him, and it was a bitter thing for his poor sister to bear, to see her brother a butt and laughing-stock, all the time that he was frittering away her savings. but it's all over now, and martin's gone where they don't wear nebuly coats." "there was nothing in his fancies, i suppose?" westray asked. "you must put that to wiser folk than me," said the organist lightly; "ask the rector, or the doctor, or some really clever man." he had fallen back into his sneering tone, but there was something in his words that recalled a previous doubt, and led westray to wonder whether mr sharnall had not lived so long with the joliffes as to have become himself infected with martin's delusions. his companion was pouring out more brandy, and the architect wished him good-night. mr westray's apartment was on the floor above, and he went at once to his bedroom; for he was very tired with his journey, and with standing so long in the church during the afternoon. he was pleased to find that his portmanteau had been unpacked, and that his clothes were carefully arranged in the drawers. this was a luxury to which he was little accustomed; there was, moreover, a fire to fling cheerful flickerings on spotlessly white curtains and bedlinen. miss joliffe and anastasia had between them carried the portmanteau up the great well-staircase of stone, which ran from top to bottom of the house. it was a task of some difficulty, and there were frequent pauses to take breath, and settings-down of the portmanteau to rest aching arms. but they got it up at last, and when the straps were undone miss euphemia dismissed her niece. "no, my dear," she said; "let _me_ set the things in order. it is not seemly that a young girl should arrange men's clothes. there was a time when i should not have liked to do so myself, but now i am so old it does not very much matter." she gave a glance at the mirror as she spoke, adjusted a little bit of grizzled hair which had strayed from under her cap, and tried to arrange the bow of ribbon round her neck so that the frayed part should be as far as possible concealed. anastasia joliffe thought, as she left the room, that there were fewer wrinkles and a sweeter look than usual in the old face, and wondered that her aunt had never married. youth looking at an old maid traces spinsterhood to man's neglect. it is so hard to read in sixty's plainness the beauty of sixteen--to think that underneath the placidity of advancing years may lie buried, yet unforgotten, the memory of suits urged ardently, and quenched long ago in tears. miss euphemia put everything carefully away. the architect's wardrobe was of the most modest proportions, but to her it seemed well furnished, and even costly. she noted, however, with the eye of a sportsman marking down a covey, sundry holes, rents, and missing buttons, and resolved to devote her first leisure to their rectification. such mending, in anticipation and accomplishment, forms, indeed, a well-defined and important pleasure of all properly constituted women above a certain age. "poor young man!" she said to herself. "i am afraid he has had no one to look after his clothes for a long time." and in her pity she rushed into the extravagance of lighting the bedroom fire. after things were arranged upstairs, she went down to see that all was in order in mr westray's sitting-room, and, as she moved about there, she heard the organist talking to the architect in the room below. his voice was so deep and raucous that it seemed to jar the soles of her feet. she dusted lightly a certain structure which, resting in tiers above the chimney-piece, served to surround a looking-glass with meaningless little shelves and niches. miss joliffe had purchased this piece-of-resistance when mrs cazel, the widow of the ironmonger, had sold her household effects preparatory to leaving cullerne. "it is an overmantel, my dear," she had said to dubious anastasia, when it was brought home. "i did not really mean to buy it, but i had not bought anything the whole morning, and the auctioneer looked so fiercely at me that i felt i must make a bid. then no one else said anything, so here it is; but i dare say it will serve to smarten the room a little, and perhaps attract lodgers." since then it had been brightened with a coat of blue enamel paint, and a strip of brusa silk which martin had brought back from one of his wanderings was festooned at the side, so as to hide a patch where the quicksilver showed signs of peeling off. miss joliffe pulled the festoon a little forward, and adjusted in one of the side niches a present-for-a-good-girl cup and saucer which had been bought for herself at beacon hill fair half a century ago. she wiped the glass dome that covered the basket of artificial fruit, she screwed up the "banner-screen" that projected from the mantelpiece, she straightened out the bead mat on which the stereoscope stood, and at last surveyed the room with an expression of complete satisfaction on her kindly face. an hour later westray was asleep, and miss joliffe was saying her prayers. she added a special thanksgiving for the providential direction to her house of so suitable and gentlemanly a lodger, and a special request that he might be happy whilst he should be under her roof. but her devotions were disturbed by the sound of mr sharnall's piano. "he plays most beautifully," she said to her niece, as she put out the candle; "but i wish he would not play so late. i am afraid i have not thought so earnestly as i should at my prayers." anastasia joliffe said nothing. she was grieved because the organist was thumping out old waltzes, and she knew by his playing that he had been drinking. chapter three. the hand of god stood on the highest point in all the borough, and mr westray's apartments were in the third story. from the window of his sitting-room he could look out over the houses on to cullerne flat, the great tract of salt-meadows that separated the town from the sea. in the foreground was a broad expanse of red-tiled roofs; in the middle distance saint sepulchre's church, with its tower and soaring ridges, stood out so enormous that it seemed as if every house in the place could have been packed within its walls; in the background was the blue sea. in summer the purple haze hangs over the mouth of the estuary, and through the shimmer of the heat off the marsh, can be seen the silver windings of the cull as it makes its way out to sea, and snow-white flocks of geese, and here and there the gleaming sail of a pleasure-boat. but in autumn, as westray saw it for the first time, the rank grass is of a deeper green, and the face of the salt-meadows is seamed with irregular clay-brown channels, which at high-tide show out like crows'-feet on an ancient countenance, but at the ebb dwindle to little gullies with greasy-looking banks and a dribble of iridescent water in the bottom. it is in the autumn that the moles heap up meanders of miniature barrows, built of the softest brown loam; and in the turbaries the turf-cutters pile larger and darker stacks of peat. once upon a time there was another feature in the view, for there could have been seen the masts and yards of many stately ships, of timber vessels in the baltic trade, of tea-clippers, and indiamen, and emigrant ships, and now and then the raking spars of a privateer owned by cullerne adventurers. all these had long since sailed for their last port, and of ships nothing more imposing met the eye than the mast of dr ennefer's centre-board laid up for the winter in a backwater. yet the scene was striking enough, and those who knew best said that nowhere in the town was there so fine an outlook as from the upper windows of the hand of god. many had looked out from those windows upon that scene: the skipper's wife as her eyes followed her husband's barque warping down the river for the voyage from which he never came back; honeymoon couples who broke the posting journey from the west at cullerne, and sat hand in hand in summer twilight, gazing seaward till the white mists rose over the meadows and venus hung brightening in the violet sky; old captain frobisher, who raised the cullerne yeomanry, and watched with his spy-glass for the french vanguard to appear; and, lastly, martin joliffe, as he sat dying day by day in his easy-chair, and scheming how he would spend the money when he should come into the inheritance of all the blandamers. westray had finished breakfast, and stood for a time at the open window. the morning was soft and fine, and there was that brilliant clearness in the air that so often follows heavy autumn rain. his full enjoyment of the scene was, however, marred by an obstruction which impeded free access to the window. it was a case of ferns, which seemed to be formed of an aquarium turned upside down, and supported by a plain wooden table. westray took a dislike to the dank-looking plants, and to the moisture beaded on the glass inside, and made up his mind that the ferns must be banished. he would ask miss joliffe if she could take them away, and this determination prompted him to consider whether there were any other articles of furniture with which it would be advisable to dispense. he made a mental inventory of his surroundings. there were several pieces of good mahogany furniture, including some open-backed chairs, and a glass-fronted book-case, which were survivals from the yeoman's equipment at wydcombe farm. they had been put up for auction with the rest of michael joliffe's effects, but cullerne taste considered them old-fashioned, and no bidders were found for them. many things, on the other hand, such as bead mats, and wool-work mats, and fluff mats, a case of wax fruit, a basket of shell flowers, chairs with worsted-work backs, sofa-cushions with worsted-work fronts, two cheap vases full of pampas-grass, and two candlesticks with dangling prisms, grated sadly on westray's taste, which he had long since been convinced was of all tastes the most impeccable. there were a few pictures on the walls--a coloured representation of young martin joliffe in black forest costume, a faded photograph of a boating crew, and another of a group in front of some ruins, which was taken when the carisbury field club made an expedition to wydcombe abbey. besides these, there were conventional copies in oils of a shipwreck, and an avalanche, and a painting of still-life representing a bowl full of flowers. this last picture weighed on westray's mind by reason of its size, its faulty drawing, and vulgar, flashy colours. it hung full in front of him while he sat at breakfast, and though its details amused him for the time, he felt it would become an eyesore if he should continue to occupy the room. in it was represented the polished top of a mahogany table on which stood a blue and white china bowl filled with impossible flowers. the bowl occupied one side of the picture, and the other side was given up to a meaningless expanse of table-top. the artist had perceived, but apparently too late, the bad balance of the composition, and had endeavoured to redress this by a few more flowers thrown loose upon the table. towards these flowers a bulbous green caterpillar was wriggling, at the very edge of the table, and of the picture. the result of westray's meditations was that the fern-case and the flower-picture stood entirely condemned. he would approach miss joliffe at the earliest opportunity about their removal. he anticipated little trouble in modifying by degrees many other smaller details, but previous experience in lodgings had taught him that the removal of pictures is sometimes a difficult and delicate problem. he opened his rolls of plans, and selecting those which he required, prepared to start for the church, where he had to arrange with the builder for the erection of scaffolding. he wished to order dinner before he left, and pulled a broad worsted-work bell-pull to summon his landlady. for some little time he had been aware of the sound of a fiddle, and as he listened, waiting for the bell to be answered, the intermittance and reiteration of the music convinced him that the organist was giving a violin lesson. his first summons remained unanswered, and when a second attempt met with no better success, he gave several testy pulls in quick succession. this time he heard the music cease, and made no doubt that his indignant ringing had attracted the notice of the musicians, and that the organist had gone to tell miss joliffe that she was wanted. he was ruffled by such want of attention, and when there came at last a knock at his door, was quite prepared to expostulate with his landlady on her remissness. as she entered the room, he began, without turning from his drawings: "never knock, please, when you answer the bell; but i do wish you--" here he broke off, for on looking up he found he was speaking, not to the elder miss joliffe, but to her niece anastasia. the girl was graceful, as he had seen the evening before, and again he noticed the peculiar fineness of her waving brown hair. his annoyance had instantaneously vanished, and he experienced to the full the embarrassment natural to a sensitive mind on finding a servant's role played by a lady, for that anastasia joliffe was a lady he had no doubt at all. instead of blaming her, he seemed to be himself in fault for having somehow brought about an anomalous position. she stood with downcast eyes, but his chiding tone had brought a slight flush to her cheeks, and this flush began a discomfiture for westray, that was turned into a rout when she spoke. "i am very sorry, i am afraid i have kept you waiting. i did not hear your bell at first, because i was busy in another part of the house, and then i thought my aunt had answered it. i did not know she was out." it was a low, sweet voice, with more of weariness in it than of humility. if he chose to blame her, she was ready to take the blame; but it was westray who now stammered some incoherent apologies. would she kindly tell miss joliffe that he would be in for dinner at one o'clock, and that he was quite indifferent as to what was provided for him. the girl showed some relief at his blundering courtesy, and it was not till she had left the room that westray recollected that he had heard that cullerne was celebrated for its red mullet; he had meant to order red mullet for dinner. now that he was mortifying the flesh by drinking only water, he was proportionately particular to please his appetite in eating. yet he was not sorry that he had forgotten the fish; it would surely have been a bathos to discuss the properties and application of red mullet with a young lady who found herself in so tragically lowly a position. after westray had set out for the church, anastasia joliffe went back to mr sharnall's room, for it was she who had been playing the violin. the organist sat at the piano, drumming chords in an impatient and irritated way. "well," he said, without looking at her as she came in--"well, what does my lord want with my lady? what has he made you run up to the top of the house for now? i wish i could wring his neck for him. here we are out of breath, as usual, and our hands shaking; we shan't be able to play even as well as we did before, and that isn't saying much. why," he cried, as he looked at her, "you're as red as a turkey-cock. i believe he's been making love to you." "mr sharnall," she retorted quickly, "if you say those things i will never come to your room again. i hate you when you speak like that, and fancy you are not yourself." she took her violin, and putting it under her arm, plucked arpeggi sharply. "there," he said, "don't take all i say so seriously; it is only because i am out of health and out of temper. forgive me, child; i know well enough that there'll be no lovemaking with you till the right man comes, and i hope he never will come, anastasia--i hope he never will." she did not accept or refuse his excuses, but tuned a string that had gone down. "good heavens!" he said, as she walked to the music-stand to play; "can't you hear the a's as flat as a pancake?" she tightened the string again without speaking, and began the movement in which they had been interrupted. but her thoughts were not with the music, and mistake followed mistake. "what _are_ you doing?" said the organist. "you're worse than you were when we began five years ago. it's mere waste of time for you to go on, and for me, too." then he saw that she was crying in the bitterness of vexation, and swung round on his music-stool without getting up. "anstice, i didn't mean it, dear. i didn't mean to be such a brute. you are getting on well--well; and as for wasting my time, why, i haven't got anything to do, nor anyone to teach except you, and you know i would slave all day and all night, too, if i could give you any pleasure by it. don't cry. why are you crying?" she laid the violin on the table, and sitting down in that rush-bottomed chair in which westray had sat the night before, put her head between her hands and burst into tears. "oh," she said between her sobs in a strange and uncontrolled voice--"oh, i am so miserable--_everything_ is so miserable. there are father's debts not paid, not even the undertaker's bill paid for his funeral, and no money for anything, and poor aunt euphemia working herself to death. and now she says she will have to sell the little things we have in the house, and then when there is a chance of a decent lodger, a quiet, gentlemanly man, you go and abuse him, and say these rude things to me, because he rings the bell. how does he know aunt is out? how does he know she won't let me answer the bell when she's in? of course, he thinks we have a servant, and then _you_ make me so sad. i couldn't sleep last night, because i knew you were drinking. i heard you when we went to bed playing trashy things that you hate except when you are not yourself. it makes me ill to think that you have been with us all these years, and been so kind to me, and now are come to this. oh, do not do it! surely we all are wretched enough, without your adding this to our wretchedness." he got up from the stool and took her hand. "don't, anstice--don't! i broke myself of it before, and i will break myself again. it was a woman drove me to it then, and sent me down the hill, and now i didn't know there was a living soul would care whether old sharnall drank himself to death or not. if i could only think there was someone who cared; if i could only think you cared." "of course i care"--and as she felt his hand tighten she drew her own lightly away--"of course we care--poor aunt and i--or she would care, if she knew, only she is so good she doesn't guess. i hate to see those horrid glasses taken in after your supper. it used to be so different, and i loved to hear the `pastoral' and `les adieux' going when the house was still." it is sad when man's unhappiness veils from him the smiling face of nature. the promise of the early morning was maintained. the sky was of a translucent blue, broken with islands and continents of clouds, dazzling white like cotton-wool. a soft, warm breeze blew from the west, the birds sang merrily in every garden bush, and cullerne was a town of gardens, where men could sit each under his own vine and fig-tree. the bees issued forth from their hives, and hummed with cheery droning chorus in the ivy-berries that covered the wall-tops with deep purple. the old vanes on the corner pinnacles of saint sepulchre's tower shone as if they had been regilt. great flocks of plovers flew wheeling over cullerne marsh, and flashed with a blinking silver gleam as they changed their course suddenly. even through the open window of the organist's room fell a shaft of golden sunlight that lit up the peonies of the faded, threadbare carpet. but inside beat two poor human hearts, one unhappy and one hopeless, and saw nothing of the gold vanes, or the purple ivy-berries, or the plovers, or the sunlight, and heard nothing of the birds or the bees. "yes, i will give it up," said the organist, though not quite so enthusiastically as before; and as he moved closer to anastasia joliffe, she got up and left the room, laughing as she went out. "i must get the potatoes peeled, or you will have none for dinner." mr westray, being afflicted neither with poverty nor age, but having a good digestion and entire confidence both in himself and in his prospects, could fully enjoy the beauty of the day. he walked this morning as a child of the light, forsaking the devious back-ways through which the organist had led him on the previous night, and choosing the main streets on his road to the church. he received this time a different impression of the town. the heavy rain had washed the pavements and roadway, and as he entered the market square he was struck with the cheerfulness of the prospect, and with the air of quiet prosperity which pervaded the place. on two sides of the square the houses overhung the pavement, and formed an arcade supported on squat pillars of wood. here were situated some of the best "establishments," as their owners delighted to call them. custance, the grocer; rose and storey, the drapers, who occupied the fronts of no less than three houses, and had besides a "department" round the corner "exclusively devoted to tailoring"; lucy, the bookseller, who printed the _cullerne examiner_, and had published several of canon parkyn's sermons, as well as a tractate by dr ennefer on the means adopted in cullerne for the suppression of cholera during the recent outbreak; calvin, the saddler; miss adcutt, of the toy-shop; and prior, the chemist, who was also postmaster. in the middle of the third side stood the blandamer arms, with a long front of buff, low green blinds, and window-sashes grained to imitate oak. at the edge of the pavement before the inn were some stone mounting steps, and by them stood a tall white pole, on which swung the green and silver of the nebuly coat itself. on either side of the blandamer arms clustered a few more modern shops, which, possessing no arcade, had to be content with awnings of brown stuff with red stripes. one of these places of business was occupied by mr joliffe, the pork-butcher. he greeted westray through the open window. "good-morning. about your work betimes, i see," pointing to the roll of drawings which the architect carried under his arm. "it is a great privilege, this restoration to which you are called," and here he shifted a chop into a more attractive position on the show-board--"and i trust blessing will attend your efforts. i often manage to snatch a few minutes from the whirl of business about mid-day myself, and seek a little quiet meditation in the church. if you are there then, i shall be glad to give you any help in my power. meanwhile, we must both be busy with our own duties." he began to turn the handle of a sausage-machine, and westray was glad to be quit of his pious words, and still more of his insufferable patronage. chapter four. the north side of cullerne church, which faced the square, was still in shadow, but, as westray stepped inside, he found the sunshine pouring through the south windows, and the whole building bathed in a flood of most mellow light. there are in england many churches larger than that of saint sepulchre, and fault has been found with its proportions, because the roof is lower than in some other conventual buildings of its size. yet, for all this, it is doubtful whether architecture has ever produced a composition more truly dignified and imposing. the nave was begun by walter le bec in , and has on either side an arcade of low, round-headed arches. these arches are divided from one another by cylindrical pillars, which have no incised ornamentation, as at durham or waltham or lindisfarne, nor are masked with perpendicular work, as in the nave of winchester or in the choir of gloucester, but rely for effect on severe plainness and great diameter. above them is seen the dark and cavernous depth of the triforium, and higher yet the clerestory with minute and infrequent openings. over all broods a stone vault, divided across and diagonally by the chevron-mouldings of heavy vaulting-ribs. westray sat down near the door, and was so engrossed in the study of the building and in the strange play of the shafts of sunlight across the massive stonework, that half an hour passed before he rose to walk up the church. a solid stone screen separates the choir from the nave, making, as it were, two churches out of one; but as westray opened the doors between them, he heard four voices calling to him, and, looking up, saw above his head the four tower arches. "the arch never sleeps," cried one. "they have bound on us a burden too heavy to be borne," answered another. "we never sleep," said the third; and the fourth returned to the old refrain, "the arch never sleeps, never sleeps." as he considered them in the daylight, he wondered still more at their breadth and slenderness, and was still more surprised that his chief had made so light of the settlement and of the ominous crack in the south wall. the choir is a hundred and forty years later than the nave, ornate early english, with a multiplication of lancet-windows which rich hood-mouldings group into twos and threes, and at the east end into seven. here are innumerable shafts of dark-grey purbeck marble, elaborate capitals, deeply undercut foliage, and broad-winged angels bearing up the vaulting shafts on which rests the sharply-pointed roof. the spiritual needs of cullerne were amply served by this portion of the church alone, and, except at confirmations or on militia sunday, the congregation never overflowed into the nave. all who came to the minster found there full accommodation, and could indeed worship in much comfort; for in front of the canopied stalls erected by abbot vinnicomb in were ranged long rows of pews, in which green baize and brass nails, cushions and hassocks, and prayer-book boxes ministered to the devotion of the occupants. anybody who aspired to social status in cullerne rented one of these pews, but for as many as could not afford such luxury in their religion there were provided other seats of deal, which had, indeed, no baize or hassocks, nor any numbers on the doors, but were, for all that, exceedingly appropriate and commodious. the clerk was dusting the stalls as the architect entered the choir, and made for him at once as the hawk swoops on its quarry. westray did not attempt to escape his fate, and hoped, indeed, that from the old man's garrulity he might glean some facts of interest about the building, which was to be the scene of his work for many months to come. but the clerk preferred to talk of people rather than of things, and the conversation drifted by easy stages to the family with whom westray had taken up his abode. the doubt as to the joliffe ancestry, in the discussion of which mr sharnall had shown such commendable reticence, was not so sacred to the clerk. he rushed in where the organist had feared to tread, nor did westray feel constrained to check him, but rather led the talk to martin joliffe and his imaginary claims. "lor' bless you!" said the clerk, "i was a little boy myself when martin's mother runned away with the soldier, yet mind well how it was in everybody's mouth. but folks in cullerne like novelties; it's all old-world talk now, and there ain't one perhaps, beside me and rector, could tell you _that_ tale. sophia flannery her name was when farmer joliffe married her, and where he found her no one knew. he lived up at wydcombe farm, did michael joliffe, where his father lived afore him, and a gay one he was, and dressed in yellow breeches and a blue waistcoat all his time. well, one day he gave out he was to be married, and came into cullerne, and there was sophia waiting for him at the blandamer arms, and they were married in this very church. she had a three-year-old boy with her then, and put about she was a widow, though there were many who thought she couldn't show her marriage lines if she'd been asked for them. but p'raps farmer joliffe never asked to see 'em, or p'raps he knew all about it. a fine upstanding woman she was, with a word and a laugh for everyone, as my father told me many a time; and she had a bit of money beside. every quarter, up she'd go to london town to collect her rents, so she said, and every time she'd come back with terrible grand new clothes. she dressed that fine, and had such a way with her, the people called her queen of wydcombe. wherever she come from, she had a boarding-school education, and could play and sing beautiful. many a time of a summer evening we lads would walk up to wydcombe, and sit on the fence near the farm, to hear sophy a-singing through the open window. she'd a pianoforty, too, and would sing powerful long songs about captains and moustachers and broken hearts, till people was nearly fit to cry over it. and when she wasn't singing she was painting. my old missis had a picture of flowers what she painted, and there was a lot more sold when they had to give up the farm. but miss joliffe wouldn't part with the biggest of 'em, though there was many would ha' liked to buy it. no, she kep' that one, and has it by her to this day--a picture so big as a signboard, all covered with flowers most beautiful." "yes, i've seen that," westray put in; "it's in my room at miss joliffe's." he said nothing about its ugliness, or that he meant to banish it, not wishing to wound the narrator's artistic susceptibilities, or to interrupt a story which began to interest him in spite of himself. "well, to be sure!" said the clerk, "it used to hang in the best parlour at wydcombe over the sideboard; i seed'n there when i was a boy, and my mother was helping spring-clean up at the farm. `look, tom,' my mother said to me, `did 'ee ever see such flowers? and such a pritty caterpillar a-going to eat them!' you mind, a green caterpillar down in the corner." westray nodded, and the clerk went on: "`well, mrs joliffe,' says my mother to sophia, `i never want for to see a more beautiful picture than that.' and sophia laughed, and said my mother know'd a good picture when she saw one. some folks 'ud stand her out, she said, that 'tweren't worth much, but she knew she could get fifty or a hundred pound or more for't any day she liked to sell, if she took it to the right people. _then_ she'd soon have the laugh of those that said it were only a daub; and with that she laughed herself, for she were always laughing and always jolly. "michael were well pleased with his strapping wife, and used to like to see the people stare when he drove her into cullerne market in the high cart, and hear her crack jokes with the farmers what they passed on the way. very proud he was of her, and prouder still when one saturday he stood all comers glasses round at the blandamer, and bid 'em drink to a pritty little lass what his wife had given him. now he'd got a brace of 'em, he said; for he'd kep' that other little boy what sophia brought when she married him, and treated the child for all the world as if he was his very son. "so 'twas for a year or two, till the practice-camp was put up on wydcombe down. i mind that summer well, for 'twere a fearful hot one, and joey garland and me taught ourselves to swim in the sheep-wash down in mayo's meads. and there was the white tents all up the hillside, and the brass band a-playing in the evenings before the officers' dinner-tent. and sometimes they would play sunday afternoons too; and parson were terrible put about, and wrote to the colonel to say as how the music took the folk away from church, and likened it to the worship of the golden calf, when `the people sat down to eat and drink, and rose up again to play.' but colonel never took no notice of it, and when 'twas a fine evening there was a mort of people trapesing over the downs, and some poor lasses wished afterwards they'd never heard no music sweeter than the clar'net and bassoon up in the gallery of wydcombe church. "sophia was there, too, a good few times, walking round first on her husband's arm, and afterwards on other people's; and some of the boys said they had seen her sitting with a redcoat up among the juniper-bushes. 'twas michaelmas eve before they moved the camp, and 'twas a sorry goose was eat that michaelmas day at wydcombe farm; for when the soldiers went, sophia went too, and left michael and the farm and the children, and never said good-bye to anyone, not even to the baby in the cot. 'twas said she ran off with a sergeant, but no one rightly knew; and if farmer joliffe made any search and found out, he never told a soul; and she never come back to wydcombe. "she never come back to wydcombe," he said under his breath, with something that sounded like a sigh. perhaps the long-forgotten break-up of farmer joliffe's home had touched him, but perhaps he was only thinking of his own loss, for he went on: "ay, many's the time she would give a poor fellow an ounce of baccy, and many's the pound of tea she sent to a labourer's cottage. if she bought herself fine clothes, she'd give away the old ones; my missis has a fur tippet yet that her mother got from sophy joliffe. she was free with her money, whatever else she mid have been. there wasn't a labourer on the farm but what had a good word for her; there wasn't one was glad to see her back turned. "poor michael took on dreadful at the first, though he wasn't the man to say much. he wore his yellow breeches and blue waistcoat just the same, but lost heart for business, and didn't go to market so reg'lar as he should. only he seemed to stick closer by the children--by martin that never know'd his father, and little phemie that never know'd her mother. sophy never come back to visit 'em by what i could learn; but once i seed her myself twenty years later, when i took the hosses over to sell at beacon hill fair. "that was a black day, too, for 'twas the first time michael had to raise the wind by selling aught of his'n. he'd got powerful thin then, had poor master, and couldn't fill the blue waistcoat and yellow breeches like he used to, and _they_ weren't nothing so gay by then themselves neither. "`tom,' he said--that's me, you know--`take these here hosses over to beacon hill, and sell 'em for as much as 'ee can get, for i want the money.' "`what, sell the best team, dad!' says miss phemie--for she was standing by--`you'll never sell the best team with white-face and old strike-a-light!' and the hosses looked up, for they know'd their names very well when she said 'em. "`don't 'ee take on, lass,' he said; `we'll buy 'em back again come lady day.' "and so i took 'em over, and knew very well why he wanted the money; for mr martin had come back from oxford, wi' a nice bit of debt about his neck, and couldn't turn his hand to the farm, but went about saying he was a blandamer, and fording and all the lands belonged to he by right. 'quiries he was making, he said, and gadded about here and there, spending a mort of time and money in making 'quiries that never came to nothing. 'twas a black day, that day, and a thick rain falling at beacon hill, and all the turf cut up terrible. the poor beasts was wet through, too, and couldn't look their best, because they knowed they was going to be sold; and so the afternoon came, and never a bid for one of 'em. `poor old master!' says i to the horses, `what'll 'ee say when we get back again?' and yet i was glad-like to think me and they weren't going to part. "well, there we was a-standing in the rain, and the farmers and the dealers just give us a glimpse, and passed by without a word, till i see someone come along, and that was sophia joliffe. she didn't look a year older nor when i met her last, and her face was the only cheerful thing we saw that afternoon, as fresh and jolly as ever. she wore a yellow mackintosh with big buttons, and everybody turned to measure her up as she passed. there was a horse-dealer walking with her, and when the people stared, he looked at her just so proud as michael used to look when he drove her in to cullerne market. she didn't take any heed of the hosses, but she looked hard at me, and when she was passed turned her head to have another look, and then she come back. "`bain't you tom janaway,' says she, `what used to work up to wydcombe farm?' "`ay, that i be,' says i, but stiff-like, for it galled me to think what she'd a-done for master, and yet could look so jolly with it all. "she took no note that i were glum, but `whose hosses is these?' she asked. "`your husband's, mum,' i made bold to say, thinking to take her down a peg. but, lor'! she didn't care a rush for that, but `which o' my husbands?' says she, and laughed fit to bust, and poked the horse-dealer in the side. he looked as if he'd like to throttle her, but she didn't mind that neither. `what for does michael want to sell his hosses?' "and then i lost my pluck, and didn't think to humble her any more, but just told her how things was, and how i'd stood the blessed day, and never got a bid. she never asked no questions, but i see her eyes twinkle when i spoke of master martin and miss phemie; and then she turned sharp to the horse-dealer and said: "`john, these is fine horses; you buy these cheap-like, and we can sell 'em again to-morrow.' "then he cursed and swore, and said the hosses was old scraws, and he'd be damned afore he'd buy such hounds'-meat. "`john,' says she, quite quiet, `'tain't polite to swear afore ladies. these here is good hosses, and i want you to buy 'em.' "then he swore again, but she'd got his measure, and there was a mighty firm look in her face, for all she laughed so; and by degrees he quieted down and let her talk. "`how much do you want for the four of 'em, young man?' she says; and i had a mind to say eighty pounds, thinking maybe she'd rise to that for old times' sake, but didn't like to say so much for fear of spoiling the bargain. `come,' she says, `how much? art thou dumb? well, if thou won't fix the price, i'll do it for 'ee. here, john, you bid a hundred for this lot.' "he stared stupid-like, but didn't speak. "then she look at him hard. "`you've got to do it,' she says, speaking low, but very firm; and out he comes with, `here, i'll give 'ee a hundred.' but before i had time to say `done,' she went on: `no--this young man says no; i can see it in his face; he don't think 'tis enough; you try him with a hundred and twenty.' "'twas as if he were overlooked, for he says quite mild, `well, i'll give 'ee a hundred and twenty.' "`ay, that's better,' says she; `he says that's better.' and she takes out a little leather wallet from her bosom, holding it under the flap of her waterproof so that the rain shouldn't get in, and counts out two dozen clean banknotes, and puts 'em into my hand. there was many more where they come from, for i could see the book was full of 'em; and when she saw my eyes on them, she takes out another, and gives it me, with, `there's one for thee, and good luck to 'ee; take that, and buy a fairing for thy sweetheart, tom janaway, and never say sophy flannery forgot an old friend.' "`thank 'ee kindly, mum,' says i; `thank 'ee kindly, and may you never miss it! i hope your rents do still come in reg'lar, mum.' "she laughed out loud, and said there was no fear of that; and then she called a lad, and he led off white-face and strike-a-light and jenny and the cutler, and they was all gone, and the horse-dealer and sophia, afore i had time to say good-night. she never come into these parts again--at least, i never seed her; but i heard tell she lived a score of years more after that, and died of a broken blood-vessel at beriton races." he moved a little further down the choir, and went on with his dusting; but westray followed, and started him again. "what happened when you got back? you haven't told me what farmer joliffe said, nor how you came to leave farming and turn clerk." the old man wiped his forehead. "i wasn't going to tell 'ee that," he said, "for it do fair make i sweat still to think o' it; but you can have it if you like. well, when they was gone, i was nigh dazed with such a stroke o' luck, and said the lord's prayer to see i wasn't dreaming. but 'twas no such thing, and so i cut a slit in the lining of my waistcoat, and dropped the notes in, all except the one she give me for myself, and that i put in my fob-pocket. 'twas getting dark, and i felt numb with cold and wet, what with standing so long in the rain and not having bite nor sup all day. "'tis a bleak place, beacon hill, and 'twas so soft underfoot that day the water'd got inside my boots, till they fair bubbled if i took a step. the rain was falling steady, and sputtered in the naphtha-lamps that they was beginning to light up outside the booths. there was one powerful flare outside a long tent, and from inside there come a smell of fried onions that made my belly cry `please, master, please!' "`yes, my lad,' i said to un, `i'm darned if i don't humour 'ee; thou shan't go back to wydcombe empty.' so in i step, and found the tent mighty warm and well lit, with men smoking and women laughing, and a great smell of cooking. there were long tables set on trestles down the tent, and long benches beside 'em, and folks eating and drinking, and a counter cross the head of the room, and great tin dishes simmering a-top of it--trotters and sausages and tripe, bacon and beef and colliflowers, cabbage and onions, blood-puddings and plum-duff. it seemed like a chance to change my banknote, and see whether 'twere good and not elf-money that folks have found turn to leaves in their pocket. so up i walks, and bids 'em gie me a plate of beef and jack-pudding, and holds out my note for't. the maid--for 'twas a maid behind the counter--took it, and then she looks at it and then at me, for i were very wet and muddy; and then she carries it to the gaffer, and he shows it to his wife, who holds it up to the light, and then they all fall to talking, and showed it to a 'cise-man what was there marking down the casks. "the people sitting nigh saw what was up, and fell to staring at me till i felt hot enough, and lief to leave my note where 'twas, and get out and back to wydcombe. but the 'cise-man must have said 'twere all right, for the gaffer comes back with four gold sovereigns and nineteen shillings, and makes a bow and says: "`your servant, sir; can i give you summat to drink?' "i looked round to see what liquor there was, being main glad all the while to find the note were good; and he says: "`rum and milk is very helping, sir; try the rum and milk hot.' "so i took a pint of rum and milk, and sat down at the nighest table, and the people as were waiting to see me took up, made room now, and stared as if i'd been a lord. i had another plate o' beef, and another rum-and-milk, and then smoked a pipe, knowing they wouldn't make no bother of my being late that night at wydcombe, when i brought back two dozen banknotes. "the meat and drink heartened me, and the pipe and the warmth of the tent seemed to dry my clothes and take away the damp, and i didn't feel the water any longer in my boots. the company was pleasant, too, and some very genteel dealers sitting near. "`my respec's to you, sir,' says one, holding up his glass to me--`best respec's. these pore folk isn't used to the flimsies, and was a bit surprised at your paper-money; but directly i see you, i says to my friends, "mates, that gentleman's one of us; that's a monied man, if ever i see one." i knew you for a gentleman the minute you come in.' "so i was flattered like, and thought if they made so much o' one banknote, what'd they say to know i'd got a pocket full of them? but didn't speak nothing, only chuckled a bit to think i could buy up half the tent if i had a mind to. after that i stood 'em drinks, and they stood me, and we passed a very pleasant evening--the more so because when we got confidential, and i knew they were men of honour, i proved that i was worthy to mix with such by showing 'em i had a packet of banknotes handy. they drank more respec's, and one of them said as how the liquor we were swallowing weren't fit for such a gentleman as me; so he took a flask out o' his pocket, and filled me a glass of his own tap, what his father 'ud bought in the same year as waterloo. 'twas powerful strong stuff that, and made me blink to get it down; but i took it with a good face, not liking to show i didn't know old liquor when it come my way. "so we sat till the tent was very close, and them hissing naphtha-lamps burnt dim with tobacco-smoke. 'twas still raining outside, for you could hear the patter heavy on the roof; and where there was a belly in the canvas, the water began to come through and drip inside. there was some rough talking and wrangling among folk who had been drinking; and i knew i'd had as much as i could carry myself, 'cause my voice sounded like someone's else, and i had to think a good bit before i could get out the words. 'twas then a bell rang, and the 'size-man called out, `closing time,' and the gaffer behind the counter said, `now, my lads, good-night to 'ee; hope the fleas won't bite 'ee. god save the queen, and give us a merry meeting to-morrow.' so all got up, and pulled their coats over their ears to go out, except half a dozen what was too heavy, and was let lie for the night on the grass under the trestles. "i couldn't walk very firm myself, but my friends took me one under each arm; and very kind of them it was, for when we got into the open air, i turned sleepy and giddy-like. i told 'em where i lived to, and they said never fear, they'd see me home, and knew a cut through the fields what'd take us to wydcombe much shorter. we started off, and went a bit into the dark; and then the very next thing i know'd was something blowing in my face, and woke up and found a white heifer snuffing at me. 'twas broad daylight, and me lying under a hedge in among the cuckoo-pints. i was wet through, and muddy (for 'twas a loamy ditch), and a bit dazed still, and sore ashamed; but when i thought of the bargain i'd made for master, and of the money i'd got in my waistcoat, i took heart, and reached in my hand to take out the notes, and see they weren't wasted with the wet. "but there was no notes there--no, not a bit of paper, for all i turned my waistcoat inside out, and ripped up the lining. 'twas only half a mile from beacon hill that i was lying, and i soon made my way back to the fair-ground, but couldn't find my friends of the evening before, and the gaffer in the drinking-tent said he couldn't remember as he'd ever seen any such. i spent the livelong day searching here and there, till the folks laughed at me, because i looked so wild with drinking the night before, and with sleeping out, and with having nothing to eat; for every penny was took from me. i told the constable, and he took it all down, but i see him looking at me the while, and at the torn lining hanging out under my waistcoat, and knew he thought 'twas only a light tale, and that i had the drink still in me. 'twas dark afore i give it up, and turned to go back. "'tis seven mile good by the nigh way from beacon hill to wydcombe; and i was dog-tired, and hungry, and that shamed i stopped a half-hour on the bridge over proud's mill-head, wishing to throw myself in and ha' done with it, but couldn't bring my mind to that, and so went on, and got to wydcombe just as they was going to bed. they stared at me, farmer michael, and master martin, and miss phemie, as if i was a spirit, while i told my tale; but i never said as how 'twas sophia joliffe as had bought the horses. old michael, he said nothing, but had a very blank look on his face, and miss phemie was crying; but master martin broke out saying 'twas all make-up, and i'd stole the money, and they must send for a constable. "`'tis lies,' he said. `this fellow's a rogue, and too great a fool even to make up a tale that'll hang together. who's going to believe a woman 'ud buy the team, and give a hundred and twenty pounds in notes for hosses that 'ud be dear at seventy pounds? who was the woman? did 'ee know her? there must be many in the fair 'ud know such a woman. they ain't so common as go about with their pockets full of banknotes, and pay double price for hosses what they buy.' "i knew well enough who'd bought 'em, but didn't want to give her name for fear of grieving farmer joliffe more nor he was grieved already, so said nothing, but held my peace. "then the farmer says: `tom, i believe 'ee; i've know'd 'ee thirty year, and never know'd 'ee tell a lie, and i believe 'ee now. but if thou knows her name, tell it us, and if thou doesn't know, tell us what she looked like, and maybe some of us 'll guess her.' "but still i didn't say aught till master martin goes on: "`out with her name. he must know her name right enough, if there ever was a woman as did buy the hosses; and don't you be so soft, father, as to trust such fool's tales. we'll get a constable for 'ee. out with her name, i say.' "then i was nettled like, at his speaking so rough, when the man that suffered had forgiven me, and said: "`yes, i know her name right enough, if 'ee will have it. 'twas the missis.' "`missis?' he says; `what missis?' "`your mother,' says i. `she was with a man, but he weren't the man she runned away from here with, and she made he buy the team.' "master martin didn't say any more, and miss phemie went on crying; but there was a blanker look come on old master's face, and he said very quiet: "`there, that'll do, lad. i believe 'ee, and forgive thee. don't matter much to i now if i have lost a hundred pound. 'tis only my luck, and if 'tweren't lost there, 'twould just as like be lost somewhere else. go in and wash thyself, and get summat to eat; and if i forgive 'ee this time, don't 'ee ever touch the drink again.' "`master,' i says, `i thank 'ee, and if i ever get a bit o' money i'll pay thee back what i can; and there's my sacred word i'll never touch the drink again.' "i held him out my hand, and he took it, for all 'twas so dirty. "`that's right, lad; and to-morrow we'll put the p'leece on to trace them fellows down.' "i kep' my promise, mr--mr--mr--" "westray," the architect suggested. "i didn't know your name, you see, because rector never introduced _me_ yesterday. i kep' my promise, mr westray, and bin teetotal ever since; but he never put the p'leece on the track, for he was took with a stroke next morning early, and died a fortnight later. they laid him up to wydcombe nigh his father and his grandfather, what have green rails round their graves; and give his yellow breeches and blue waistcoat to timothy foord the shepherd, and he wore them o' sundays for many a year after that. i left farming the same day as old master was put underground, and come into cullerne, and took odd jobs till the sexton fell sick, and then i helped dig graves; and when he died they made i sexton, and that were forty years ago come whitsun." "did martin joliffe keep on the farm after his father's death?" westray asked, after an interval of silence. they had wandered along the length of the stalls as they talked, and were passing through the stone screen which divides the minster into two parts. the floor of the choir at cullerne is higher by some feet than that of the rest of the church, and when they stood on the steps which led down into the nave, the great length of the transepts opened before them on either side. the end of the north transept, on the outside of which once stood the chapter-house and dormitories of the monastery, has only three small lancet-windows high up in the wall, but at the south end of the cross-piece there is no wall at all, for the whole space is occupied by abbot vinnicomb's window, with its double transoms and infinite subdivisions of tracery. thus is produced a curious contrast, for, while the light in the rest of the church is subdued to sadness by the smallness of the windows, and while the north transept is the most sombre part of all the building, the south transept, or blandamer aisle, is constantly in clear daylight. moreover, while the nave is of the norman style, and the transepts and choir of the early english, this window is of the latest perpendicular, complicated in its scheme, and meretricious in the elaboration of its detail. the difference is so great as to force itself upon the attention even of those entirely unacquainted with architecture, and it has naturally more significance for the professional eye. westray stood a moment on the steps as he repeated his question: "did martin keep on the farm?" "ay, he kep' it on, but he never had his heart in it. miss phemie did the work, and would have been a better farmer than her father, if martin had let her be; but he spent a penny for every ha'penny she made, till all came to the hammer. oxford puffed him up, and there was no one to check him; so he must needs be a gentleman, and give himself all kinds of airs, till people called him `gentleman joliffe,' and later on `old neb'ly' when his mind was weaker. 'twas that turned his brain," said the sexton, pointing to the great window; "'twas the silver and green what done it." westray looked up, and in the head of the centre light saw the nebuly coat shining among the darker painted glass with a luminosity which was even more striking in daylight than in the dusk of the previous evening. chapter five. after a week's trial, westray made up his mind that miss joliffe's lodgings would suit him. it was true that the hand of god was somewhat distant from the church, but, then, it stood higher than the rest of the town, and the architect's fads were not confined to matters of eating and drinking, but attached exaggerated importance to bracing air and the avoidance of low-lying situations. he was pleased also by the scrupulous cleanliness pervading the place, and by miss joliffe's cooking, which a long experience had brought to some perfection, so far as plain dishes were concerned. he found that no servant was kept, and that miss joliffe never allowed her niece to wait at table, so long as she herself was in the house. this occasioned him some little inconvenience, for his naturally considerate disposition made him careful of overtaxing a landlady no longer young. he rang his bell with reluctance, and when he did so, often went out on to the landing and shouted directions down the well-staircase, in the hopes of sparing any unnecessary climbing of the great nights of stone steps. this consideration was not lost upon miss joliffe, and westray was flattered by an evident anxiety which she displayed to retain him as a lodger. it was, then, with a proper appreciation of the favour which he was conferring, that he summoned her one evening near teatime, to communicate to her his intention of remaining at bellevue lodge. as an outward and visible sign of more permanent tenure, he decided to ask for the removal of some of those articles which did not meet his taste, and especially of the great flower-picture that hung over the sideboard. miss joliffe was sitting in what she called her study. it was a little apartment at the back of the house (once the still-room of the old inn), to which she retreated when any financial problem had to be grappled. such problems had presented themselves with unpleasant frequency for many years past, and now her brother's long illness and death brought about something like a crisis in the weary struggle to make two and two into five. she had spared him no luxury that illness is supposed to justify, nor was martin himself a man to be over-scrupulous in such matters. bedroom fires, beef-tea, champagne, the thousand and one little matters which scarcely come within the cognisance of the rich, but tax so heavily the devotion of the poor, had all left their mark on the score. that such items should figure in her domestic accounts, seemed to miss joliffe so great a violation of the rules which govern prudent housekeeping, that all the urgency of the situation was needed to free her conscience from the guilt of extravagance--from that _luxuria_ or wantonness, which leads the van among the seven deadly sins. philpotts the butcher had half smiled, half sighed to see sweetbreads entered in miss joliffe's book, and had, indeed, forgotten to keep record of many a similar purchase; using that kindly, quiet charity which the recipient is none the less aware of, and values the more from its very unostentation. so, too, did custance the grocer tremble in executing champagne orders for the thin and wayworn old lady, and gave her full measure pressed down and running over in teas and sugars, to make up for the price which he was compelled to charge for such refinements in the way of wine. yet the total had mounted up in spite of all forbearance, and miss joliffe was at this moment reminded of its gravity by the gold-foil necks of three bottles of the universally-appreciated duc de bentivoglio brand, which still projected from a shelf above her head. of dr ennefer's account she scarcely dared even to think; and there was perhaps less need of her doing so, for he never sent it in, knowing very well that she would pay it as she could, and being quite prepared to remit it entirely if she could never pay it at all. she appreciated his consideration, and overlooked with rare tolerance a peculiarly irritating breach of propriety of which he was constantly guilty. this was nothing less than addressing medicines to her house as if it were still an inn. before miss joliffe moved into the hand of god, she had spent much of the little allowed her for repairs, in covering up the name of the inn painted on the front. but after heavy rains the great black letters stared perversely through their veil, and the organist made small jokes about it being a difficult thing to thwart the hand of god. silly and indecorous, miss joliffe termed such witticisms, and had bellevue house painted in gold upon the fanlight over the door. but the cullerne painter wrote bellevue too small, and had to fill up the space by writing house too large; and the organist sneered again at the disproportion, saying it should have been the other way, for everyone knew it was a house, but none knew it was bellevue. and then dr ennefer addressed his medicine to "mr joliffe, the hand"-- not even to the hand of god, but simply the hand; and miss joliffe eyed the bottles askance as they lay on the table in the dreary hall, and tore the wrappers off them quickly, holding her breath the while that no exclamation of impatience might escape her. thus, the kindly doctor, in the hurry of his workaday life, vexed, without knowing it, the heart of the kindly lady, till she was constrained to retire to her study, and read the precepts about turning the other cheek to the smiters, before she could quite recover her serenity. miss joliffe sat in her study considering how martin's accounts were to be met. her brother, throughout his disorderly and unbusinesslike life, had prided himself on orderly and business habits. it was true that these were only manifested in the neat and methodical arrangement of his bills, but there he certainly excelled. he never paid a bill; it was believed it never occurred to him to pay one; but he folded each account to exactly the same breadth, using the cover of an old glove-box as a gauge, wrote very neatly on the outside the date, the name of the creditor, and the amount of the debt, and with an indiarubber band enrolled it in a company of its fellows. miss joliffe found drawers full of such disheartening packets after his death, for martin had a talent for distributing his favours, and of planting small debts far and wide, which by-and-by grew up into a very upas forest. miss joliffe's difficulties were increased a thousandfold by a letter which had reached her some days before, and which raised a case of conscience. it lay open on the little table before her: " , new bond street. "madam, "we are entrusted with a commission to purchase several pictures of still-life, and believe that you have a large painting of flowers for the acquiring of which we should be glad to treat. the picture to which we refer was formerly in the possession of the late michael joliffe, esquire, and consists of a basket of flowers on a mahogany table, with a caterpillar in the left-hand corner. we are so sure of our client's taste and of the excellence of the painting that we are prepared to offer for it a sum of fifty pounds, and to dispense with any previous inspection. "we shall be glad to receive a reply at your early convenience, and in the meantime "we remain, madam, "your most obedient servants, "baunton and lutterworth." miss joliffe read this letter for the hundredth time, and dwelt with unabated complacency on the "formerly in the possession of the late michael joliffe, esquire." there was about the phrase something of ancestral dignity and importance that gratified her, and dulled the sordid bitterness of her surroundings. "the late michael joliffe, esquire"--it read like a banker's will; and she was once more euphemia joliffe, a romantic girl sitting in wydcombe church of a summer sunday morning, proud of a new sprigged muslin, and proud of many tablets to older joliffes on the walls about her; for yeomen in southavonshire have pedigrees as well as dukes. at first sight it seemed as if providence had offered her in this letter a special solution of her difficulties, but afterwards scruples had arisen that barred the way of escape. "a large painting of flowers"-- her father had been proud of it--proud of his worthless wife's work; and when she herself was a little child, had often held her up in his arms to see the shining table-top and touch the caterpillar. the wound his wife had given him must still have been raw, for that was only a year after sophia had left him and the children; yet he was proud of her cleverness, and perhaps not without hope of her coming back. and when he died he left to poor euphemia, then half-way through the dark gorge of middle age, an old writing-desk full of little tokens of her mother-- the pair of gloves she wore at her wedding, a flashy brooch, a pair of flashy earrings, and many other unconsidered trifles that he had cherished. he left her, too, sophia's long wood paint-box, with its little bottles of coloured powders for mixing oil-paints, and this same "basket of flowers on a mahogany table, with a caterpillar in the left-hand corner." there had always been a tradition as to the value of this picture. her father had spoken little of his wife to the children, and it was only piecemeal, as she grew into womanhood, that miss euphemia learnt from hints and half-told truths the story of her mother's shame. but michael joliffe was known to have considered this painting his wife's masterpiece, and old mrs janaway reported that sophia had told her many a time it would fetch a hundred pounds. miss euphemia herself never had any doubt as to its worth, and so the offer in this letter occasioned her no surprise. she thought, in fact, that the sum named was considerably less than its market value, but sell it she could not. it was a sacred trust, and the last link (except the silver spoons marked "j.") that bound the squalid present to the comfortable past. it was an heirloom, and she could never bring herself to part with it. then the bell rang, and she slipped the letter into her pocket, smoothed the front of her dress, and climbed the stone stairs to see what mr westray wanted. the architect told her that he hoped to remain as her lodger during his stay in cullerne, and he was pleased at his own magnanimity when he saw what pleasure the announcement gave miss joliffe. she felt it as a great relief, and consented readily enough to take away the ferns, and the mats, and the shell flowers, and the wax fruit, and to make sundry small alterations of the furniture which he desired. it seemed to her, indeed, that, considering he was an architect, mr westray's taste was strangely at fault; but she extended to him all possible forbearance, in view of his kindly manner and of his intention to remain with her. then the architect approached the removal of the flower-painting. he hinted delicately that it was perhaps rather too large for the room, and that he should be glad of the space to hang a plan of cullerne church, to which he would have constantly to refer. the rays of the setting sun fell full on the picture at the time, and, lighting up its vulgar showiness, strengthened him in his resolution to be free of it at any cost. but the courage of his attack flagged a little, as he saw the look of dismay which overspread miss joliffe's face. "i think, you know, it is a little too bright and distracting for this room, which will really be my workshop." miss joliffe was now convinced that her lodger was devoid of all appreciation, and she could not altogether conceal her surprise and sadness in replying: "i am sure i want to oblige you in every way, sir, and to make you comfortable, for i always hope to have gentlefolk for my lodgers, and could never bring myself to letting the rooms down by taking anyone who was not a gentleman; but i hope you will not ask me to move the picture. it has hung here ever since i took the house, and my brother, `the late martin joliffe'"--she was unconsciously influenced by the letter which she had in her pocket, and almost said "the late martin joliffe, esquire"--"thought very highly of it, and used to sit here for hours in his last illness studying it. i hope you will not ask me to move the picture. you may not be aware, perhaps, that, besides being painted by my mother, it is in itself a very valuable work of art." there was a suggestion, however faint, in her words, of condescension for her lodger's bad taste, and a desire to enlighten his ignorance which nettled westray; and he contrived in his turn to throw a tone of superciliousness into his reply. "oh, of course, if you wish it to remain from sentimental reasons, i have nothing more to say, and i must not criticise your mother's work; but--" and he broke off, seeing that the old lady took the matter so much to heart, and being sorry that he had been ruffled at a trifle. miss joliffe gulped down her chagrin. it was the first time she had heard the picture openly disparaged, though she had thought that on more than one occasion it had not been appreciated so much as it deserved. but she carried a guarantee of its value in her pocket, and could afford to be magnanimous. "it has always been considered very valuable," she went on, "though i daresay i do not myself understand all its beauties, because i have not been sufficiently trained in art. but i am quite sure that it could be sold for a great deal of money, if i could only bring myself to part with it." westray was irritated by the hint that he knew little of art, and his sympathy for his landlady in her family attachment to the picture was much discounted by what he knew must be wilful exaggeration as to its selling value. miss joliffe read his thoughts, and took a piece of paper from her pocket. "i have here," she said, "an offer of fifty pounds for the picture from some gentlemen in london. please read it, that you may see it is not i who am mistaken." she held him out the dealers' letter, and westray took it to humour her. he read it carefully, and wondered more and more as he went on. what could be the explanation? could the offer refer to some other picture? for he knew baunton and lutterworth as being most reputable among london picture-dealers; and the idea of the letter being a hoax was precluded by the headed paper and general style of the communication. he glanced at the picture. the sunlight was still on it, and it stood out more hideous than ever; but his tone was altered as he spoke again to miss joliffe. "do you think," he said, "that this is the picture mentioned? have you no other pictures?" "no, nothing of this sort. it is certainly this one; you see, they speak of the caterpillar in the corner." and she pointed to the bulbous green animal that wriggled on the table-top. "so they do," he said; "but how did they know anything about it?"--quite forgetting the question of its removal in the new problem that was presented. "oh, i fancy that most really good paintings are well-known to dealers. this is not the first inquiry we have had, for the very day of my dear brother's death a gentleman called here about it. none of us were at home except my brother, so i did not see him; but i believe he wanted to buy it, only my dear brother would never have consented to its being sold." "it seems to me a handsome offer," westray said; "i should think very seriously before i refused it." "yes, it is very serious to me in my position," answered miss joliffe; "for i am not rich; but i could not sell this picture. you see, i have known it ever since i was a little girl, and my father set such store by it. i hope, mr westray, you will not want it moved. i think, if you let it stop a little, you will get to like it very much yourself." westray did not press the matter further; he saw it was a sore point with his landlady, and reflected that he might hang a plan in front of the painting, if need be, as a temporary measure. so a concordat was established, and miss joliffe put baunton and lutterworth's letter back into her pocket, and returned to her accounts with equanimity at least partially restored. after she had left the room, westray examined the picture once more, and more than ever was he convinced of its worthlessness. it had all the crude colouring and hard outlines of the worst amateur work, and gave the impression of being painted with no other object than to cover a given space. this view was, moreover, supported by the fact that the gilt frame was exceptionally elaborate and well made, and he came to the conclusion that sophia must somehow have come into possession of the frame, and had painted the flower-piece to fill it. the sun was a red ball on the horizon as he flung up the window and looked out over the roofs towards the sea. the evening was very still, and the town lay steeped in deep repose. the smoke hung blue above it in long, level strata, and there was perceptible in the air a faint smell of burning weeds. the belfry story of the centre tower glowed with a pink flush in the sunset, and a cloud of jackdaws wheeled round the golden vanes, chattering and fluttering before they went to bed. "it is a striking scene, is it not?" said a voice at his elbow; "there is a curious aromatic scent in this autumn air that makes one catch one's breath." it was the organist who had slipped in unawares. "i feel down on my luck," he said. "take your supper in my room to-night, and let us have a talk." westray had not seen much of him for the last few days, and agreed gladly enough that they should spend the evening together; only the venue was changed, and supper taken in the architect's room. they talked over many things that night, and westray let his companion ramble on to his heart's content about cullerne men and manners; for he was of a receptive mind, and anxious to learn what he could about those among whom he had taken up his abode. he told mr sharnall of his conversation with miss joliffe, and of the unsuccessful attempt to get the picture removed. the organist knew all about baunton and lutterworth's letter. "the poor thing has made the question a matter of conscience for the last fortnight," he said, "and worried herself into many a sleepless night over that picture. `shall i sell it, or shall i not?' `yes,' says poverty--`sell it, and show a brave front to your creditors.' `yes,' say martin's debts, clamouring about her with open mouths, like a nest of young starlings, `sell it, and satisfy us.' `no,' says pride, `don't sell it; it is a patent of respectability to have an oil-painting in the house.' `no,' says family affection, and the queer little piping voice of her own childhood--`don't sell it. don't you remember how fond poor daddy was of it, and how dear martin treasured it?' `dear martin'--psh! martin never did her anything but evil turns all his threescore years, but women canonise their own folk when they die. haven't you seen what they call a religious woman damn the whole world for evil-doers? and then her husband or her brother dies, and may have lived as ill a life as any other upon earth, but she don't damn him. love bids her penal code halt; she makes a way of escape for her own, and speaks of dear dick and dear tom for all the world as if they had been double baxter-saints. no, blood is thicker than water; damnation doesn't hold good for her own. love is stronger than hell-fire, and works a miracle for dick and tom; only _she_ has to make up the balance by giving other folks an extra dose of brimstone. "lastly, worldly wisdom, or what miss joliffe thinks wisdom, says, `no, don't sell it; you should get more than fifty pounds for such a gem.' so she is tossed about, and if she'd lived when there were monks in cullerne church, she would have asked her father confessor, and he would have taken down his `summa angelica,' and looked it out under v.--`_vendetur? utrum vendetur an non_?'--and set her mind at rest. you didn't know i could chaffer latin with the best of 'em, did you? ah, but i can, even with the rector, for all the _nebulus_ and _nebulum_; only i don't trot it out too often. i'll show you a copy of the `summa' when you come down to my room; but there aren't any confessors now, and dear protestant parkyn couldn't read the `summa' if he had it; so there is no one to settle the case for her." the little man had worked himself into a state of exaltation, and his eyes twinkled as he spoke of his scholastic attainments. "latin," he said--"damn it! i can talk latin against anyone--yes, with beza himself--and could tell you tales in it which would make you stop your ears. ah, well, more fool i--more fool i. `_contentus esto, paule mi, lasciva, paule, pagina_,'" he muttered to himself, and drummed nervously with his fingers on the table. westray was apprehensive of these fits of excitement, and led the conversation back to the old theme. "it baffles me to understand how _anyone_ with eyes at all could think a daub like this was valuable--that is strange enough; but how come these london people to have made an offer for it? i know the firm quite well; they are first-rate dealers." "there are some people," said the organist, "who can't tell `pop goes the weasel' from the `hallelujah chorus,' and others are as bad with pictures. i'm very much that way myself. no doubt all you say is right, and this picture an eyesore to any respectable person, but i've been used to it so long i've got to like it, and should be sorry to see her sell it. and as for these london buyers, i suppose some other ignoramus has taken a fancy to it, and wants to buy. you see, there _have_ been chance visitors staying in this room a night or two between whiles--perhaps even americans, for all i said about them--and you can never reckon what _they'll_ do. the very day martin joliffe died there was a story of someone coming to buy the picture of him. i was at church in the afternoon, and miss joliffe at the dorcas meeting, and anastasia gone out to the chemist. when i got back, i came up to see martin in this same room, and found him full of a tale that he had heard the bell ring, and after that someone walking in the house, and last his door opened, and in walked a stranger. martin was sitting in the chair i'm using now, and was too weak then to move out of it; so he was forced to sit until this man came in. the stranger talked kindly to him, so he said, and wanted to buy the picture of the flowers, bidding as high as twenty pounds for it; but martin wouldn't hear him, and said he wouldn't let him have it for ten times that, and then the man went away. that was the story, and i thought at the time 'twas all a cock-and-bull tale, and that martin's mind was wandering; for he was very weak, and seemed flushed too, like one just waken from a dream. but he had a cunning look in his eye when he told me, and said if he lived another week he would be lord blandamer himself, and wouldn't want then to sell any pictures. he spoke of it again when his sister came back, but couldn't say what the man was like, except that his hair reminded him of anastasia's. "but martin's time was come; he died that very night, and miss joliffe was terribly cast down, because she feared she had given him an overdose of sleeping-draught; for ennefer told her he had taken too much, and she didn't see where he had got it from unless she gave it him by mistake. ennefer wrote the death certificate, and so there was no inquest; but that put the stranger out of our thoughts until it was too late to find him, if, indeed, he ever was anything more than the phantom of a sick man's brain. no one beside had seen him, and all we had to ask for was a man with wavy hair, because he reminded martin of anastasia. but if 'twas true, then there was someone else who had a fancy for the painting, and poor old michael must have thought a lot of it to frame it in such handsome style." "i don't know," westray said; "it looks to me as if the picture was painted to fill the frame." "perhaps so, perhaps so," answered the organist dryly. "what made martin joliffe think he was so near success?" "ah, that i can't tell you. he was always thinking he had squared the circle, or found the missing bit to fit into the puzzle; but he kept his schemes very dark. he left boxes full of papers behind him when he died, and miss joliffe handed them to me to look over, instead of burning them. i shall go through them some day; but no doubt the whole thing is moonshine, and if he ever had a clue it died with him." there was a little pause; the chimes of saint sepulchre's played "mount ephraim," and the great bell tolled out midnight over cullerne flat. "it's time to be turning in. you haven't a drop of whisky, i suppose?" he said, with a glance at the kettle which stood on a trivet in front of the fire; "i have talked myself thirsty." there was a pathos in his appeal that would have melted many a stony heart, but westray's principles were unassailable, and he remained obdurate. "no, i am afraid i have not," he said; "you see, i never take spirits myself. will you not join me in a cup of cocoa? the kettle boils." mr sharnall's face fell. "you ought to have been an old woman," he said; "only old women drink cocoa. well, i don't mind if i do; any port in a storm." the organist went to bed that night in a state of exemplary sobriety, for when he got down to his own room he could find no spirit in the cupboard, and remembered that he had finished the last bottle of old martelet's _eau-de-vie_ at his tea, and that he had no money to buy another. chapter six. a month later the restoration work at saint sepulchre's was fairly begun, and in the south transept a wooden platform had been raised on scaffold-poles to such a height as allowed the masons to work at the vault from the inside. this roof was no doubt the portion of the fabric that called most urgently for repair, but westray could not disguise from himself that delay might prove dangerous in other directions, and he drew sir george farquhar's attention to more than one weak spot which had escaped the great architect's cursory inspection. but behind all westray's anxieties lurked that dark misgiving as to the tower arches, and in his fancy the enormous weight of the central tower brooded like the incubus over the whole building. sir george farquhar paid sufficient attention to his deputy's representations to visit cullerne with a special view to examining the tower. he spent an autumn day in making measurements and calculations, he listened to the story of the interrupted peal, and probed the cracks in the walls, but saw no reason to reconsider his former verdict or to impugn the stability of the tower. he gently rallied westray on his nervousness, and, whilst he agreed that in other places repair was certainly needed, he pointed out that lack of funds must unfortunately limit for the present both the scope of operations and the rate of progress. cullerne abbey was dissolved with the larger religious houses in , when nicholas vinnicomb, the last abbot, being recalcitrant, and refusing to surrender his house, was hanged as a traitor in front of the great west gate-house. the general revenues were impropriated by the king's court of augmentations, and the abbey lands in the immediate vicinity were given to shearman, the king's physician. spellman, in his book on sacrilege, cites cullerne as an instance where church lands brought ruin to their new owner's family; for shearman had a spendthrift son who squandered his patrimony, and then, caballing with spanish intriguants, came to the block in queen elizabeth's days. "for evil hands have abbey lands, such evil fate in store; such is the heritage that waits church-robbers evermore." thus, in the next generation the name of shearman was clean put away; but sir john fynes, purchasing the property, founded the grammar school and almshouses as a sin-offering for the misdoings of his predecessors. this measure of atonement succeeded admirably, for horatio fynes was ennobled by james the first, and his family, with the title of blandamer, endures to this present. on the day before the formal dissolution of their house the monks sung the last service in the abbey church. it was held late in the evening, partly because this time seemed to befit such a farewell, and partly that less public attention might be attracted; for there was a doubt whether the king's servants would permit any further ceremonies. six tall candles burnt upon the altar, and the usual sconces lit the service-books that lay before the brothers in the choir-stalls. it was a sad service, as every good and amiable thing is sad when done for the last time. there were agonising hearts among the brothers, especially among the older monks, who knew not whither to go on the morrow; and the voice of the sub-prior was broken with grief, and failed him as he read the lesson. the nave was in darkness except for the warming-braziers, which here and there cast a ruddy glow on the vast norman pillars. in the obscurity were gathered little groups of townsmen. the nave had always been open for their devotions in happier days, and at the altars of its various chapels they were accustomed to seek the means of grace. that night they met for the last time--some few as curious spectators, but most in bitterness of heart and profound sorrow, that the great church with its splendid services was lost to them for ever. they clustered between the pillars of the arcades; and, the doors that separated the nave from the choir being open, they could look through the stone screen, and see the serges twinking far away on the high altar. among all the sad hearts in the abbey church, there was none sadder than that of richard vinnicomb, merchant and wool-stapler. he was the abbot's elder brother, and to all the bitterness naturally incident to the occasion was added in his case the grief that his brother was a prisoner in london, and would certainly be tried for his life. he stood in the deep shadow of the pier that supported the north-west corner of the tower, weighed down with sorrow for the abbot and for the fall of the abbey, and uncertain whether his brother's condemnation would not involve his own ruin. it was december , saint nicholas' day, the day of the abbot's patron saint. he was near enough to the choir to hear the collect being read on the other side of the screen: "_deus qui beatum nicolaum pontificem innumeris decorasti miraculis: tribue quaesumus ut ejus mentis, et precibus, a gehennae incendiis liberemur, per dominum nostrum jesum christum. amen_." "amen," he said in the shadow of his pillar. "blessed nicholas, save me; blessed nicholas, save us all; blessed nicholas, save my brother, and, if he must lose this temporal life, pray to our lord christ that he will shortly accomplish the number of his elect, and reunite us in his eternal paradise." he clenched his hands in his distress, and, as a flicker from the brazier fell upon him, those standing near saw the tears run down his cheeks. "_nicholas qui omnem terram doctrina replevisti, intercede pro peccatis nostris_," said the officiant; and the monks gave the antiphon: "_iste est qui contempsit vitam mundi et pervenit ad coelestia regna_." one by one a server put out the altar-lights, and as the last was extinguished the monks rose in their places, and walked out in procession, while the organ played a dirge as sad as the wind in a ruined window. the abbot was hanged before his abbey gate, but richard vinnicomb's goods escaped confiscation; and when the great church was sold, as it stood, for building material, he bought it for three hundred pounds, and gave it to the parish. one part of his prayer was granted, for within a year death reunited him to his brother; and in his pious will he bequeathed his "sowle to allmyhtie god his maker and redemer, to have the fruition of the deitie with our blessed ladie and all saints and the abbey churche of saint sepulchre with the implements thereof, to the paryshe of cullerne, so that the said parishioners shall not sell, alter, or alienate the said churche, or implements or anye part or parcell thereof for ever." thus it was that the church which westray had to restore was preserved at a critical period of its history. richard vinnicomb's generosity extended beyond the mere purchase of the building, for he left in addition a sum to support the dignity of a daily service, with a complement of three chaplains, an organist, ten singing-men, and sixteen choristers. but the negligence of trustees and the zeal of more religious-minded men than poor superstitious richard had sadly diminished these funds. successive rectors of cullerne became convinced that the spiritual interests of the town would be better served by placing a larger income at their own disposal for good works, and by devoting less to the mere lip-service of much daily singing. thus, the stipend of the rector was gradually augmented, and canon parkyn found an opportunity soon after his installation to increase the income of the living to a round two thousand by curtailing extravagance in the payment of an organist, and by reducing the emoluments of that office from two hundred to eighty pounds a year. it was true that this scheme of economy included the abolition of the week-day morning-service, but at three o'clock in the afternoon evensong was still rehearsed in cullerne church. it was the thin and vanishing shadow of a cathedral service, and canon parkyn hoped that it might gradually dwindle away until it was dispersed to nought. such formalism must certainly throttle any real devotion, and it was regrettable that many of the prayers in which his own fine voice and personal magnetism must have had a moving effect upon his hearers should be constantly obscured by vain intonations. it was only by doing violence to his own high principles that he constrained himself to accept the emoluments which poor richard vinnicomb had provided for a singing foundation, and he was scrupulous in showing his disapproval of such vanities by punctilious absence from the week-day service. this ceremony was therefore entrusted to white-haired mr noot, whose zeal in his master's cause had left him so little opportunity for pushing his own interests that at sixty he was stranded as an underpaid curate in the backwater of cullerne. at four o'clock, therefore, on a week-day afternoon, anyone who happened to be in saint sepulchre's church might see a little surpliced procession issue from the vestries in the south transept, and wind its way towards the choir. it was headed by clerk janaway, who carried a silver-headed mace; then followed eight choristers (for the number fixed by richard vinnicomb had been diminished by half); then five singing-men, of whom the youngest was fifty, and the rear was brought up by mr noot. the procession having once entered the choir, the clerk shut the doors of the screen behind it, that the minds of the officiants might be properly removed from contemplation of the outer world, and that devotion might not be interrupted by any intrusion of profane persons from the nave. these outside profane existed rather in theory than fact, for, except in the height of summer, visitors were rarely seen in the nave or any other part of the building. cullerne lay remote from large centres, and archaeologic interest was at this time in so languishing a condition that few, except professed antiquaries, were aware of the grandeur of the abbey church. if strangers troubled little about cullerne, the interest of the inhabitants in the week-day service was still more lukewarm, and the pews in front of the canopied stalls remained constantly empty. thus, mr noot read, and mr sharnall the organist played, and the choir-men and choristers sang, day by day, entirely for clerk janaway's benefit, because there was no one else to listen to them. yet, if a stranger given to music ever entered the church at such times, he was struck with the service; for, like the homeric housewife who did the best with what she had by her, mr sharnall made the most of his defective organ and inadequate choir. he was a man if much taste and resource, and, as the echoes of the singing rolled round the vaulted roofs, a generous critic thought little of cracked voices and leaky bellows and rattling trackers, but took away with him an harmonious memory of sunlight and coloured glass and eighteenth-century music; and perhaps of some clear treble voice, for mr sharnall was famed for training boys and discovering the gift of song. saint luke's little summer, in the october that followed the commencement of the restoration, amply justified its name. in the middle of the month there were several days of such unusual beauty as to recall the real summer, and the air was so still and the sunshine so warm that anyone looking at the soft haze on cullerne flat might well have thought that august had returned. cullerne minster was, as a rule, refreshingly cool in the warmth of summer, but something of the heat and oppressiveness of the outside air seemed to have filtered into the church on these unseasonably warm autumn days. on a certain saturday a more than usual drowsiness marked the afternoon service. the choir plumped down into their places when the psalms were finished, and abandoned themselves to slumber with little attempt at concealment, as mr noot began the first lesson. there were, indeed, honourable exceptions to the general somnolence. on the cantoris side the worn-out alto held an animated conversation with the cracked tenor. they were comparing some specially fine onions under the desk, for both were gardeners and the autumn leek-show was near at hand. on the decani side patrick ovens, a red-haired little treble, was kept awake by the necessity for altering _magnificat_ into _magnified cat_ in his copy of aldrich in g. the lesson was a long one. mr noot, mildest and most beneficent of men, believed that he was at his best in denunciatory passages of scripture. the prayer-book, it was true, had appointed a portion of the book of wisdom for the afternoon lesson, but mr noot made light of authorities, and read instead a chapter from isaiah. if he had been questioned as to this proceeding, he would have excused himself by saying that he disapproved of the apocrypha, even for instruction of manners (and there was no one at cullerne at all likely to question this right of private judgment), but his real, though perhaps unconscious, motive was to find a suitable passage for declamation. he thundered forth judgments in a manner which combined, he believed, the terrors of supreme justice with an infinite commiseration for the blindness of errant, but long-forgotten peoples. he had, in fact, that "bible voice" which seeks to communicate additional solemnity to the scriptures by reciting them in a tone never employed in ordinary life, as the fledgling curate adds gravity to the litany by whispering "the hour of death and day of judgment." mr noot, being short-sighted, did not see how lightly the punishments of these ancient races passed over the heads of his dozing audience, and was bringing the long lesson to a properly dramatic close when the unexpected happened: the screen-door opened and a stranger entered. as the blowing of a horn by the paladin broke the repose of a century, and called back to life the spellbound princess and her court, so these slumbering churchmen were startled from their dreams by the intruder. the choir-boys fell to giggling, the choir-men stared, clerk janaway grasped his mace as if he would brain so rash an adventurer, and the general movement made mr sharnall glance nervously at his stops; for he thought that he had overslept himself, and that the choir had stood up for the _magnificat_. the stranger seemed unconscious of the attention which his appearance provoked. he was no doubt some casual sightseer, and had possibly been unaware that any service was in progress until he opened the screen-door. but once there, he made up his mind to join in the devotions, and was walking to the steps which led up to the stalls when clerk janaway popped out of his place and accosted him, quoting the official regulations in something louder than a stage whisper: "ye cannot enter the choir during the hours of divine service. ye cannot come in." the stranger was amused at the old man's officiousness. "i am in," he whispered back, "and, being in, will take a seat, if you please, until the service is over." the clerk looked at him doubtfully for a moment, but if there was amusement to be read in the other's countenance, there was also a decision that did not encourage opposition. so he thought better of the matter, and opened the door of one of the pews that run below the stalls in cullerne church. but the stranger did not appear to notice that a place was being shown him, and walked past the pew and up the little steps that led to the stalls on the cantoris side. directly behind the singing-men were five stalls, which had canopies richer and more elaborate than those of the others, with heraldic escutcheons painted on the backs. from these seats the vulgar herd was excluded by a faded crimson cord, but the stranger lifted the cord from its hook, and sat down in the first reserved seat, as if the place belonged to him. clerk janaway was outraged, and bustled up the steps after him like an angry turkey-cock. "come, come!" he said, touching the intruder on the shoulder; "you cannot sit here; these are the fording seats, and kep' for lord blandamer's family." "i will make room if lord blandamer brings his family," the stranger said; and, seeing that the old man was returning to the attack, added, "hush! that is enough." the clerk looked at him again, and then turned back to his own place, routed. "_and in that day they shall roar against thee like the roaring of the sea, and if one look unto the land behold darkness and sorrow, and the light is darkened in the heavens thereof_," said mr noot, and shut the book, with a glance of general fulmination through his great round spectacles. the choir, who had been interested spectators of this conflict of lawlessness as personified in the intruder, and authority as in the clerk, rose to their feet as the organ began the _magnificat_. the singing-men exchanged glances of amusement, for they were not altogether averse to seeing the clerk worsted. he was an autocrat in his own church, and ruffled them now and again with what they called his bumptiousness. perhaps he did assume a little as he led the procession, for he forgot at times that he was a peaceable servant of the sanctuary, and fancied, as he marched mace in hand to the music of the organ, that he was a daring officer leading a forlorn hope. that very afternoon he had had a heated discussion in the vestry with mr milligan, the bass, on a question of gardening, and the singer, who still smarted under the clerk's overbearing tongue, was glad to emphasise his adversary's defeat by paying attention to the intruder. the tenor on the cantoris side was taking holiday that day, and mr milligan availed himself of the opportunity to offer the absentee's copy of the service to the intruder, who was sitting immediately behind him. he turned round, and placed the book, open at the _magnificat_, before the stranger with much deference, casting as he faced round again a look of misprision at janaway, of which the latter was quick to appreciate, the meaning. this by-play was lost upon the stranger, who nodded his acknowledgment of the civility, and turned to the study of the score which had been offered him. mr sharnall's resources in the way of men's voices were so limited that he was by no means unused to finding himself short of a voice-part on the one side or the other. he had done his best to remedy the deficiency in the psalms by supplying the missing part with his left hand, but as he began the _magnificat_ he was amazed to hear a mellow and fairly strong tenor taking part in the service with feeling and precision. it was the stranger who stood in the gap, and when the first surprise was past, the choir welcomed him as being versed in their own arts, and clerk janaway forgot the presumption of his entrance and even the rebellious conduct of mr milligan. the men and boys sang with new life; they wished, in fact, that so knowledgeable a person should be favourably impressed, and the service was rendered in a more creditable way than cullerne church had known for many a long day. only the stranger was perfectly unmoved. he sang as if he had been a lay-vicar all his life, and when the _magnificat_ was ended, and mr sharnall could look through the curtains of the organ-loft, the organist saw him with a bible devoutly following mr noot in the second lesson. he was a man of forty, rather above the middle height, with dark eyebrows and dark hair, that was beginning to turn grey. his hair, indeed, at once attracted the observer's attention by its thick profusion and natural wavy curl. he was clean-shaven, his features were sharply cut without being thin, and there was something contemptuous about the firm mouth. his nose was straight, and a powerful face gave the impression of a man who was accustomed to be obeyed. to anyone looking at him from the other side of the choir, he presented a remarkable picture, for which the black oak of abbot vinnicomb's stalls supplied a frame. above his head the canopy went soaring up into crockets and finials, and on the woodwork at the back was painted a shield which nearer inspection would have shown to be the blandamer cognisance, with its nebuly bars of green and silver. it was, perhaps, so commanding an appearance that made red-haired patrick ovens take out an australian postage-stamp which he had acquired that very day, and point out to the boy next to him the effigy of queen victoria sitting crowned in a gothic chair. the stranger seemed to enter thoroughly into the spirit of the performance; he bore his part in the service bravely, and, being furnished with another book, lent effective aid with the anthem. he stood up decorously as the choir filed out after the grace, and then sat down again in his seat to listen to the voluntary. mr sharnall determined to play something of quality as a tribute to the unknown tenor, and gave as good a rendering of the saint anne's fugue as the state of the organ would permit. it was true that the trackers rattled terribly, and that a cipher marred the effect of the second subject; but when he got to the bottom of the little winding stairs that led down from the loft, he found the stranger waiting with a compliment. "thank you very much," he said; "it is very kind of you to give us so fine a fugue. it is many years since i was last in this church, and i am fortunate to have chosen so sunny an afternoon, and to have been in time for your service." "not at all, not at all," said the organist; "it is we who are fortunate in having you to help us. you read well, and have a useful voice, though i caught you tripping a little in the lead of the _nunc dimittis_ gloria." and he sung it over by way of reminder. "you understand church music, and have sung many a service before, i am sure, though you don't look much given that way," he added, scanning him up and down. the stranger was amused rather than offended at these blunt criticisms, and the catechising went on. "are you stopping in cullerne?" "no," the other replied courteously; "i am only here for the day, but i hope i may find other occasions to visit the place and to hear your service. you will have your full complement of voices next time i come, no doubt, and i shall be able to listen more at my ease than to-day?" "oh no, you won't. it's ten to one you will find us still worse off. we are a poverty-stricken lot, and no one to come over into macedonia to help us. these cursed priests eat up our substance like canker-worms, and grow sleek on the money that was left to keep the music going. i don't mean the old woman that read this afternoon; he's got _his_ nose on the grindstone like the rest of us--poor noot! he has to put brown paper in his boots because he can't afford to have them resoled. no, it's the barabbas in the rectory-house, that buys his stocks and shares, and starves the service." this tirade fell lightly on the stranger's ears. he looked as if his thoughts were a thousand miles away, and the organist broke off: "do you play the organ? do you understand an organ?" he asked quickly. "alas! i do not play," the stranger said, bringing his mind back with a jerk for the answer, "and understand little about the instrument." "well, next time you are here come up into the loft, and i will show you what a chest of rattletraps i have to work with. we are lucky to get through a service without a breakdown; the pedal-board is too short and past its work, and now the bellows are worn-out." "surely you can get that altered," the stranger said; "the bellows shouldn't cost so much to mend." "they are patched already past mending. those who would like to pay for new ones haven't got the money, and those who have the money won't pay. why, that very stall you sat in belongs to a man who could give us new bellows, and a new organ, and a new church, if we wanted it. blandamer, that's his name--lord blandamer. if you had looked, you could have seen his great coat of arms on the back of the seat; and he won't spend a halfpenny to keep the roofs from falling on our heads." "ah," said the stranger, "it seems a very sad case." they had reached the north door, and, as they stepped out, he repeated meditatively: "it seems a very sad case; you must tell me more about it next time we meet." the organist took the hint, and wished his companion good-afternoon, turning down towards the wharves for a constitutional on the riverside. the stranger raised his hat with something of foreign courtesy, and walked back into the town. chapter seven. miss euphemia joliffe devoted saturday afternoons to saint sepulchre's dorcas society. the meetings were held in a class-room of the girls' national school, and there a band of devoted females gathered week by week to make garments for the poor. if there was in cullerne some threadbare gentility, and a great deal of middle-class struggling, there was happily little actual poverty, as it is understood in great towns. thus the poor, to whom the clothes made by the dorcas society were ultimately distributed, could sometimes afford to look the gift-horse in the mouth, and to lament that good material had been marred in the making. "they wept," the organist said, "when they showed the coats and garments that dorcas made, because they were so badly cut;" but this was a libel, for there were many excellent needlewomen in the society, and among the very best was miss euphemia joliffe. she was a staunch supporter of the church, and, had her circumstances permitted, would have been a scripture-reader or at least a district visitor. but the world was so much with her, in the shape of domestic necessities at bellevue lodge, as to render parish work impossible, and so the dorcas meeting was the only systematic philanthropy in which she could venture to indulge. but in the discharge of this duty she was regularity personified; neither wind nor rain, snow nor heat, sickness nor amusement, stopped her, and she was to be found each and every saturday afternoon, from three to five, in the national school. if the dorcas society was a duty for the little old lady, it was also a pleasure--one of her few pleasures, and perhaps the greatest. she liked the meetings, because on such occasions she felt herself to be the equal of her more prosperous neighbours. it is the same feeling that makes the half-witted attend funerals and church services. at such times they feel themselves to be for once on an equal footing with their fellow-men: all are reduced to the same level; there are no speeches to be made, no accounts to be added up, no counsels to be given, no decisions to be taken; all are as fools in the sight of god. at the dorcas meeting miss joliffe wore her "best things" with the exception only of head-gear, for the wearing of her best bonnet was a crowning grace reserved exclusively for the sabbath. her wardrobe was too straightened to allow her "best" to follow the shifting seasons closely. if it was bought as best for winter, it might have to play the same role also in summer, and thus it fell sometimes to her lot to wear alpaca in december, or, as on this day, to be adorned with a fur necklet when the weather asked for muslin. yet "in her best" she always felt "fit to be seen"; and when it came to cutting out, or sewing, there were none that excelled her. most of the members greeted her with a kind word, for even in a place where envy, hatred and malice walked the streets arm in arm from sunrise to sunset, miss euphemia had few enemies. lying and slandering, and speaking evil of their fellows, formed a staple occupation of the ladies of cullerne, as of many another small town; and to miss joliffe, who was foolish and old-fashioned enough to think evil of no one, it had seemed at first the only drawback of these delightful meetings that a great deal of such highly-spiced talk was to be heard at them. but even this fly was afterwards removed from the amber; for mrs bulteel--the brewer's lady--who wore london dresses, and was much the most fashionable person in cullerne, proposed that some edifying book should be read aloud on dorcas afternoons to the assembled workers. it was true that mrs flint said she only did so because she thought she had a fine voice; but however that might be, she proposed it, and no one cared to run counter to her. so mrs bulteel read properly religious stories, of so touching a nature that an afternoon seldom passed without her being herself dissolved in tears, and evoking sympathetic sniffs and sobs from such as wished to stand in her good books. if miss joliffe was not herself so easily moved by imaginary sorrow, she set it down to some lack of loving-kindness in her own disposition, and mentally congratulated the others on their superior sensitiveness. miss joliffe was at the dorcas meeting, mr sharnall was walking by the riverside, mr westray was with the masons on the roof of the transept; only anastasia joliffe was at bellevue lodge when the front-door-bell rang. when her aunt was at home, anastasia was not allowed to "wait on the gentlemen," nor to answer the bell; but her aunt being absent, and there being no one else in the house, she duly opened one leaf of the great front-door, and found a gentleman standing on the semicircular flight of steps outside. that he was a gentleman she knew at a glance, for she had a _flair_ for such useless distinctions, though the genus was not sufficiently common at cullerne to allow her much practice in its identification near home. it was, in fact, the stranger of the tenor voice, and such is the quickness of woman's wit, that she learnt in a moment as much concerning his outward appearance as the organist and the choir-men and the clerk had learnt in an hour; and more besides, for she saw that he was well dressed. there was about him a complete absence of personal adornment. he wore no rings and no scarf-pin, even his watch-chain was only of leather. his clothes were of so dark a grey as to be almost black, but miss anastasia joliffe knew that the cloth was good, and the cut of the best. she had thrust a pencil into the pages of "northanger abbey" to keep the place while she answered the bell, and as the stranger stood before her, it seemed to her he might be a henry tilney, and she was prepared, like a catherine morland, for some momentous announcement when he opened his lips. yet there came nothing very weighty from them; he did not even inquire for lodgings, as she half hoped that he would. "does the architect in charge of the works at the church lodge here? is mr westray at home?" was all he said. "he does live here," she answered, "but is out just now, and we do not expect him back till six. i think you will probably find him at the church if you desire to see him." "i have just come from the minster, but could see nothing of him there." it served the stranger right that he should have missed the architect, and been put to the trouble of walking as far as bellevue lodge, for his inquiries must have been very perfunctory. if he had taken the trouble to ask either organist or clerk, he would have learnt at once where mr westray was. "i wonder if you would allow me to write a note. if you could give me a sheet of paper i should be glad to leave a message for him." anastasia gave him a glance from head to foot, rapid as an instantaneous exposure. "tramps" were a permanent bugbear to the ladies of cullerne, and a proper dread of such miscreants had been instilled into anastasia joliffe by her aunt. it was, moreover, a standing rule of the house that no strange men were to be admitted on any pretence, unless there was some man-lodger at home, to grapple with them if occasion arose. but the glance was sufficient to confirm her first verdict--he _was_ a gentleman; there surely could not be such things as gentlemen-tramps. so she answered "oh, certainly," and showed him into mr sharnall's room, because that was on the ground-floor. the visitor gave a quick look round the room. if he had ever been in the house before, anastasia would have thought he was trying to identify something that he remembered; but there was little to be seen except an open piano, and the usual litter of music-books and manuscript paper. "thank you," he said; "can i write here? is this mr westray's room?" "no, another gentleman lodges here, but you can use this room to write in. he is out, and would not mind in any case; he is a friend of mr westray." "i had rather write in mr westray's room if i may. you see i have nothing to do with this other gentleman, and it might be awkward if he came in and found me in his apartment." it seemed to anastasia that the information that the room in which they stood was not mr westray's had in some way or other removed an anxiety from the stranger's mind. there was a faint and indefinable indication of relief in his manner, however much he professed to be embarrassed at the discovery. it might have been, she thought, that he was a great friend of mr westray, and had been sorry to think that his room should be littered and untidy as mr sharnall's certainly was, and so was glad when he found out his mistake. "mr westray's room is at the top of the house," she said deprecatingly. "it is no trouble to me, i assure you, to go up," he answered. anastasia hesitated again for an instant. if there were no gentlemen-tramps, perhaps there were gentlemen-burglars, and she hastily made a mental inventory of mr westray's belongings, but could think of nothing among them likely to act as an incentive to crime. still she would not venture to show a strange man to the top of the house, when there was no one at home but herself. the stranger ought not to have asked her. he could not be a gentleman after all, or he would have seen how irregular was such a request, unless he had indeed some particular motive for wishing to see mr westray's room. the stranger perceived her hesitation, and read her thoughts easily enough. "i beg your pardon," he said. "i ought, of course, to have explained who it is who has the honour of speaking to you. i am lord blandamer, and wish to write a few words to mr westray on questions connected with the restoration of the church. here is my card." there was probably no lady in the town that would have received this information with as great composure as did anastasia joliffe. since the death of his grandfather, the new lord blandamer had been a constant theme of local gossip and surmise. he was a territorial magnate, he owned the whole of the town, and the whole of the surrounding country. his stately house of fording could be seen on a clear day from the minster tower. he was reputed to be a man of great talents and distinguished appearance; he was not more than forty, and he was unmarried. yet no one had seen him since he came to man's estate; it was said he had not been in cullerne for twenty years. there was a tale of some mysterious quarrel with his grandfather, which had banished the young man from his home, and there had been no one to take his part, for both his father and mother were drowned when he was a baby. for a quarter of a century he had been a wanderer abroad: in france and germany, in russia and greece, in italy and spain. he was believed to have visited the east, to have fought in egypt, to have run blockades in south america, to have found priceless diamonds in south africa. he had suffered the awful penances of the fakirs, he had fasted with the monks of mount athos; he had endured the silence of la trappe; men said that the sheik-ul-islam had himself bound the green turban round lord blandamer's head. he could shoot, he could hunt, he could fish, he could fight, he could sing, he could play all instruments; he could speak all languages as fluently as his own; he was the very wisest and the very handsomest, and--some hinted--the very wickedest man that ever lived, yet no one had ever seen him. here was indeed a conjunction of romance for anastasia, to find so mysterious and distinguished a stranger face to face with her alone under the same roof; yet she showed none of those hesitations, tremblings, or faintings that the situation certainly demanded. martin joliffe, her father, had been a handsome man all his life, and had known it. in youth he prided himself on his good looks, and in old age he was careful of his personal appearance. even when his circumstances were at their worst he had managed to obtain well-cut clothes. they were not always of the newest, but they sat well on his tall and upright figure; "gentleman joliffe" people called him, and laughed, though perhaps something less ill-naturedly than was often the case in cullerne, and wondered whence a farmer's son had gotten such manners. to martin himself an aristocratic bearing was less an affectation than a duty; his position demanded it, for he was in his own eyes a blandamer kept out of his rights. it was his good appearance, even at five-and-forty, which induced miss hunter of the grove to run away with him, though colonel hunter had promised to disown her if she ever married so far beneath her. she did not, it is true, live long to endure her father's displeasure, but died in giving birth to her first child. even this sad result had failed to melt the colonel's heart. contrary to all precedents of fiction, he would have nothing to do with his little granddaughter, and sought refuge from so untenable a position in removing from cullerne. nor was martin himself a man to feel a parent's obligations too acutely; so the child was left to be brought up by miss joliffe, and to become an addition to her cares, but much more to her joys. martin joliffe considered that he had amply fulfilled his responsibilities in christening his daughter anastasia, a name which debrett shows to have been borne for generations by ladies of the blandamer family; and, having given so striking a proof of affection, he started off on one of those periodic wanderings which were connected with his genealogical researches, and was not seen again in cullerne for a lustre. for many years afterwards martin showed but little interest in the child. he came back to cullerne at intervals; but was always absorbed in his efforts to establish a right to the nebuly coat, and content to leave the education and support of anastasia entirely to his sister. it was not till his daughter was fifteen that he exercised any paternal authority; but, on his return from a long absence about that period, he pointed out to miss joliffe, senior, that she had shamefully neglected her niece's education, and that so lamentable a state of affairs must be remedied at once. miss joliffe most sorrowfully admitted her shortcomings, and asked martin's forgiveness for her remissness. nor did it ever occur to her to plead in excuse that the duties of a lodging-house, and the necessity of providing sustenance for herself and anastasia, made serious inroads on the time that ought, no doubt, to have been devoted to education; or that the lack of means prevented her from engaging teachers to supplement her own too limited instruction. she had, in fact, been able to impart to anastasia little except reading, writing and arithmetic, some geography, a slight knowledge of miss magnall's questions, a wonderful proficiency with the needle, an unquenchable love of poetry and fiction, a charity for her neighbours which was rare enough in cullerne, and a fear of god which was sadly inconsistent with the best blandamer traditions. the girl was not being brought up as became a blandamer, martin had said; how was she to fill her position when she became the honourable anastasia? she must learn french, not such rudiments as miss joliffe had taught her, and he travestied his sister's "doo, dellah, derlapostrof, day" with a laugh that flushed her withered cheeks with crimson, and made anastasia cry as she held her aunt's hand under the table; not _that_ kind of french, but something that would really pass muster in society. and music, she _must_ study that; and miss joliffe blushed again as she thought very humbly of some elementary duets in which she had played a bass for anastasia till household work and gout conspired to rob her knotty fingers of all pliancy. it had been a great pleasure to her, the playing of these duets with her niece; but they must, of course, be very poor things, and quite out of date now, for she had played them when she was a child herself, and on the very same piano in the parlour at wydcombe. so she listened with attention while martin revealed his scheme of reform, and this was nothing less than the sending of anastasia to mrs howard's boarding-school at the county town of carisbury. the project took away his sister's breath, for mrs howard's was a finishing school of repute, to which only mrs bulteel among cullerne ladies could afford to send her daughters. but martin's high-minded generosity knew no limits. "it was no use making two bites at a cherry; what had to be done had better be done quickly." and he clinched the argument by taking a canvas bag from his pocket, and pouring out a little heap of sovereigns on to the table. miss joliffe's wonder as to how her brother had become possessed of such wealth was lost in admiration of his magnanimity, and if for an instant she thought wistfully of the relief that a small portion of these riches would bring to the poverty-stricken menage at bellevue lodge, she silenced such murmurings in a burst of gratitude for the means of improvement that providence had vouchsafed to anastasia. martin counted out the sovereigns on the table; it was better to pay in advance, and so make an impression in anastasia's favour, and to this miss joliffe agreed with much relief, for she had feared that before the end of the term martin would be off on his travels again, and that she herself would be left to pay. so anastasia went to carisbury, and miss joliffe broke her own rules, and herself incurred a number of small debts because she could not bear to think of her niece going to school with so meagre an equipment as she then possessed, and yet had no ready money to buy better. anastasia remained for two half-years at carisbury. she made such progress with her music that after much wearisome and lifeless practising she could stumble through thalberg's variations on the air of "home, sweet home"; but in french she never acquired the true parisian accent, and would revert at times to the "doo, dellah, derlapostrof, day," of her earlier teaching, though there is no record that these shortcomings were ever a serious drawback to her in after-life. besides such opportunities of improvement, she enjoyed the privilege of association with thirty girls of the upper middle-classes, and ate of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, the fruits of which had hitherto escaped her notice. at the end of her second term, however, she was forced to forego these advantages, for martin had left cullerne without making any permanent provision for his daughter's schooling; and there was in mrs howard's prospectus a law, inexorable as that of gravity, that no pupil shall be permitted to return to the academy whose account for the previous term remains unsettled. thus anastasia's schooling came to an end. there was some excuse put forward that the air of carisbury did not agree with her; and she never knew the real reason till nearly two years later, by which time miss joliffe's industry and self-denial had discharged the greater part of martin's obligation to mrs howard. the girl was glad to remain at cullerne, for she was deeply attached to miss joliffe; but she came back much older in experience; her horizon had widened, and she was beginning to take a more perspective view of life. these enlarged ideas bore fruit both pleasant and unpleasant, for she was led to form a juster estimate of her father's character, and when he next returned she found it difficult to tolerate his selfishness and abuse of his sister's devotion. that this should be so was a cause of great grief to miss joliffe. though she herself felt for her niece a love which had in it something of adoration, she was at the same time conscientious enough to remember that a child's first duty should be towards its parents. thus she forced herself to lament that anastasia should be more closely attached to her than to martin, and if there were times when she could not feel properly dissatisfied that she possessed the first place in her niece's affections, she tried to atone for this frailty by sacrificing opportunities of being with the girl herself, and using every opportunity of bringing her into her father's company. it was a fruitless endeavour, as every endeavour to cultivate affection where no real basis for it exists, must eternally remain fruitless. martin was wearied by his daughter's society, for he preferred to be alone, and set no store by her except as a cooking, house-cleaning, and clothes-mending machine; and anastasia resented this attitude, and could find, moreover, no interest in the torn peerage which was her father's bible, or in the genealogical research and jargon about the nebuly coat which formed the staple of his conversation. later on, when he came back for the last time, her sense of duty enabled her to tend and nurse him with exemplary patience, and to fulfil all those offices of affection which even the most tender filial devotion could have suggested. she tried to believe that his death brought her sorrow and not relief, and succeeded so well that her aunt had no doubts at all upon the subject. martin joliffe's illness and death had added to anastasia's experience of life by bringing her into contact with doctors and clergymen; and it was no doubt this training, and the association with the superior classes afforded by mrs howard's academy, that enabled her to stand the shock of lord blandamer's announcement without giving any more perceptible token of embarrassment than a very slight blush. "oh, of course there is no objection," she said, "to your writing in mr westray's room. i will show you the way to it." she accompanied him to the room, and having provided writing materials, left him comfortably ensconced in mr westray's chair. as she pulled the door to behind her in going out, something prompted her to look round--perhaps it was merely a girl's light fancy, perhaps it was that indefinite fascination which the consciousness that we are being looked at sometimes exercises over us; but as she looked back her eyes met those of lord blandamer, and she shut the door sharply, being annoyed at her own foolishness. she went back to the kitchen, for the kitchen of the hand of god was so large that miss joliffe and anastasia used part of it for their sitting-room, took the pencil out of "northanger abbey," and tried to transport herself to bath. five minutes ago she had been in the grand pump room herself, and knew exactly where mrs allen and isabella thorpe and edward morland were sitting; where catherine was standing, and what john thorpe was saying to her when tilney walked up. but alas! anastasia found no re-admission; the lights were put out, the pump room was in darkness. a sad change to have happened in five minutes; but no doubt the charmed circle had dispersed in a huff on finding that they no longer occupied the first place in miss anastasia joliffe's interest. and, indeed, she missed them the less because she had discovered that she herself possessed a wonderful talent for romance, and had already begun the first chapter of a thrilling story. nearly half an hour passed before her aunt returned, and in the interval miss austen's knights and dames had retired still farther into the background, and miss anastasia's hero had entirely monopolised the stage. it was twenty minutes past five when miss joliffe, senior, returned from the dorcas meeting; "precisely twenty minutes past five," as she remarked many times subsequently, with that factitious importance which the ordinary mind attaches to the exact moment of any epoch-making event. "is the water boiling, my dear?" she asked, sitting down at the kitchen table. "i should like to have tea to-day before the gentlemen come in, if you do not mind. the weather is quite oppressive, and the schoolroom was very close because we only had one window open. poor mrs bulteel is so subject to take cold from draughts, and i very nearly fell asleep while she was reading." "i will get tea at once," anastasia said; and then added, in a tone of fine unconcern: "there is a gentleman waiting upstairs to see mr westray." "my dear," miss joliffe exclaimed deprecatingly, "how could you let anyone in when i was not at home? it is exceedingly dangerous with so many doubtful characters about. there is mr westray's presentation inkstand, and the flower-picture for which i have been offered so much money. valuable paintings are often cut out of their frames; one never has an idea what thieves may do." there was the faintest trace of a smile about anastasia's lips. "i do not think we need trouble about that, dear aunt phemie, because i am sure he is a gentleman. here is his card. look!" she handed miss joliffe the insignificant little piece of white cardboard that held so momentous a secret, and watched her aunt put on her spectacles to read it. miss joliffe focussed the card. there were only two words printed on it, only "lord blandamer" in the most unpretending and simple characters, but their effect was magical. doubt and suspicion melted suddenly away, and a look of radiant surprise overspread her countenance, such as would have become a constantine at the vision of the labarum. she was a thoroughly unworldly woman, thinking little of the things of this life in general, and keeping her affections on that which is to come, with the constancy and realisation that is so often denied to those possessed of larger temporal means. her views as to right and wrong were defined and inflexible; she would have gone to the stake most cheerfully rather than violate them, and unconsciously lamented perhaps that civilisation has robbed the faithful of the luxury of burning. yet with all this were inextricably bound up certain little weaknesses among which figured a fondness for great names, and a somewhat exaggerated consideration for the lofty ones of this earth. had she been privileged to be within the same four walls as a peer at a bazaar or missionary meeting, she would have revelled in a great opportunity; but to find lord blandamer under her own roof was a grace so wondrous and surprising as almost to overwhelm her. "lord blandamer!" she faltered, as soon as she had collected herself a little. "i hope mr westray's room was tidy. i dusted it thoroughly this morning, but i wish he had given some notice of his intention to call. i should be so vexed if he found anything dusty. what is he doing, anastasia? did he say he would wait till mr westray came back?" "he said he would write a note for mr westray. i found him writing things." "i hope you gave his lordship mr westray's presentation inkstand." "no, i did not think of that; but there was the little black inkstand, and plenty of ink in it." "dear me, dear me!" miss joliffe said, ruminating on so extraordinary a position, "to think that lord blandamer, whom no one has ever seen, should have come to cullerne at last, and is now in this very house. i will just change this bonnet for my sunday one," she added, looking at herself in the glass, "and then tell his lordship how very welcome he is, and ask him if i can get anything for him. he will see at once, from my bonnet, that i have only just returned, otherwise it would appear to him very remiss of me not to have paid him my respects before. yes, i think it is undoubtedly more fitting to appear in a bonnet." anastasia was a little perturbed at the idea of her aunt's interview with lord blandamer. she pictured to herself miss joliffe's excess of zeal, the compliments which she would think it necessary to shower upon him the marked attention and homage which he might interpret as servility, though it was only intended as a proper deference to exalted rank. anastasia was quite unaccountably anxious that the family should appear to the distinguished visitor in as favourable a light as possible, and thought for a moment of trying to persuade miss joliffe that there was no need for her to see lord blandamer at all, unless he summoned her. but she was of a philosophic temperament, and in a moment had rebuked her own folly. what could any impression of lord blandamer's matter to her? she would probably never see him again unless she opened the door when he went out. why should he think anything at all about a commonplace lodging-house, and its inmates? and if such trivial matters did ever enter his thoughts, a man so clever as he would make allowance for those of a different station to himself, and would see what a good woman her aunt was in spite of any little mannerisms. so she made no remonstrance, but sat heroically quiet in her chair, and re-opened "northanger abbey" with a determination to entirely forget lord blandamer, and the foolish excitement which his visit had created. chapter eight. miss joliffe must have had a protracted conversation with lord blandamer. to anastasia, waiting in the kitchen, it seemed as if her aunt would never come down. she devoted herself to "northanger abbey" with fierce resolution, but though her eyes followed the lines of type, she had no idea what she was reading, and found herself at last turning the pages so frequently and with so much rustling as to disturb her own reverie. then she shut the book with a bang, got up from her chair, and paced the kitchen till her aunt came back. miss joliffe was full of the visitor's affability. "it is _always_ the way with these really great people, my dear," she said with effusion. "i have _always_ noticed that the nobility are condescending; they adapt themselves so entirely to their surroundings." miss joliffe fell into a common hyperbole in qualifying an isolated action as a habit. she had never before been brought face to face with a peer, yet she represented her first impression of lord blandamer's manner as if it were a mature judgment based upon long experience of those of his rank and position. "i insisted on his using the presentation inkstand, and took away that shabby little black thing; and i could see at once that the silver one was far more like what he had been accustomed to use. he seemed to know something about us, and even asked if the young lady who had shown him in was my niece. that was you; he meant you, anastasia; he asked if it was _you_. i think he must have met dear martin somewhere, but i really was so agitated by such a very unexpected visit that i scarcely took in all he said. yet he was so careful all the time to put me at my ease that at last i ventured to ask him if he would take some light refreshment. `my lord,' i said, `may i be so bold as to offer your lordship a cup of tea? it would be a great honour if you would partake of our humble hospitality.' and what _do_ you think he answered, my dear? `miss joliffe'--and he had such a winning look--`there is nothing i should like better. i am very tired with walking about in the church, and have still some little time to wait, for i am going to london by the evening train.' poor young man! (for lord blandamer was still young in cullerne, which had only known his octogenarian predecessor) he is no doubt called to london on some public business--the house of lords, or the court, or something like that. i wish he would take as much care of himself as he seems to take for others. he looks so very tired, and a sad face too, anastasia, and yet is most considerate. `i should like a cup of tea very much'--those were his exact words--`but you must not trouble to come all the way upstairs again to bring it to me. let me come down and take it with you.' "`forgive me, my lord,' was my answer, `but i could not permit that. our establishment is much too homely, and i shall feel it a privilege to wait on you, if you will kindly excuse my walking-clothes, as i have just come back from an afternoon meeting. my niece often wishes to relieve me, but i tell her my old legs are more active than her young ones even still.'" anastasia's cheeks were red, but she said nothing, and her aunt went on: "so i will take him some tea at once. you can make it, my dear, if you like, but put a great deal more in than we use ourselves. the upper classes have no call to practise economy in such matters, and he is no doubt used to take his tea very strong. i think mr sharnall's teapot is the best, and i will get out the silver sugar-tongs and one of the spoons with the `j' on them." as miss joliffe was taking up the tea, she met westray in the hall. he had just come back from the church, and was not a little concerned at his landlady's greeting. she put down her tray, and, with a fateful gesture and an "oh, mr westray, what do you think?" beckoned him aside into mr sharnall's room. his first impression was that some grave accident had happened, that the organist was dead, or that anastasia joliffe had sprained an ankle; and he was relieved to hear the true state of affairs. he waited a few minutes while miss joliffe took the visitor his tea, and then went upstairs himself. lord blandamer rose. "i must apologise," he said, "for making myself at home in your room; but i hope your landlady may have explained who i am, and how i come to take so great a liberty. i am naturally interested in cullerne and all that concerns it, and hope ere long to get better acquainted with the place--and the people," he added as an after-thought. "at present i know disgracefully little about it, but that is due to my having been abroad for many years; i only came back a few months ago. but i need not bother you with all this; what i really wanted was to ask you if you would give me some idea of the scheme of restoration which it is proposed to undertake at the minster. until last week i had not heard that anything of the kind was in contemplation." his tone was measured, and a clear, deep, voice gave weight and sincerity to his words. his clean-shaven face and olive complexion, his regular features and dark eyebrows, suggested a spaniard to westray as he spoke, and the impression was strengthened by the decorous and grave courtesy of his manner. "i shall be delighted to explain anything i can," said the architect, and took down a bundle of plans and papers from a shelf. "i fear i shall not be able to do much this evening," lord blandamer said; "for i have to catch the train to london in a short time; but, if you will allow me, i will take an early opportunity of coming over again. we might then, perhaps, go to the church together. the building has a great fascination for me, not only on account of its own magnificence, but also from old associations. when i was a boy, and sometimes a very unhappy boy, i used often to come over from fording, and spend hours rambling about the minster. its winding staircases, its dark wall-passages, its mysterious screens and stalls, brought me romantic dreams, from which i think i have never entirely wakened. i am told the building stands in need of extensive restoration, though to the outsider it looks much the same as ever. it always had a dilapidated air." westray gave a short outline of what it was considered should ultimately be done, and of what it was proposed to attack for the present. "you see, we have our work cut out for us," he said. "the transept roof is undoubtedly the most urgent matter, but there are lots of other things that cannot be left to themselves for long. i have grave doubts about the stability of the tower, though my chief doesn't share them to anything like the same extent: and perhaps that is just as well, for we are hampered on every side by lack of funds. they are going to have a bazaar next week to try to give the thing a lift, but a hundred bazaars would not produce half that is wanted." "i gathered that there were difficulties of this kind," the visitor said reflectively. "as i came out of the church after service to-day i met the organist. he had no idea who i was, but gave his views very strongly as to lord blandamer's responsibilities for things in general, and for the organ in particular. we are, i suppose, under some sort of moral obligation for the north transept, from having annexed it as a burying-place. it used to be called, i fancy, the blandamer aisle." "yes, it is called so still," westray answered. he was glad to see the turn the conversation had taken, and hoped that a _deus ex machina_ had appeared. lord blandamer's next question was still more encouraging. "at what do you estimate the cost of the transept repairs?" westray ran through his papers till he found a printed leaflet with a view of cullerne minster on the outside. "here are sir george farquhar's figures," he said. "this was a circular that was sent everywhere to invite subscriptions, but it scarcely paid the cost of printing. no one will give a penny to these things nowadays. here it is, you see--seven thousand eight hundred pounds for the north transept." there was a little pause. westray did not look up, being awkwardly conscious that the sum was larger than lord blandamer had anticipated, and fearing that such an abrupt disclosure might have damped the generosity of an intended contributor. lord blandamer changed the subject. "who is the organist? i rather liked his manner, for all he took me so sharply, if impersonally, to task. he seems a clever musician, but his instrument is in a shocking state." "he _is_ a very clever organist," westray answered. it was evident that lord blandamer was in a subscribing frame of mind, and if his generosity did not extend to undertaking the cost of the transept, he might at least give something towards the organ. the architect tried to do his friend mr sharnall a service. "he is a very clever organist," he repeated; "his name is sharnall, and he lodges in this house. shall i call him? would you like to ask him about the organ?" "oh no, not now; i have so little time; another day we can have a chat. surely a very little money--comparatively little money, i mean--would put the organ in proper repair. did they never approach my grandfather, the late lord blandamer, on the question of funds for these restorations?" westray's hopes of a contribution were again dashed, and he felt a little contemptuous at such evasions. they came with an ill grace after lord blandamer's needlessly affectionate panegyric of the church. "yes," he said; "canon parkyn, the rector here, wrote to the late lord blandamer begging for a subscription to the restoration fund for the church, but never got any answer." westray flung something like a sneer into his tone, and was already sorry for his ungracious words before he had finished speaking. but the other seemed to take no offence, where some would have been offended. "ah," he said, "my grandfather was no doubt a very sad old man indeed. i must go now, or i shall miss my train. you shall introduce me to mr sharnall the next time i come to cullerne; i have your promise, remember, to take me over the church. is it not so?" "yes--oh yes, certainly," westray said, though with less cordiality perhaps than he had used on the previous occasion. he was disappointed that lord blandamer had promised no subscription, and accompanied him to the foot of the stairs with much the same feelings as a shop-assistant entertains for the lady who, having turned over goods for half an hour, retreats with the promise that she will consider the matter and call again. miss joliffe had been waiting on the kitchen stairs, and so was able to meet lord blandamer in the hall quite accidentally. she showed him out of the front-door with renewed professions of respect, for she knew nothing of his niggardly evasions of a subscription, and in her eyes a lord was still a lord. he added the comble to all his graces and courtesies by shaking her hand as he left the house, and expressing a hope that she would be so kind as to give him another cup of tea, the very next time he was in cullerne. the light was failing as lord blandamer descended the flight of steps outside the door of bellevue lodge. the evening must have closed in earlier than usual, for very soon after the visitor had gone upstairs anastasia found it too dark to read in the kitchen; so she took her book, and sat in the window-seat of mr sharnall's room. it was a favourite resort of hers, both when mr sharnall was out, and also when he was at home; for he had known her from childhood, and liked to watch the graceful girlish form as she read quietly while he worked at his music. the deep window-seat was panelled in painted deal, and along the side of it hung a faded cushion, which could be turned over on to the sill when the sash was thrown up, so as to form a rest for the arms of anyone who desired to look out on a summer evening. the window was still open, though it was dusk; but anastasia's head, which just appeared above the sill, was screened from observation by a low blind. this blind was formed of a number of little green wooden slats, faded and blistered by the suns of many summers, and so arranged that, by the turning of a brass, urn-shaped knob, they could be made to open and afford a prospect of the outer world to anyone sitting inside. it had been for some time too dark for anastasia to read, but she still sat in the window-seat; and as she heard lord blandamer come down the stairs, she turned the brass urn so as to command a view of the street. she felt herself blushing in the dusk, at the reiterated and voluminous compliments which her aunt was paying in the hall. she blushed because westray's tone was too off-handed and easy towards so important a personage to please her critical mood; and then she blushed again at her own folly in blushing. the front-door shut at last, and the gaslight fell on lord blandamer's active figure and straight, square shoulders as he went down the steps. three thousand years before, another maiden had looked between the doorpost and the door, at the straight broad back of another great stranger as he left her father's palace; but anastasia was more fortunate than nausicaa, for there is no record that ulysses cast any backward glance as he walked down to the phaeacian ship, and lord blandamer did turn and look back. he turned and looked back; he seemed to anastasia to look between the little blistered slats into her very eyes. of course, he could not have guessed that a very foolish girl, the niece of a very foolish landlady in a very commonplace lodging-house, in a very commonplace country town, was watching him behind a shutter; but he turned and looked, and anastasia stayed for half an hour after he had gone, thinking of the hard and clean-cut face that she had seen for an instant in the flickering gaslight. it was a hard face, and as she sat in the dark with closed eyes, and saw that face again and again in her mind, she knew that it was hard. it was hard--it was almost cruel. no, it was not cruel, but only recklessly resolved, with a resolution that would not swerve from cruelty, if cruelty were needed to accomplish its purpose. thus she reasoned in the approved manner of fiction. she knew that such reasonings were demanded of heroines. a heroine must be sadly unworthy of her lofty role if she could not with a glance unmask even the most enigmatic countenance, and trace the passions writ in it, clearly as a page of "reading without tears." and was she, anastasia, to fall short in such a simple craft? no, she had measured the man's face in a moment; it was resolved, even to cruelty. it was hard, but ah! how handsome! and she remembered how the grey eyes had met hers and blinded them with power, when she first saw him on the doorstep. wondrous musings, wondrous thought-reading, by a countrified young lady in her teens; but is it not out of the mouths of babes and sucklings that strength has been eternally ordained? she was awakened from her reverie by the door being flung open, and she leapt from her perch as mr sharnall entered the room. "heyday! heyday!" he said, "what have we here? fire out, and window open; missy dreaming of sir arthur bedevere, and catching a cold--a very poetic cold in the head." his words jarred on her mood like the sharpening of a slate-pencil. she said nothing, but brushed by him, shut the door behind her, and left him muttering in the dark. the excitement of lord blandamer's visit had overtaxed miss joliffe. she took the gentlemen their supper--and mr westray was supping in mr sharnall's room that evening--and assured anastasia that she was not in the least tired. but ere long she was forced to give up this pretence, and to take refuge in a certain high-backed chair with ears, which stood in a corner of the kitchen, and was only brought into use in illness or other emergency. the bell rang for supper to be taken away, but miss joliffe was fast asleep, and did not hear it. anastasia was not allowed to "wait" under ordinary circumstances, but her aunt must not be disturbed when she was so tired, and she took the tray herself and went upstairs. "he is a striking-looking man enough," westray was saying as she entered the room; "but i must say he did not impress me favourably in other respects. he spoke too enthusiastically about the church. it would have sat on him with a very good grace if he had afterwards come down with five hundred pounds, but ecstasies are out of place when a man won't give a halfpenny to turn them into reality." "he is a chip of the old block," said the organist. "`_leap year's february twenty-nine days, and on the thirtieth blandamer pays_.' "that's a saw about here. well, i rubbed it into him this afternoon, and all the harder because i hadn't the least idea who he was." there was a fierce colour in anastasia's cheeks as she packed the dirty plates and supper debris into the tray, and a fiercer feeling in her heart. she tried hard to conceal her confusion, and grew more confused in the effort. the organist watched her closely, without ever turning his eyes in her direction. he was a cunning little man, and before the table was cleared had guessed who was the hero of those dreams, from which he had roused her an hour earlier. westray waved away with his hand a puff of smoke which drifted into his face from mr sharnall's pipe. "he asked me whether anyone had ever approached the old lord about the restoration, and i said the rector had written, and never got an answer." "it wasn't to the _old_ lord he wrote," mr sharnall cut in; "it was to this very man. didn't you know it was to this very man? no one ever thought it worth ink and paper to write to _old_ blandamer. i was the only one, fool enough to do that. i had an appeal for the organ printed once upon a time, and sent him a copy, and asked him to head the list. after a bit he sent me a cheque for ten shillings and sixpence; and then i wrote and thanked him, and said it would do very nicely to put a new leg on the organ-stool if one should ever break. but he had the last word, for when i went to the bank to cash the cheque, i found it stopped." westray laughed with a thin and tinkling merriment that irritated anastasia more than an honest guffaw. "when he stuck at seven thousand eight hundred pounds for the church, i tried to give _you_ a helping hand with the organ. i told him you lived in the house; would he not like to see you? `oh no, not _now_,' he said; `some other day.'" "he is a chip of the old block," the organist said again bitterly. "gather figs of thistles, if you will, but don't expect money from blandamers." anastasia's thumb went into the curry as she lifted the dish, but she did not notice it. she was only eager to get away, to place herself outside the reach of these slanderous tongues, to hide herself where she could unburden her heart of its bitterness. mr sharnall fired one more shaft at her as she left the room. "he takes after his grandfather in other ways besides close-fistedness. the old man had a bad enough name with women, and this man has a worse. they are a poor lot--lock, stock, and barrel." lord blandamer had certainly been unhappy in the impression which he created at bellevue lodge; a young lady had diagnosed his countenance as hard and cruel, an architect had detected niggardliness in his disposition, and an organist was resolved to regard him at all hazards as a personal foe. it was fortunate indeed for his peace of mind that he was completely unaware of this, but, then, he might not perhaps have troubled much even if he had known all about it. the only person who had a good word for him was miss euphemia joliffe. she woke up flushed, but refreshed, after her nap, and found the supper-things washed and put away in their places. "my dear, my dear," she said deprecatingly, "i am afraid i have been asleep, and left all the work to you. you should not have done this, anastasia. you ought to have awakened me." the flesh was weak, and she was forced to hold her hand before her mouth for a moment to conceal a yawn; but her mind reverted instinctively to the great doings of the day, and she said with serene reflection: "a very remarkable man, so dignified and yet so affable, and _very_ handsome too, my dear." chapter nine. among the letters which the postman brought to bellevue lodge on the morning following these remarkable events was an envelope which possessed a dreadful fascination. it bore a little coronet stamped in black upon the flap, and "edward westray, esquire, bellevue lodge, cullerne," written on the front in a bold and clear hand. but this was not all, for low in the left corner was the inscription "blandamer." a single word, yet fraught with so mystical an import that it set anastasia's heart beating fast as she gave it to her aunt, to be taken upstairs with the architect's breakfast. "there is a letter for you, sir, from lord blandamer," miss joliffe said, as she put down the tray on the table. but the architect only grunted, and went on with ruler and compass at the plan with which he was busy. miss joliffe would have been more than woman had she not felt a burning curiosity to know the contents of so important a missive; and to leave a nobleman's letter neglected on the table seemed to her little short of sacrilege. never had breakfast taken longer to lay, and still there was the letter lying by the tin cover, which (so near is grandeur to our dust) concealed a simple bloater. poor miss joliffe made a last effort ere she left the room to bring westray to a proper appreciation of the situation. "there is a letter for you, sir; i think it is from lord blandamer." "yes, yes," the architect said sharply; "i will attend to it presently." and so she retired, routed. westray's nonchalance had been in part assumed. he was anxious to show that he, at any rate, could rise superior to artificial distinctions of rank, and was no more to be impressed by peers than peasants. he kept up this philosophic indifference even after miss joliffe left the room; for he took life very seriously, and felt his duty towards himself to be at least as important as that towards his neighbours. resolution lasted till the second cup of tea, and then he opened the letter. "dear sir" (it began), "i understood from you yesterday that the repairs to the north transept of cullerne minster are estimated to cost , pounds. this charge i should like to bear myself, and thus release for other purposes of restoration the sum already collected. i am also prepared to undertake whatever additional outlay is required to put the whole building in a state of substantial repair. will you kindly inform sir george farquhar of this, and ask him to review the scheme of restoration as modified by these considerations? i shall be in cullerne on saturday next, and hope i may find you at home if i call about five in the afternoon, and that you may then have time to show me the church. "i am, dear sir, "very truly yours, "blandamer." westray had scanned the letter so rapidly that he knew its contents by intuition rather than by the more prosaic method of reading. nor did he re-read it several times, as is generally postulated by important communications in fiction; he simply held it in his hand, and crumpled it unconsciously, while he thought. he was surprised, and he was pleased--pleased at the wider vista of activity that lord blandamer's offer opened, and pleased that he should be chosen as the channel through which an announcement of such gravity was to be made. he felt, in short, that pleasurable and confused excitement, that mental inebriation, which unexpected good fortune is apt to produce in any except the strongest minds, and went down to mr sharnall's room still crumpling the letter in his hand. the bloater was left to waste its sweetness on the morning air. "i have just received some extraordinary news," he said, as he opened the door. mr sharnall was not altogether unprepared, for miss joliffe had already informed him that a letter from lord blandamer had arrived for mr westray; so he only said "ah!" in a tone that implied compassion for the lack of mental balance which allowed westray to be so easily astonished, and added "ah, yes?" as a manifesto that no sublunary catastrophe could possibly astonish him, mr sharnall. but westray's excitement was cold-waterproof, and he read the letter aloud with much jubilation. "well," said the organist, "i don't see much in it; seven thousand pounds is nothing to him. when we have done all that we ought to do, we are unprofitable servants." "it isn't only seven thousand pounds; don't you see he gives carte-blanche for repairs in general? why, it may be thirty or forty thousand, or even more." "don't you wish you may get it?" the organist said, raising his eyebrows and shutting his eyelids. westray was nettled. "oh, i think it's mean to sneer at everything the man does. we abused him yesterday as a niggard; let us have the grace to-day to say we were mistaken." he was afflicted with the over-scrupulosity of a refined, but strictly limited mind, and his conscience smote him. "i, at any rate, was quite mistaken," he went on; "i quite misinterpreted his hesitation when i mentioned the cost of the transept repairs." "your chivalrous sentiments do you the greatest credit," the organist said, "and i congratulate you on being able to change your ideas so quickly. as for me, i prefer to stick to my first opinion. it is all humbug; either he doesn't mean to pay, or else he has some plan of his own to push. _i_ wouldn't touch his money with a barge-pole." "oh no, of course not," westray said, with the exaggerated sarcasm of a schoolboy in his tone. "if he was to offer a thousand pounds to restore the organ, you wouldn't take a penny of it." "he hasn't offered a thousand yet," rejoined the organist; "and when he does, i'll send him away with a flea in his ear." "that's a very encouraging announcement for would-be contributors," westray sneered; "they ought to come forward very strongly after that." "well, i must get on with some copying," the organist said dryly; and westray went back to the bloater. if mr sharnall was thus pitiably wanting in appreciation of a munificent offer, the rest of cullerne made no pretence of imitating his example. westray was too elated to keep the good news to himself, nor did there appear, indeed, to be any reason for making a secret of it. so he told the foreman-mason, and mr janaway the clerk, and mr noot the curate, and lastly canon parkyn the rector, whom he certainly ought to have told the first of all. thus, before the carillon of saint sepulchre's played "new sabbath" [see appendix at the end of the volume] at three o'clock that afternoon, the whole town was aware that the new lord blandamer had been among them, and had promised to bear the cost of restoring the great minster of which they were all so proud--so very much more proud when their pride entailed no sordid considerations of personal subscription. canon parkyn was ruffled. mrs parkyn perceived it when he came in to dinner at one o'clock, but, being a prudent woman, she did not allude directly to his ill-humour, though she tried to dispel it by leading the conversation to topics which experience had shown her were soothing to him. among such the historic visit of sir george farquhar, and the deference which he had paid to the rector's suggestions, occupied a leading position: but the mention of the great architect's name, was a signal for a fresh exhibition of vexation on her husband's part. "i wish," he said, "that sir george would pay a little more personal attention to the work at the minster. his representative, this mr-- er--er--this mr westray, besides being, i fear, very inexperienced and deficient in architectural knowledge, is a most conceited young man, and constantly putting himself forward in an unbecoming way. he came to me this morning with an exceedingly strange communication--a letter from lord blandamer." mrs parkyn laid down her knife and fork. "a letter from lord blandamer?" she said in unconcealed amazement--"a letter from lord blandamer to mr westray!" "yes," the rector went on, losing some of his annoyance in the pleasurable consciousness that his words created a profound sensation--"a letter in which his lordship offers to bear in the first place the cost of the repairs of the north transept, and afterwards to make good any deficiency in the funds required for the restoration of the rest of the fabric. of course, i am very loth to question any action taken by a member of the upper house, but at the same time i am compelled to characterise the proceeding as most irregular. that such a communication should be made to a mere clerk of the works, instead of to the rector and duly appointed guardian of the sacred edifice, is so grave a breach of propriety that i am tempted to veto the matter entirely, and to refuse to accept this offer." his face wore a look of sublime dignity, and he addressed his wife as if she were a public meeting. _ruat coelum_, canon parkyn was not to be moved a hair's-breadth from the line traced by propriety and rectitude. he knew in his inmost heart that under no possible circumstances would he have refused any gift that was offered him, yet his own words had about them so heroic a ring that for a moment he saw himself dashing lord blandamer's money on the floor, as early christians had flung to the wind that pinch of incense that would have saved them from the lions. "i think i _must_ refuse this offer," he repeated. mrs parkyn knew her husband intimately--more intimately, perhaps, than he knew himself--and had an additional guarantee that the discussion was merely academic in the certainty that, even were he really purposed to refuse the offer, she would not _allow_ him to do so. yet she played the game, and feigned to take him seriously. "i quite appreciate your scruples, my dear; they are just what anyone who knew you would expect. it is a positive affront that you should be told of such a proposal by this impertinent young man; and lord blandamer has so strange a reputation himself that one scarcely knows how far it is right to accept anything from him for sacred purposes. i honour your reluctance. perhaps it _would_ be right for you to decline this proposal, or, at any rate, to take time for consideration." the rector looked furtively at his wife. he was a little alarmed at her taking him so readily at his word. he had hoped that she would be dismayed--that she could have brought proper arguments to bear to shake his high resolve. "ah, your words have unwittingly reminded me of my chief difficulty in refusing. it is the sacred purpose which makes me doubt my own judgment. it would be a painful reflection to think that the temple should suffer by my refusing this gift. maybe i should be yielding to my own petulance or personal motives if i were to decline. i must not let my pride stand in the way of higher obligations." he concluded in his best pulpit manner, and the farce was soon at an end. it was agreed that the gift must be accepted, that proper measures should be taken to rebuke mr westray's presumption, as _he_ had no doubt induced lord blandamer to select so improper a channel of communication, and that the rector should himself write direct to thank the noble donor. so, after dinner, canon parkyn retired to his "study," and composed a properly fulsome letter, in which he attributed all the noblest possible motives and qualities to lord blandamer, and invoked all the most unctuously conceived blessings upon his head. and at teatime the letter was perused and revised by mrs parkyn, who added some finishing touches of her own, especially a preamble which stated that canon parkyn had been informed by the clerk of the works that lord blandamer had expressed a desire to write to canon parkyn to make a certain offer, but had asked the clerk of the works to find out first whether such an offer would be acceptable to canon parkyn, and a peroration which hoped that lord blandamer would accept the hospitality of the rectory on the occasion of his next visit to cullerne. the letter reached lord blandamer at fording the next morning as he sat over a late breakfast, with a virgil open on the table by his coffee-cup. he read the rector's stilted periods without a smile, and made a mental note that he would at once send a specially civil acknowledgment. then he put it carefully into his pocket, and turned back to the _di patrii indigetes et romule vestaque mater_ of the first georgic, which he was committing to memory, and banished the invitation so completely from his mind that he never thought of it again till he was in cullerne a week later. lord blandamer's visit, and the offer which he had made for the restoration of the church, formed the staple of cullerne conversation for a week. all those who had been fortunate enough to see or to speak to him discussed him with one another, and compared notes. scarcely a detail of his personal appearance, of his voice or manner escaped them; and so infectious was this interest that some who had never seen him at all were misled by their excitement into narrating how he had stopped them in the street to ask the way to the architect's lodgings, and how he had made so many striking and authentic remarks that it was wonderful that he had ever reached bellevue lodge at all that night. clerk janaway, who was sorely chagrined to think that he should have missed an opportunity of distinguished converse, declared that he had felt the stranger's grey eyes go through and through him like a knife, and had only made believe to stop him entering the choir, in order to convince himself by the other's masterful insistence that his own intuition was correct. he had known all the time, he said, that he was speaking to none other than lord blandamer. westray thought the matter important enough to justify him in going to london to consult sir george farquhar, as to the changes in the scheme of restoration which lord blandamer's munificence made possible; but mr sharnall, at any rate, was left to listen to miss joliffe's recollections, surmises, and panegyrics. in spite of all the indifference which the organist had affected when he first heard the news, he showed a surprising readiness to discuss the affair with all comers, and exhibited no trace of his usual impatience with miss joliffe, so long as she was talking of lord blandamer. to anastasia it seemed as if he could talk of nothing else, and the more she tried to check him by her silence or by change of subject, the more bitterly did he return to the attack. the only person to exhibit no interest in this unhappy nobleman, who had outraged propriety by offering to contribute to the restoration of the minster, was anastasia herself; and even tolerant miss joliffe was moved to chide her niece's apathy in this particular. "i do not think it becomes us, love, young or old, to take so little notice of great and good deeds. mr sharnall is, i fear, discontented with the station of life to which it has pleased providence to call him, and i am less surprised at _his_ not always giving praise where praise should be given; but with the young it is different. i am sure if anyone had offered to restore wydcombe church when i was a girl--and specially a nobleman--i should have been as delighted, or nearly as delighted, as if he--as if i had been given a new frock." she altered the "as if he had given me" which was upon her tongue because the proposition, even for purposes of illustration, that a nobleman could ever have offered her a new frock seemed to have in itself something of the scandalous and unfitting. "i should have been delighted, but, dear me! in those days people were so blind as never to think of restorations. we used to sit in quite _comfortable_ seats every sunday, with cushions and hassocks, and the aisles were paved with flagstones--simple worn flagstones, and none of the caustic tiles which look so much more handsome; though i am always afraid i am going to slip, and glad to be off them, they are so hard and shiny. church matters were very behindhand then. all round the walls were tablets that people had put up to their relations, white caskets on black marble slates, and urns and cherubs' heads, and just opposite where i used to sit a poor lady, whose name i have forgotten, weeping under a willow-tree. no doubt they were very much out of place in the sanctuary, as the young gentleman said in his lecture on `how to make our churches beautiful' in the town hall last winter. he called them `mural blisters,' my dear, but there was no talk of removing them in my young days, and that was, i dare say, because there was no one to give the money for it. but now, here is this good young nobleman, lord blandamer, come forward so handsomely, and i have no doubt at cullerne all will be much improved ere long. we are not meant to _loll_ at our devotions, as the lecturer told us. that was his word, to `_loll_'; and they will be sure to take away the baize and hassocks, though i do hope there will be a little strip of _something_ on the seats; the bare wood is apt to make one ache sometimes. i should not say it to anyone else in the world but you, but it _does_ make me ache a little sometimes; and when the caustic is put down in the aisle, i shall take your arm, my dear, to save me from slipping. here is lord blandamer going to do all this for us, and you do not show yourself in the least grateful. it is not becoming in a young girl." "dear aunt, what would you have me do? i cannot go and thank him publicly in the name of the town. that would be still more unbecoming; and i am sure i hope they will not do all the dreadful things in the church that you speak of. i love the old monuments, and like _lolling_ much better than bare forms." so she would laugh the matter off; but if she could not be induced to talk of lord blandamer, she thought of him the more, and rehearsed again and again in day-dreams and in night-dreams every incident of that momentous saturday afternoon, from the first bars of the overture, when he had revealed in so easy and simple a way that he was none other than lord blandamer, to the ringing down of the curtain, when he turned to look back--to that glance when his eyes had seemed to meet hers, although she was hidden behind a blind, and he could not have guessed that she was there. westray came back from london with the scheme of restoration reconsidered and amplified in the light of altered circumstances, and with a letter for lord blandamer in which sir george farquhar hoped that the munificent donor would fix a day on which sir george might come down to cullerne to offer his respects, and to discuss the matter in person. westray had looked forward all the week to the appointment which he had with lord blandamer for five o'clock on the saturday afternoon, and had carefully thought out the route which he would pursue in taking him round the church. he returned to bellevue lodge at a quarter to five, and found his visitor already awaiting him. miss joliffe was, as usual, at her saturday meeting, but anastasia told westray that lord blandamer had been waiting more than half an hour. "i must apologise, my lord, for keeping you waiting," westray said, as he went in. "i feared i had made some mistake in the time of our meeting, but i see it _was_ five that your note named." and he held out the open letter which he had taken from his pocket. "the mistake is entirely mine," lord blandamer admitted with a smile, as he glanced at his own instructions; "i fancied i had said four o'clock; but i have been very glad of a few minutes to write one or two letters." "we can post them on our way to the church; they will just catch the mail." "ah, then i must wait till to-morrow; there are some enclosures which i have not ready at this moment." they set out together for the minster, and lord blandamer looked back as they crossed the street. "the house has a good deal of character," he said, "and might be made comfortable enough with a little repair. i must ask my agent to see what can be arranged; it does not do me much credit as landlord in its present state." "yes, it has a good many interesting features," westray answered; "you know its history, of course--i mean that it was an old inn." he had turned round as his companion turned, and for an instant thought he saw something moving behind the blind in mr sharnall's room. but he must have been mistaken; only anastasia was in the house, and she was in the kitchen, for he had called to her as they went out to say that he might be late for tea. westray thoroughly enjoyed the hour and a half which the light allowed him for showing and explaining the church. lord blandamer exhibited what is called, so often by euphemism, an intelligent interest in all that he saw, and was at no pains either to conceal or display a very adequate architectural knowledge. westray wondered where he had acquired it, though he asked no questions; but before the inspection was ended he found himself unconsciously talking to his companion of technical points, as to a professional equal and not to an amateur. they stopped for a moment under the central tower. "i feel especially grateful," westray said, "for your generosity in giving us a free hand for all fabric work, because we shall now be able to tackle the tower. nothing will ever induce me to believe that all is right up there. the arches are extraordinarily wide and thin for their date. you will laugh when i tell you that i sometimes think i hear them crying for repair, and especially that one on the south with the jagged crack in the wall above it. now and then, when i am alone in the church or the tower, i seem to catch their very words. `the arch never sleeps,' they say; `we never sleep.'" "it is a romantic idea," lord blandamer said. "architecture is poetry turned into stone, according to the old aphorism, and you, no doubt, have something of the poet in you." he glanced at the thin and rather bloodless face, and at the high cheekbones of the water-drinker as he spoke. lord blandamer never made jokes, and very seldom was known to laugh, yet if anyone but westray had been with him, they might have fancied that there was a whimsical tone in his words, and a trace of amusement in the corners of his eyes. but the architect did not see it, and coloured slightly as he went on: "well, perhaps you are right; i suppose architecture does inspire one. the first verses i ever wrote, or the first, at least, that i ever had printed, were on the apse of tewkesbury abbey. they came out in the _gloucester herald_, and i dare say i shall scribble something about these arches some day." "do," said lord blandamer, "and send me a copy. this place ought to have its poet, and it is much safer to write verses to arches than to arched eyebrows." westray coloured again, and put his hand in his breast-pocket. could he have been so foolish as to leave those half-finished lines on his desk for lord blandamer or anyone else to see? no, they were quite safe; he could feel the sharp edge of the paper folded lengthways, which differentiated them from ordinary letters. "we shall just have time to go up to the roof-space, if you care to do so," he suggested, changing the subject. "i should like to show you the top of the transept groining, and explain what we are busy with at present. it is always more or less dark up there, but we shall find lanterns." "certainly, with much pleasure." and they climbed the newel staircase that was carried in the north-east pier. clerk janaway had been hovering within a safe distance of them as they went their round. he was nominally busy in "putting things straight" for the sunday, before the church was shut up; and had kept as much out of sight as was possible, remembering how he had withstood lord blandamer to the face a week before. yet he was anxious to meet him, as it were, by accident, and explain that he had acted in ignorance of the real state of affairs; but no favourable opportunity for such an explanation presented itself. the pair had gone up to the roof, and the clerk was preparing to lock up--for westray had a key of his own--when he heard someone coming up the nave. it was mr sharnall, who carried a pile of music-books under his arm. "hallo!" he said to the clerk, "what makes _you_ so late? i expected to have to let myself in. i thought you would have been off an hour ago." "well, things took a bit longer to-night than usual to put away." he broke off, for there was a little noise somewhere above them in the scaffolding, and went on in what was meant for a whisper: "mr westray's taking his lordship round; they're up in the roof now. d'ye hear 'em?" "lordship! what lordship? d'you mean that fellow blandamer?" "yes, that's just who i do mean. but i don't know as how he's a fellow, and he _is_ a lordship; so that's why i call him a lordship and not a fellow. and mid i ask what he's been doing to set _your_ back up? why don't you wait here for him, and talk to him about the organ? maybe, now he's in the giving mood, he'd set it right for 'ee, or anyways give 'ee that little blowin'-engine you talk so much about. why do 'ee always go about showin' your teeth?--metaforally, i mean, for you haven't that many real ones left to make much show--why ain't you like other folk sometimes? shall i tell 'ee? 'cause you wants to be young when you be old, and rich when you be poor. that's why. that makes 'ee miserable, and then you drinks to drown it. take my advice, and act like other folk. i'm nigh a score of years older than you, and take a vast more pleasure in my life than when i was twenty. the neighbours and their ways tickle me now, and my pipe's sweeter; and there's many a foolish thing a young man does that age don't give an old one the chanst to. you've spoke straight to me, and now i've spoke straight to you, 'cause i'm a straight-speaking man, and have no call to be afraid of anyone--lord or fellow or organist. so take an old man's word: cheer up, and wait on my lord, and get him to give 'ee a new organ." "bah!" said mr sharnall, who was far too used to janaway's manner to take umbrage or pay attention to it. "bah! i hate all blandamers. i wish they were as dead and buried as dodos; and i'm not at all sure they aren't. i'm not at all sure, mind you, that this strutting peacock has any more right to the name of blandamer than you or i have. i'm sick of all this wealth. no one's thought anything of to-day, who can't build a church or a museum or a hospital. `so long as thou doest well unto _thyself_, men will speak good of thee.' if you've got the money, you're everything that's wonderful, and if you haven't, you may go rot. i wish all blandamers were in their graves," he said, raising his thin and strident voice till it rang again in the vault above, "and wrapped up in their nebuly coat for a shroud. i should like to fling a stone through their damned badge." and he pointed to the sea-green and silver shield high up in the transept window. "sunlight and moonlight, it is always there. i used to like to come down and play here to the bats of a full moon, till i saw _that_ would always look into the loft and haunt me." he thumped his pile of books down on a seat, and flung out of the church. he had evidently been drinking, and the clerk made his escape at the same time, being anxious not to be identified with sentiments which had been so loudly enunciated that he feared those in the roof might have overheard them. lord blandamer wished westray good-night at the church-door, excusing himself from an invitation to tea on the ground of business which necessitated his return to fording. "we must spend another afternoon in the minster," he said. "i hope you will allow me to write to make an appointment. i am afraid that it may possibly be for a saturday again, for i am much occupied at present during the week." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ clerk janaway lived not far from the church, in governor's lane. no one knew whence its name was derived, though dr ennefer thought that the military governour might have had his quarters thereabouts when cullerne was held for the parliament. serving as a means of communication between two quiet back-streets, it was itself more quiet than either, and yet; for all this, had about it a certain air of comfort and well-being. the passage of vehicles was barred at either end by old cannon. their breeches were buried in the ground, and their muzzles stood up as sturdy iron posts, while the brown cobbles of the roadway sloped to a shallow stone gutter which ran down the middle of the lane. custom ordained that the houses should be coloured with a pink wash; and the shutters, which were a feature of the place, shone in such bright colours as to recall a dutch town. shutter-painting was indeed an event of some importance in governour's lane. not a few of its inhabitants had followed the sea as fishermen or smack-owners, and when fortune so smiled on them that they could retire, and there were no more boats to be painted, shutters and doors and window-frames came in to fill the gap. so, on a fine morning, when the turpentine oozing from cracks, and the warm smell of blistering varnish brought to governour's lane the first tokens of returning summer, might have been seen sexagenarians and septuagenarians, and some so strong that they had come to fourscore years, standing paint-pot and paint-brush in hand, while they gave a new coat to the woodwork of their homes. they were a kindly folk, open of face, and fresh-complexioned, broad in the beam, and vested as to their bodies in dark blue, brass-buttoned pilot coats. insuperable smokers, inexhaustible yarn-spinners, they had long welcomed janaway as a kindred spirit--the more so that in their view a clerk and grave-digger was in some measure an expert in things unseen, who might anon assist in piloting them on that last cruise for which some had already the blue peter at the fore. a myrtle-bush which grew out of a hole in the cobbles was carefully trained against the front of a cottage in the middle of the row, and a brass plate on the door informed the wayfarer and ignorant man that "t. janaway, sexton," dwelt within. about eight o'clock on the saturday evening, some two hours after lord blandamer and westray had parted, the door of the myrtle-fronted cottage was open, and the clerk stood on the threshold smoking his pipe, while from within came a cheerful, ruddy light and a well-defined smell of cooking; for mrs janaway was preparing supper. "tom," she called, "shut the door, and come to thy victuals." "ay," he answered, "i'll be with 'ee directly; but gi'e me a minute. i want to see who this is coming up the lane." someone that the clerk knew at once for a stranger had entered the little street at the bottom. there was half a moon, and light enough to see that he was in search of some particular house; for he crossed from one side of the lane to the other, and peered at the numbers on the doors. as he came nearer, the clerk saw that he was of spare build, and wore a loose overcoat or cape, which fluttered in the breeze that blew at evening from the sea. a moment later janaway knew that the stranger was lord blandamer, and stepped back instinctively to let him pass. but the open door had caught the attention of the passer-by; he stopped, and greeted the householder cheerily. "a beautiful night, but with a cold touch in the air that makes your warm room look very cheerful." he recognised the clerk's face as he spoke, and went on: "ah, ha! we are old friends already; we met in the minster a week ago, did we not?" mr janaway was a little disconcerted at the unexpectedness of the meeting, and returned the salutation in a confused way. the attempt which he had made to prevent lord blandamer from entering the choir was fresh in his memory, and he stammered some unready excuses. lord blandamer smiled with much courtesy. "you were quite right to stop me; you would have been neglecting your duty if you had not done so. i had no idea that service was going on, or i should not have come in; you may make your mind quite easy on that score. i hope you will have many more opportunities of finding a place for me in cullerne church." "no need to find any place for _you_, my lord. you have your own seat appointed and fixed, as sure as canon parkyn, and your own arms painted up clear on the back of it. don't you trouble for that. it is all laid down in the statutes, and i shall make the very same obeisance for your lordship when you take your seat as for my lord bishop. `two inclinations of the body, the mace being held in the right hand, and supported on the left arm.' i cannot say more fair than that, for only royalties have three inclinations, and none of them has ever been to church in my time--no, nor yet a lord blandamer neither, since the day that your dear father and mother, what you never knew, was buried." mrs janaway drummed with her knuckles on the supper-table, in amazement that her husband should dare to stand chattering at the door when she had told him that the meal was ready. but, as the conversation revealed by degrees the stranger's identity, curiosity to see the man whose name was in all cullerne mouths got the better of her, and she came curtseying to the door. lord blandamer flung the flapping cape of his overcoat over the left shoulder in a way that made the clerk think of foreigners, and of woodcuts of italian opera in a bound volume of the _illustrated london news_ which he studied on sunday evenings. "i must be moving on," said the visitor, with a shiver. "i must not keep you standing here; there is a very chill air this evening." then mrs janaway was seized with a sudden temerity. "will your lordship not step in and warm yourself for a moment?" she interposed. "we have a clear fire burning, if you will overlook the smell of cooking." the clerk trembled for a moment at his wife's boldness, but lord blandamer accepted the invitation with alacrity. "thank you very much," said he; "i should be very glad to rest a few minutes before my train leaves. pray make no apology for the smell of cookery; it is very appetising, especially at supper-time." he spoke as if he took supper every evening, and had never heard of a late dinner in his life; and five minutes later he sat at table with mr and mrs janaway. the cloth was of roughest homespun, but clean; the knives and forks handled in old green horn, and the piece-of-resistance tripe; but the guest made an excellent meal. "some folk think highly of squash tripe or ribband tripe," the clerk said meditatively, looking at the empty dish; "but they don't compare, according to my taste, with cushion tripe." he was emboldened to make these culinary remarks by that moral elevation which comes to every properly-constituted host, when a guest has eaten heartily of the viands set before him. "no," lord blandamer said, "there can be no doubt that cushion tripe is the best." "quite as much depends upon the cooking as upon the tripe itself," remarked mrs janaway, bridling at the thought that her art had been left out of the reckoning; "a bad cook will spoil the best tripe. there are many ways of doing it, but a little milk and a leek is the best for me." "you cannot beat it," lord blandamer assented--"you cannot beat it"--and then went on suggestively: "have you ever tried a sprig of mace with it?" no, mrs janaway had never heard of that; nor, indeed, had lord blandamer either, if the point had been pushed; but she promised to use it the very next time, and hoped that the august visitor would honour them again when it was to be tasted. "'tis only saturday nights that we can get the cushion," she went on; "and it's well it don't come oftener, for we couldn't afford it. no woman ever had a call to have a better husband nor thomas, who spends little enough on hisself. he don't touch nothing but tea, sir, but saturday nights we treat ourselves to a little tripe, which is all the more convenient in that it is very strengthening, and my husband's duties on sunday being that urgent-like. so, if your lordship is fond of tripe, and passing another saturday night, and will do us the honour, you will always find something ready." "thank you very much for your kind invitation," lord blandamer said; "i shall certainly take you at your word, the more so that saturday is the day on which i am oftenest in cullerne, or, i should say, have happened to be lately." "there's poor and poor," said the clerk reflectively; "and _we're_ poor, but we're happy; but there's mr sharnall poor and unhappy. `mr sharnall,' says i to him, `many a time have i heard my father say over a pot of tenpenny, "here's to poverty in a plug-hole, and a man with a wooden leg to trample it down;" but you never puts your poverty in a plug-hole, much less tramples it down. you always has it out and airs it, and makes yourself sad with thinking of it. 'tisn't because you're poor that you're sad; 'tis because you _think_ you're poor, and talk so much about it. you're not so poor as we, only you have so many grievances.'" "ah, you are speaking of the organist?" lord blandamer asked. "i fancy it was he who was talking with you in the minster this afternoon, was it not?" the clerk felt embarrassed once more, for he remembered mr sharnall's violent talk, and how his anathema of all blandamers had rang out in the church. "yes," he said; "poor organist was talking a little wild; he gets took that way sometimes, what with his grievances, and a little drop of the swanky what he takes to drown them. then he talks loud; but i hope your lordship didn't hear all his foolishness." "oh dear no; i was engaged at the time with the architect," lord blandamer said; but his tone made janaway think that mr sharnall's voice had carried further than was convenient. "i did not hear what he said, but he seemed to be much put out. i chatted with him in the church some days ago; he did not know who i was, but i gathered that he bore no very good will to my family." mrs janaway saw it was a moment for prudent words. "don't pay no manner of attention to him, if i may make so bold as to advise your lordship," she said; "he talks against my husband just as well. he is crazy about his organ, and thinks he ought to have a new one, or, at least, a waterworks to blow it, like what they have at carisbury. don't pay no attention to him; no one minds what sharnall says in cullerne." the clerk was astonished at his wife's wisdom, yet apprehensive as to how it might be taken. but lord blandamer bowed his head graciously by way of thanks for sage counsel, and went on: "was there not some queer man at cullerne who thought he was kept out of his rights, and should be in my place--who thought, i mean, he ought to be lord blandamer?" the question was full of indifference, and there was a little smile of pity on his face; but the clerk remembered how mr sharnall had said something about a strutting peacock, and that there were no real blandamers left, and was particularly ill at ease. "oh yes," he answered after a moment's pause, "there was a poor doited body who, saving your presence, had some cranks of that kind; and, more by token, mr sharnall lived in the same house with him, and so i dare say he has got touched with the same craze." lord blandamer took out a cigar instinctively, and then, remembering that there was a lady present, put it back into his case and went on: "oh, he lived in the same house with mr sharnall, did he? i should like to hear more of this story; it naturally interests me. what was his name?" "his name was martin joliffe," said the clerk quickly, being surprised into eagerness by the chance of telling a story; and then the whole tale of martin, and martin's father and mother and daughter, as he had told it to westray, was repeated for lord blandamer. the night was far advanced before the history came to an end, and the local policeman walked several times up and down governour's lane, and made pauses before mr janaway's house, being surprised to see a window lighted so late. lord blandamer must have changed his intention of going by train, for the gates of cullerne station had been locked for hours, and the boiler of the decrepit branch-line engine was cooling in its shed. "it is an interesting tale, and you tell tales well," he said, as he got up and put on his coat. "all good things must have an end, but i hope to see you again ere long." he shook hands with hostess and host, drained the pot of beer that had been fetched from a public-house, with a "here's to poverty in a plug-hole, and a man with a wooden leg to trample it down," and was gone. a minute later the policeman, coming back for yet another inspection of the lighted window, passed a man of middle height, who wore a loose overcoat, with the cape tossed lightly over the left shoulder. the stranger walked briskly, and hummed an air as he went, turning his face up to the stars and the wind-swept sky, as if entirely oblivious of all sublunary things. a midnight stranger in governour's lane was even more surprising than a lighted window, and the policeman had it in his mind to stop him and ask his business. but before he could decide on so vigorous a course of action, the moment was past, and the footsteps were dying away in the distance. the clerk was pleased with himself, and proud of his success as a story-teller. "that's a clever, understanding sort of chap," he said to his wife, as they went to bed; "he knows a good tale when he hears one." "don't you be too proud of yourself, my man," answered she; "there's more in that tale than your telling, i warrant you, for my lord to think about." chapter ten. the extension of the scheme of restoration which lord blandamer's liberality involved, made it necessary that westray should more than once consult sir george farquhar in london. on coming back to cullerne from one of these visits on a saturday night, he found his meal laid in mr sharnall's room. "i thought you would not mind our having supper together," mr sharnall said. "i don't know how it is, i always feel gloomy just when the winter begins, and the dark sets in so soon. it is all right later on; i rather enjoy the long evenings and a good fire, when i can afford a good one, but at first it is a little gloomy. so come and have supper with me. there _is_ a good fire to-night, and a bit of driftwood that i got specially for your benefit." they talked of indifferent subjects during the meal, though once or twice it seemed to westray that the organist gave inconsequential replies, as though he were thinking of something else. this was no doubt the case, for, after they had settled before the fire, and the lambent blue flames of the driftwood had been properly admired, mr sharnall began with a hesitating cough: "a rather curious thing happened this afternoon. when i got back here after evening-service, who should i find waiting in my room but that blandamer fellow. there was no light and no fire, for i had thought if we lit the fire late we could afford a better one. he was sitting at one end of the window-seat, damn him!"--(the expletive was caused by mr sharnall remembering that this was anastasia's favourite seat, and his desire to reprobate the use of it by anyone else)--"but got up, of course, as i came in, and made a vast lot of soft speeches. he must really apologise for such an intrusion. he had come to see mr westray, but found that mr westray had unfortunately been called away. he had taken the liberty of waiting a few minutes in mr sharnall's room. he was anxious to have a few moments' conversation with mr sharnall, and so on, and so on. you know how i hate palaver, and how i disliked--how i dislike" (he corrected himself)--"the man; but he took me at a disadvantage, you see, for here he was actually in my room, and one cannot be so rude in one's own room as one can in other people's. i felt responsible, too, to some extent for his having had to wait without fire or light, though why he shouldn't have lit the gas himself i'm sure i don't know. so i talked more civilly than i meant to, and then, just at the moment that i was hoping to get rid of him, anastasia, who it seems was the only person at home, must needs come in to ask if i was ready for my tea. you may imagine my disgust, but there was nothing for it but to ask him if he would like a cup of tea. i never dreamt of his taking it, but he did; and so, behold! there we were hobnobbing over the tea-table as if we were cronies." westray was astonished. mr sharnall had rebuked him so short a time before for not having repulsed lord blandamer's advances that he could scarcely understand such a serious falling away from all the higher principles of hatred and malice as were implied in this tea-drinking. his experience of life had been as yet too limited to convince him that most enmities and antipathies, being theoretical rather than actual, are apt to become mitigated, or to disappear altogether on personal contact--that it is, in fact, exceedingly hard to keep hatred at concert-pitch, or to be consistently rude to a person face to face who has a pleasant manner and a desire to conciliate. perhaps mr sharnall read westray's surprise in his face, for he went on with a still more apologetic manner: "that is not the worst of it; he has put me in a most awkward position. i must admit that i found his conversation amusing enough. we spoke a good deal of music, and he showed a surprising knowledge of the subject, and a correct taste; i do not know where he has got it from." "i found exactly the same thing with his architecture," westray said. "we started to go round the minster as master and pupil, but before we finished i had an uncomfortable impression that he knew more about it than i did--at least, from the archaeologic point of view." "ah!" said the organist, with that indifference with which a person who wishes to recount his own experiences listens to those of someone else, however thrilling they may be. "well, his taste was singularly refined. he showed a good acquaintance with the contrapuntists of the last century, and knew several of my own works. a very curious thing this. he said he had been in some cathedral--i forget which--heard the service, and been so struck with it that he went afterwards to look it up on the bill, and found it was sharnall in d flat. he hadn't the least idea that it was mine till we began to talk. i haven't had that service by me for years; i wrote it at oxford for the gibbons' prize; it has a fugal movement in the _gloria_, ending with a tonic pedal-point that you would like. i must look it up." "yes, i should like to hear it," westray said, more to fill the interval while the speaker took breath than from any great interest in the matter. "so you shall--so you shall," went on the organist; "you will find the pedal-point adds immensely to the effect. well, by degrees we came to talking of the organ. it so happens that we had spoken of it the very first day i met him in the church, though you know i _never_ talk about my instrument, do i? at that time it didn't strike me that he was so well up in the matter, but now he seemed to know all about it, and so i gave him my ideas as to what ought to be done. then, before i knew where i was, he cut in with, `mr sharnall, what you say interests me immensely; you put things in such a lucid way that even an outsider like myself can understand them. it would be a thousand pities if neglect were permanently to injure this sweet-toned instrument that father smith made so long ago. it is no use restoring the church without the organ, so you must draw up a specification of the repairs and additions required, and understand that anything you suggest shall be done. in the meantime pray order at once the water-engine and new pedal-board of which you speak, and inform me as to the cost.' he took me quite aback, and was gone before i had time to say anything. it puts me in a very equivocal position; i have such an antipathy to the man. i shall refuse his offer point-blank. i will not put myself under any obligation to such a man. you would refuse in my position? you would write a strong letter of refusal at once, would you not?" westray was of a guileless disposition, and apt to assume that people meant what they said. it seemed to him a matter for much regret that mr sharnall's independence, however lofty, should stand in the way of so handsome a benefaction, and he was at pains to elaborate and press home all the arguments that he could muster to shake the organist's resolve. the offer was kindly-meant; he was sure that mr sharnall took a wrong view of lord blandamer's character--that mr sharnall was wrong in imputing motives to lord blandamer. what motives could he have except the best? and however much mr sharnall might personally refuse, how was a man to be stopped eventually from repairing an organ which stood so manifestly in need of repair? westray spoke earnestly, and was gratified to see the effect which his eloquence produced on mr sharnall. it is so rarely that argument prevails to change opinion that the young man was flattered to see that the considerations which he was able to marshal were strong enough, at any rate, to influence mr sharnall's determination. well, perhaps there was something in what mr westray said. mr sharnall would think it over. he would not write the letter of refusal that night; he could write to refuse the next day quite as well. in the meantime he _would_ see to the new pedal-board, and order the water-engine. ever since he had seen the water-engine at carisbury, he had been convinced that sooner or later they must have one at cullerne. it _must_ be ordered; they could decide later on whether it should be paid for by lord blandamer, or should be charged to the general restoration fund. this conclusion, however inconclusive, was certainly a triumph for westray's persuasive oratory, but his satisfaction was chastened by some doubts as to how far he was justified in assailing the scrupulous independence which had originally prompted mr sharnall to refuse to have anything to do with lord blandamer's offer. if mr sharnall had scruples in the matter, ought not he, westray, to have respected those scruples? was it not tampering with rectitude to have overcome them by a too persuasive rhetoric? his doubts were not allayed by the observation that mr sharnall himself had severely felt the strain of this mental quandary, for the organist said that he was upset by so difficult a question, and filled himself a bumper of whisky to steady his nerves. at the same time he took down from a shelf two or three notebooks and a mass of loose papers, which he spread open upon the table before him. westray looked at them with a glance of unconscious inquiry. "i must really get to work at these things again," said the organist; "i have been dreadfully negligent of late. they are a lot of papers and notes that martin joliffe left behind him. poor miss euphemia never had the heart to go through them. she was going to burn them just as they were, but i said, `oh, you mustn't do that; turn them over to me. i will look into them, and see whether there is anything worth keeping.' so i took them, but haven't done nearly as much as i ought, what with one interruption and another. it's always sad going through a dead man's papers, but sadder when they're all that's left of a life's labour--lost labour, so far as martin was concerned, for he was taken away just when he began to see daylight. `we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain that we shall carry nothing out.' when that comes into my mind, i think rather of the _little_ things than of gold or lands. intimate letters that a man treasured more than money; little tokens of which the clue has died with him; the unfinished work to which he was coming back, and never came; even the unpaid bills that worried him; for death transfigures all, and makes the commonplace pathetic." he stopped for a moment. westray said nothing, being surprised at this momentary softening of the other's mood. "yes, it's sad enough," the organist resumed; "all these papers are nebuly coat--the sea-green and silver." "he was quite mad, i suppose?" westray said. "everyone except me will tell you so," replied the organist; "but i'm not so very sure after all that there wasn't a good deal more in it than madness. that's all that i can say just now, but those of us who live will see. there is a queer tradition hereabout. i don't know how long ago it started, but people say that there _is_ some mystery about the blandamer descent, and that those in possession have no right to what they hold. but there is something else. many have tried to solve the riddle, and some, you may depend, have been very hot on the track. but just as they come to the touch, something takes them off; that's what happened to martin. i saw him the very day he died. `sharnall,' he said to me, `if i can last out forty-eight hours more, you may take off your hat to me, and say "my lord."' "but the nebuly coat was too much for him; he had to die. so don't you be surprised if i pop off the hooks some of these fine days; if i don't, i'm going to get to the bottom, and you will see some changes here before so very long." he sat down at the table, and made a show for a minute of looking at the papers. "poor martin!" he said, and got up again, opened the cupboard, and took out the bottle. "you'll have a drop," he asked westray, "won't you?" "no, thanks, not i," westray said, with something as near contempt as his thin voice was capable of expressing. "just a drop--do! i must have just a drop myself; i find it a great strain working at these papers; there may be more at stake in the reading than i care to think of." he poured out half a tumbler of spirit. westray hesitated for a moment, and then his conscience and an early puritan training forced him to speak. "sharnall," he said, "put it away. that bottle is your evil angel. play the man, and put it away. you force me to speak. i cannot sit by with hands folded and see you going down the hill." the organist gave him a quick glance; then he filled up the tumbler to the brim with neat spirit. "look you," he said: "i was going to drink half a glass; now i'm going to drink a whole one. that much for your advice! going down the hill indeed! go to the devil with your impertinence! if you can't keep a civil tongue in your head, you had better get your supper in someone else's room." a momentary irritation dragged westray down from the high podium of judicial reproof into the arena of retort. "don't worry yourself," he said sharply; "you may rely on my not troubling you with my company again." and he got up and opened the door. as he turned to go out, anastasia joliffe passed through the passage on her way to bed. the glimpse of her as she went by seemed still further to aggravate mr sharnall. he signed to westray to stay where he was, and to shut the door again. "damn you!" he said; "that's what i called you back to say. damn you! damn blandamer! damn everybody! damn poverty! damn wealth! i will not touch a farthing of his money for the organ. now you can go." westray had been cleanly bred. he had been used neither to the vulgarity of ill-temper nor to the coarser insolence of personal abuse. he shrank by natural habit even from gross adjectives, from the "beastly" and the "filthy" which modern manners too often condone, and still more from the abomination of swearing. so mr sharnall's obloquy wounded him to the quick. he went to bed in a flutter of agitation, and lay awake half the night mourning over a friendship so irreparably broken, bitter with the resentment of an unjustified attack, yet reproaching himself lest through his unwittingness he might have brought it all upon himself. the morning found him unrefreshed and dejected, but, whilst he sat at breakfast, the sun came out brightly, and he began to take a less despondent view of the situation. it was possible that mr sharnall's friendship might not after all be lost beyond repair; he would be sorry if it were, for he had grown fond of the old man, in spite of all his faults of life and manner. it was he, westray, who had been entirely to blame. in another man's room he had lectured the other man. he, a young man, had lectured the other, who was an old man. it was true that he had done so with the best motives; he had only spoken from a painful sense of duty. but he had shown no tact, he had spoken much too strongly; he had imperilled his own good cause by the injudicious manner in which he had put it forward. at the risk of all rebuffs, he would express his regret; he would go down and apologise to mr sharnall, and offer, if need be, the other cheek to the smiter. good resolves, if formed with the earnest intention of carrying them into effect, seldom fail to restore a measure of peace to the troubled mind. it is only when a regular and ghastly see-saw of wrong-doing and repentance has been established, and when the mind can no longer deceive even itself as to the possibility of permanent uprightness of life, that good resolves cease to tranquillise. such a see-saw must gradually lose its regularity; the set towards evil grows more and more preponderant; the return to virtue rarer and more brief. despair of any continuity of godliness follows, and then it is that good resolves, becoming a mere reflex action of the mind, fail in their gracious influence, and cease to bring quiet. these conditions can scarcely occur before middle age, and westray, being young and eminently conscientious, was feeling the full peacefulness of his high-minded intention steal over him, when the door opened, and the organist entered. an outbreak of temper and a night of hard drinking had left their tokens on mr sharnall's face. he looked haggard, and the rings that a weak heart had drawn under his eyes were darker and more puffed. he came in awkwardly, and walked quickly to the architect, holding out his hand. "forgive me, westray," he said; "i behaved last night like a fool and a cad. you were quite right to speak to me as you did; i honour you for it. i wish to god there had been someone to speak to me like that years ago." his outstretched hand was not so white as it should have been, the nails were not so well trimmed as a more fastidious mood might have demanded; but westray did not notice these things. he took the shaky old hand, and gripped it warmly, not saying anything, because he could not speak. "we _must_ be friends," the organist went on, after a moment's pause; "we must be friends, because i can't afford to lose you. i haven't known you long, but you are the only friend i have in the world. is it not an awful thing to confess?" he said, with a tremulous little laugh. "i have no other friend in the world. say those things you said last night whenever you like; the oftener you say them the better." he sat down, and, the situation being too strained to remain longer at so high a pitch, the conversation drifted, however awkwardly, to less personal topics. "there is a thing i wanted to speak about last night," the organist said. "poor old miss joliffe is very hard up. she hasn't said a word to me about it--she never would to anyone--but i happen to know it for a fact: she _is_ hard up. she is in a chronic state of hard-up-ishness always, and that we all are; but this is an acute attack--she has her back against the wall. it is the fag-end of martin's debts that bother her; these blood-sucking tradesmen are dunning her, and she hasn't the pluck to tell them go hang, though they know well enough she isn't responsible for a farthing. she has got it into her head that she hasn't a right to keep that flower-and-caterpillar picture so long as martin's debts are unpaid, because she could raise money on it. you remember those people, baunton and lutterworth, offered her fifty pounds for it." "yes, i remember," westray said; "more fools they." "more fools, by all means," rejoined the organist; "but still they offer it, and i believe our poor old landlady will come to selling it. `all the better for her,' you will say, and anyone with an ounce of common-sense would have sold it long ago for fifty pounds or fifty pence. but, then, she has no common-sense, and i do believe it would break her pride and worry her into a fever to part with it. well, i have been at the pains to find out what sum of money would pull her through, and i fancy something like twenty pounds would tide over the crisis." he paused a moment, as if he half expected westray to speak; but the architect making no suggestion, he went on. "i didn't know," he said timidly; "i wasn't quite sure whether you had been here long enough to take much interest in the matter. i had an idea of buying the picture myself, so that we could still keep it here. it would be no good offering miss euphemia money as a _gift_; she wouldn't accept it on any condition. i know her quite well enough to be sure of that. but if i was to offer her twenty pounds for it, and tell her it must always stop here, and that she could buy it back from me when she was able, i think she would feel such an offer to be a godsend, and accept it readily." "yes," westray said dubitatively; "i suppose it couldn't be construed into attempting to outwit her, could it? it seems rather funny at first sight to get her to sell a picture for twenty pounds for which others have offered fifty pounds." "no, i don't think so," replied the organist. "it wouldn't be a real sale at all, you know, but only just a colour for helping her." "well, as you have been kind enough to ask my advice, i see no further objection, and think it very good of you to show such thoughtfulness for poor miss joliffe." "thank you," said the organist hesitatingly--"thank you; i had hoped you would take that view of the matter. there is a further little difficulty: i am as poor as a church mouse. i live like an old screw, and never spend a penny, but, then, i haven't got a penny to spend, and so can't save." westray had already wondered how mr sharnall could command so large a sum as twenty pounds, but thought it more prudent to make no comments. then the organist took the bull by the horns. "i didn't know," he said, "whether you would feel inclined to join me in the purchase. i have got ten pounds in the savings' bank; if you could find the other ten pounds, we could go shares in the picture; and, after all, that wouldn't much matter, for miss euphemia is quite sure to buy it back from us before very long." he stopped and looked at westray. the architect was taken aback. he was of a cautious and calculating disposition, and a natural inclination to save had been reinforced by the conviction that any unnecessary expenditure was in itself to be severely reprobated. as the bible was to him the foundation of the world to come, so the keeping of meticulous accounts and the putting by of however trifling sums, were the foundation of the world that is. he had so carefully governed his life as to have been already able, out of a scanty salary, to invest more than a hundred pounds in railway debentures. he set much store by the half-yearly receipt of an exiguous interest cheque, and derived a certain dignity and feeling of commercial stability from envelopes headed the "great southern railway," which brought him from time to time a proxy form or a notice of shareholders' meetings. a recent examination of his bankbook had filled him with the hope of being able ere long to invest a second hundred pounds, and he had been turning over in his mind for some days the question of the stocks to be selected; it seemed financially unsound to put so large a sum in any single security. this suddenly presented proposal that he should make a serious inroad on his capital filled him with dismay; it was equivalent to granting a loan of ten pounds without any tangible security. no one in their senses could regard this miserable picture as a security; and the bulbous green caterpillar seemed to give a wriggle of derision as he looked at it across the breakfast-table. he had it on his tongue to refuse mr sharnall's request, with the sympathetic but judicial firmness with which all high-minded persons refuse to lend. there is a tone of sad resolution particularly applicable to such occasions, which should convey to the borrower that only motives of great moral altitude constrain us for the moment to override an earnest desire to part with our money. if it had not been for considerations of the public weal, we would most readily have given him ten times as much as was asked. westray was about to express sentiments of this nature when he glanced at the organist's face, and saw written in its folds and wrinkles so paramount and pathetic an anxiety that his resolution was shaken. he remembered the quarrel of the night before, and how mr sharnall, in coming to beg his pardon that morning, had humbled himself before a younger man. he remembered how they had made up their differences; surely an hour ago he would willingly have paid ten pounds to know that their differences could be made up. perhaps, after all, he might agree to make this loan as a thank-offering for friendship restored. perhaps, after all, the picture _was_ a security: someone _had_ offered fifty pounds for it. the organist had not followed the change of westray's mind; he retained only the first impression of reluctance, and was very anxious--curiously anxious, it might have seemed, if his only motive in the acquiring of the picture was to do a kindness to miss euphemia. "it _is_ a large sum, i know," he said in a low voice. "i am very sorry to ask you to do this. it is not for myself; i never asked a penny for myself in my life, and never will, till i go to the workhouse. don't answer at once, if you don't see your way. think it over. take time to think it over; but do try, westray, to help in the matter, if you can. it would be a sad pity to let the picture go out of the house just now." the eagerness with which he spoke surprised westray. could it be that mr sharnall had motives other than mere kindness? could it be that the picture _was_ valuable after all? he walked across the room to look closer at the tawdry flowers and the caterpillar. no, it could not be that; the painting was absolutely worthless. mr sharnall had followed him, and they stood side by side looking out of the window. westray was passing through a very brief interval of indecision. his emotional and perhaps better feelings told him that he ought to accede to mr sharnall's request; caution and the hoarding instinct reminded him that ten pounds was a large proportion of his whole available capital. bright sunshine had succeeded the rain. the puddles flashed on the pavements; the long rows of raindrops glistened on the ledges which overhung the shop-windows, and a warm steam rose from the sandy roadway as it dried in the sun. the front-door of bellevue lodge closed below them, and anastasia, in a broad straw hat and a pink print dress, went lightly down the steps. on that bright morning she looked the brightest thing of all, as she walked briskly to the market with a basket on her arm, unconscious that two men were watching her from an upper window. it was at that minute that thrift was finally elbowed by sentiment out of westray's mind. "yes," he said, "by all means let us buy the picture. you negotiate the matter with miss joliffe, and i will give you two five-pound notes this evening." "thank you--thank you," said the organist, with much relief. "i will tell miss euphemia that she can buy it back from us whenever it suits her to do so; and if she should not buy it back before one of us dies, then it shall remain the sole property of the survivor." so that very day the purchase of a rare work of art was concluded by private treaty between miss euphemia joliffe of the one part, and messrs. nicholas sharnall and edward westray of the other. the hammer never fell upon the showy flowers with the green caterpillar wriggling in the corner; and messrs. baunton and lutterworth received a polite note from miss joliffe to say that the painting late in the possession of martin joliffe, esquire, deceased, was not for sale. chapter eleven. the old bishop of carisbury was dead, and a new bishop of carisbury reigned in his stead. the appointment had caused some chagrin in low-church circles, for dr willis, the new bishop, was a high churchman of pronounced views. but he had a reputation for deep personal piety, and a very short experience sufficed to show that he was full of christian tolerance and tactful loving-kindness. one day, as mr sharnall was playing a voluntary after the sunday morning-service, a chorister stole up the little winding steps, and appeared in the organ-loft just as his master had pulled out a handful of stops and dashed into the _stretto_. the organist had not heard the boy on the stairs, and gave a violent start as he suddenly caught sight of the white surplice. hands and feet for an instant lost their place, and the music came perilously near breaking down. it was only for an instant; he pulled himself together, and played the fugue to its logical conclusion. then the boy began, "canon parkyn's compliments," but broke off; for the organist greeted him with a sound cuff and a "how many times have i told you, sir, not to come creeping up those stairs when i am in the middle of a voluntary? you startle me out of my senses, coming round the corner like a ghost." "i'm very sorry, sir," the boy said, whimpering. "i'm sure i never meant--i never thought--" "you never _do_ think," mr sharnall said. "well, well, don't go on whining. old heads don't grow on young shoulders; don't do it again, and there's a sixpence for you. and now let's hear what you have to say." sixpences were rare things among cullerne boys, and the gift consoled more speedily than any balm in gilead. "canon parkyn's compliments to you, sir, and he would be glad to have a word with you in the clergy-vestry." "all in good time. tell him i'll be down as soon as i've put my books away." mr sharnall did not hurry. there were the psalter and the chant-book to be put open on the desk for the afternoon; there were the morning-service and anthem-book to be put away, and the evening-service and anthem-book to be got out. the establishment had once been able to afford good music-books, and in the attenuated list of subscribers to the first-edition boyce you may see to this day, "the rector and foundation of cullerne minster ( copies)." mr sharnall loved the great boyce, with its parchment paper and largest of large margins. he loved the crisp sound of the leaves as he turned them, and he loved the old-world clefs that he could read nine staves at a time as easily as a short score. he looked at the weekly list to check his memory--"awake up my glory" (_wise_). no, it was in volume three instead of two; he had taken down the wrong volume--a stupid mistake for one who knew the copy so well. how the rough calf backs were crumbling away! the rusty red-leather dust had come off on his coat-sleeves; he really was not fit to be seen, and he took some minutes more to brush it all off. so it was that canon parkyn chafed at being kept waiting in the clergy-vestry, and greeted mr sharnall on his appearance with a certain tartness: "i wish you could be a little quicker when you are sent for. i am particularly busy just now, and you have kept me waiting a quarter of an hour at least." as this was precisely what mr sharnall had intended to do, he took no umbrage at the rector's remarks, but merely said: "pardon me; scarcely so long as a quarter of an hour, i think." "well, do not let us waste words. what i wanted to tell you was that it has been arranged for the lord bishop of carisbury to hold a confirmation in the minster on the eighteenth of next month, at three o'clock in the afternoon. we must have a full musical service, and i shall be glad if you will submit a sketch of what you propose for my approval. there is one point to which i must call your attention particularly. as his lordship walks up the nave, we must have a becoming march on the organ--not any of this old-fashioned stuff of which i have had so often to complain, but something really dignified and with tune in it." "oh yes, we can easily arrange that," mr sharnall said obsequiously--"`see the conquering hero comes,' by handel, would be very appropriate; or there is an air out of one of offenbach's operas that i think i could adapt to the purpose. it is a very sweet thing if rendered with proper feeling; or i could play a `danse maccabre' slowly on the full organ." "ah, that is from the `judas maccabaeus,' i conclude," said the rector, a little mollified at this unexpected acquiescence in his views. "well, i see that you understand my wishes, so i hope i may leave that matter in your hands. by the way," he said, turning back as he left the vestry, "what _was_ the piece which you played after the service just now?" "oh, only a fugal movement--just a fugue of kirnberger's." "i _wish_ you would not give us so much of this fugal style. no doubt it is all very fine from a scholastic point of view, but to most it seems merely confused. so far from assisting me and the choir to go out with dignity, it really fetters our movements. we want something with pathos and dignity, such as befits the end of a solemn service, yet with a marked rhythm, so that it may time our footsteps as we leave the choir. forgive these suggestions; the _practical_ utility of the organ is so much overlooked in these days. when mr noot is taking the service it does not so much matter, but when i am here myself i beg that there may be no more fugue." the visit of the bishop of carisbury to cullerne was an important matter, and necessitated some forethought and arrangement. "the bishop must, of course, lunch with us," mrs parkyn said to her husband; "you will ask him, of course, to lunch, my dear." "oh yes, certainly," replied the canon; "i wrote yesterday to ask him to lunch." he assumed an unconcerned air, but with only indifferent success, for his heart misgave him that he had been guilty of an unpardonable breach of etiquette in writing on so important a subject without reference to his wife. "really, my dear!" she rejoined--"really! i hope at least that your note was couched in proper terms." "psha!" he said, a little nettled in his turn, "do you suppose i have never written to a bishop before?" "that is not the point; _any_ invitation of this kind should always be given by me. the bishop, if he has any _breeding_, will be very much astonished to receive an invitation to lunch that is not given by the lady of the house. this, at least, is the usage that prevails among persons of _breeding_." there was just enough emphasis in the repetition of the last formidable word to have afforded a _casus belli_, if the rector had been minded for the fray; but he was a man of peace. "you are quite right, my dear," was the soft answer; "it was a slip of mine, which we must hope the bishop will overlook. i wrote in a hurry yesterday afternoon, as soon as i received the official information of his coming. you were out calling, if you recollect, and i had to catch the post. one never knows what tuft-hunting may not lead people to do; and if i had not caught the post, some pushing person or other might quite possibly have asked him sooner. i meant, of course, to have reported the matter to you, but it slipped my memory." "really," she said, with fine deprecation, being only half pacified, "i do not see who there _could_ be to ask the bishop except ourselves. where should the bishop of carisbury lunch in cullerne except at the rectory?" in this unanswerable conundrum she quenched the smouldering embers of her wrath. "i have no doubt, dear, that you did it all for the best, and i hate these vulgar pushing nobodies, who try to get hold of everyone of the least position quite as much as you do. so let us consider whom we _ought_ to ask to meet him. a small party, i think it should be; he would take it as a greater compliment if the party were small." she had that shallow and ungenerous mind which shrinks instinctively from admitting any beauty or intellect in others, and which grudges any participation in benefits, however amply sufficient they may be for all. thus, few must be asked to meet the bishop, that it might the better appear that few indeed, beside the rector and mrs parkyn, were fit to associate with so distinguished a man. "i quite agree with you," said the rector, considerably relieved to find that his own temerity in asking the bishop might now be considered as condoned. "our party must above all things be select; indeed, i do not know how we could make it anything but very small; there are so few people whom we _could_ ask to meet the bishop." "let me see," his wife said, making a show of reckoning cullerne respectability with the fingers of one hand on the fingers of the other. "there is--" she broke off as a sudden idea seized her. "why, of course, we must ask lord blandamer. he has shown such marked interest in ecclesiastical matters that he is sure to wish to meet the bishop." "a most fortunate suggestion--admirable in every way. it may strengthen his interest in the church; and it must certainly be beneficial to him to associate with correct society after his wandering and bohemian life. i hear all kinds of strange tales of his hobnobbing with this mr westray, the clerk of the works, and with other persons entirely out of his own rank. mrs flint, who happened to be visiting a poor woman in a back lane, assures me that she has every reason to believe that he spent an hour or more in the clerk's house, and even ate there. they say he positively ate tripe." "well, it will certainly do him good to meet the bishop," the lady said. "that would make four with ourselves; and we can ask mrs bulteel. we need not ask her husband; he is painfully rough, and the bishop might not like to meet a brewer. it will not be at all strange to ask her alone; there is always the excuse of not liking to take a businessman away from his work in the middle of the day." "that would be five; we ought to make it up to six. i suppose it would not do to ask this architect-fellow or mr sharnall." "my dear! what can you be thinking of? on no account whatever. such guests would be _most_ inappropriate." the rector looked so properly humble and cast down at this reproof that his wife relented a little. "not that there is any _harm_ in asking them, but they would be so very ill at ease themselves, i fear, in such surroundings. if you think the number should be even, we might perhaps ask old noot. he _is_ a gentleman, and would pass as your chaplain, and say grace." thus the party was made up, and lord blandamer accepted, and mrs bulteel accepted; and there was no need to trouble about the curate's acceptance--he was merely ordered to come to lunch. but, after all had gone so well up to this point, the unexpected happened--the bishop could not come. he regretted that he could not accept the hospitality so kindly offered him by canon parkyn; he had an engagement which would occupy him for any spare time that he would have in cullerne; he had made other arrangements for lunch; he would call at the rectory half an hour before the service. the rector and his wife sat in the "study," a dark room on the north side of the rectory-house, made sinister from without by dank laurestinus, and from within by glass cases of badly-stuffed birds. a bradshaw lay on the table before them. "he cannot be _driving_ from carisbury," mrs parkyn said. "dr willis does not keep at all the same sort of stables that his predecessor kept. mrs flint, when she was attending the annual christian endeavour meeting at carisbury, was told that dr willis thinks it wrong that a bishop should do more in the way of keeping carriages than is absolutely necessary for church purposes. she said she had passed the bishop's carriage herself, and that the coachman was a most unkempt creature, and the horses two wretched screws." "i heard much the same thing," assented the rector. "they say he would not have his own coat of arms painted on the carriage, for what was there already was quite good enough for him. he cannot possibly be driving here from carisbury; it is a good twenty miles." "well, if he does not drive, he must come by the : train; that would give him two hours and a quarter before the service. what business can he have in cullerne? where can he be lunching? what can he be doing with himself for two mortal hours and a quarter?" here was another conundrum to which probably only one person in cullerne town could have supplied an answer, and that was mr sharnall. a letter had come for the organist that very day: "the palace, "carisbury. "my dear sharnall, "(i had almost written `my dear nick'; forty years have made my pen a little stiff, but you must give me your official permission to write `my dear nick' the very next time.) you may have forgotten my hand, but you will not have forgotten me. do you know, it is i, willis, who am your new bishop? it is only a fortnight since i learnt that you were so near me-- "`quam dulce amicitias, redintegrare nitidas' - "and the very first point of it is that i am going to sponge on you, and ask myself to lunch. i am coming to cullerne at : to-day fortnight for the confirmation, and have to be at the rectory at : , but till then an old friend, nicholas sharnall, will give me food and shelter, will he not? make no excuses, for i shall not accept them; but send me word to say that in this you will not fail of your duty, and believe me always to be "yours, "john carum." there was something that moved strangely inside mr sharnall's battered body as he read the letter--an upheaval of emotion; the child's heart within the man's; his young hopeful self calling to his old hopeless self. he sat back in his armchair, and shut his eyes, and the organ-loft in a little college chapel came back to him, and long, long practisings, and willis content to stand by and listen as long as he should play. how it pleased willis to stand by, and pull the stops, and fancy he knew something of music! no, willis never knew any music, and yet he had a good taste, and loved a fugue. there came to him country rambles and country churches and willis with an "a.b.c. of gothic architecture," trying to tell an early english from a decorated moulding. there came to him inimitably long summer evenings, with the sky clearest yellow in the north, hours after sunset; dusty white roads, with broad galloping-paths at the side, drenched with heavy dew; the dark, mysterious boskage of stow wood; the scent of the syringa in the lane at beckley; the white mist sheeting the cherwell vale. and supper when they got home--for memory is so powerful an alchemist as to transmute suppers as well as sunsets. what suppers! cider-cup with borage floating in it, cold lamb and mint sauce, watercress, and a triangular commons of stilton. why, he had not tasted stilton for forty years! no, willis never knew any music, but he loved a fugue. ah, the fugues they had! and then a voice crossed mr sharnall's memory, saying, "when i am here myself, i beg that there may be no more fugue." "no more fugue"--there was a finality in the phrase uncompromising as the "no more sea" of the apocalyptic vision. it made mr sharnall smile bitterly; he woke from his daydream, and was back in the present. oh yes, he knew very well that it was his old friend when he first saw on whom the choice had fallen for the bishopric. he was glad willis was coming to see him. willis knew all about the row, and how it was that sharnall had to leave oxford. ay, but the bishop was too generous and broad-minded to remember that now. willis must know very well that he was only a poor, out-at-elbows old fellow, and yet he was coming to lunch with him; but did willis know that he still--he did not follow the thought further, but glanced in a mirror, adjusted his tie, fastened the top button of his coat, and with his uncertain hands brushed the hair back on either side of his head. no, willis did not know that; he never should know; it was _never_ too late to mend. he went to the cupboard, and took out a bottle and a tumbler. only very little spirit was left, and he poured it all into the glass. there was a moment's hesitation, a moment while enfeebled will-power was nerving itself for the effort. he was apparently engaged in making sure that not one minim of this most costly liquor was wasted. he held the bottle carefully inverted, and watched the very last and smallest drop detach itself and fall into the glass. no, his will-power was not yet altogether paralysed--not yet; and he dashed the contents of the glass into the fire. there was a great blaze of light-blue flame, and a puff in the air that made the window-panes rattle; but the heroic deed was done, and he heard a mental blast of trumpets, and the acclaiming voice of the _victor sui_. willis should never know that he still--because he never would again. he rang the bell, and when miss euphemia answered it she found him walking briskly, almost tripping, to and fro in the room. he stopped as she entered, drew his heels together, and made her a profound bow. "hail, most fair chastelaine! bid the varlets lower the draw-bridge and raise the portcullis. order pasties and souse-fish and a butt of malmsey; see the great hall is properly decored for my lord bishop of carisbury, who will take his _ambigue_ and bait his steeds at this castle." miss joliffe stared; she saw a bottle and an empty tumbler on the table, and smelt a strong smell of whisky; and the mirth faded from mr sharnall's face as he read her thoughts. "no, wrong," he said--"wrong this once; i am as sober as a judge, but excited. a bishop is coming to lunch with me. _you_ are excited when lord blandamer takes tea with you--a mere trashy temporal peer; am i not to be excited when a real spiritual lord pays me a visit? hear, o woman! the bishop of carisbury has written to ask, not me to lunch with him, but him to lunch with me. you will have a bishop lunching at bellevue lodge." "oh, mr sharnall! pray, sir, speak plainly. i am so old and stupid, i can never tell whether you are joking or in earnest." so he put off his exaltation, and told her the actual facts. "i am sure i don't know, sir, what you will give him for lunch," miss joliffe said. she was always careful to put in a proper number of "sirs," for, though she was proud of her descent, and considered that so far as birth went she need not fear comparison with other cullerne dames, she thought it a christian duty to accept fully the position of landlady to which circumstances had led her. "i am sure i don't know what you will give him for lunch; it is always so difficult to arrange meals for the clergy. if one provides _too_ much of the good things of this world, it seems as if one was not considering sufficiently their sacred calling; it seems like martha, too cumbered with much serving, too careful and troubled, to gain all the spiritual advantage that must come from clergymen's society. but, of course, even the most spiritually-minded must nourish their _bodies_, or they would not be able to do so much good. but when less provision has been made, i have sometimes seen clergymen eat it all up, and become quite wearied, poor things! for want of food. it was so, i remember, when mrs sharp invited the parishioners to meet the deputation after the church missionary meeting. all the patties were eaten before the deputation came, and he was so tired, poor man! with his long speech that when he found there was nothing to eat he got quite annoyed. it was only for a moment, of course, but i heard him say to someone, whose name i forget, that he had much better have trusted to a ham-sandwich in the station refreshment-room. "and if it is difficult with the food, it is worse still with what they are to drink. some clergymen do so dislike wine, and others feel they need it before the exertion of speaking. only last year, when mrs bulteel gave a drawing-room meeting, and champagne with biscuits was served before it, dr stimey said quite openly that though he did not consider all who drank to be _reprobate_, yet he must regard alcohol as the mark of the beast, and that people did not come to drawing-room meetings to drink themselves sleepy before the speaking. with bishops it must be much worse; so i don't know what we shall give him." "don't distress yourself too much," the organist said, having at last spied a gap in the serried ranks of words; "i have found out what bishops eat; it is all in a little book. we must give him cold lamb-- cold ribs of lamb--and mint sauce, boiled potatoes, and after that stilton cheese." "stilton?" miss joliffe asked with some trepidation. "i am afraid it will be very expensive." as a drowning man in one moment passes in review the events of a lifetime, so her mind took an instantaneous conspectus of all cheeses that had ever stood in the cheese-cradle in the palmy days of wydcombe, when hams and plum-puddings hung in bags from the rafters, when there was cream in the dairy and beer in the cellar. blue vinny, little gloucesters, double besants, even sometimes a cream-cheese with rushes on the bottom, but stilton never! "i am afraid it is a _very_ expensive cheese; i do not think anyone in cullerne keeps it." "it is a pity," mr sharnall said; "but we cannot help ourselves, for bishops _must_ have stilton for lunch; the book says so. you must ask mr custance to get you a piece, and i will tell you later how it is to be cut, for there are rules about that too." he laughed to himself with a queer little chuckle. cold lamb and mint sauce, with a piece of stilton afterwards--they would have an oxford lunch; they would be young again, and undefiled. the stimulus that the bishop's letter had brought mr sharnall soon wore off. he was a man of moods, and in his nervous temperament depression walked close at the heels of exaltation. westray felt sure in those days that followed that his friend was drinking to excess, and feared something more serious than a mere nervous breakdown, from the agitation and strangeness that he could not fail to observe in the organist's manner. the door of the architect's room opened one night, as he sat late over his work, and mr sharnall entered. his face was pale, and there was a startled, wide-open look in his eyes that westray did not like. "i wish you would come down to my room for a minute," the organist said; "i want to change the place of my piano, and can't move it by myself." "isn't it rather late to-night?" westray said, pulling at his watch, while the deep and slow melodious chimes of saint sepulchre told the dreaming town and the silent sea-marshes that it lacked but a quarter of an hour to midnight. "wouldn't it be better to do it to-morrow morning?" "couldn't you come down to-night?" the organist asked; "it wouldn't take you a minute." westray caught the disappointment in the tone. "very well," he said, putting his drawing-board aside. "i've worked at this quite long enough; let us shift your piano." they went down to the ground-floor. "i want to turn the piano right-about-face," the organist said, "with its back to the room and the keyboard to the wall--the keyboard quite close to the wall, with just room for me to sit." "it seems a curious arrangement," westray criticised; "is it better acoustically?" "oh, i don't know; but, if i want to rest a bit, i can put my back against the wall, you see." the change was soon accomplished, and they sat down for a moment before the fire. "you keep a good fire," westray said, "considering it is bed-time." and, indeed, the coals were piled high, and burning fiercely. the organist gave them a poke, and looked round as if to make sure that they were alone. "you'll think me a fool," he said; "and i am. you'll think i've been drinking, and i have. you'll think i'm drunk, but i'm not. listen to me: i'm not drunk; i'm only a coward. do you remember the very first night you and i walked home to this house together? do you remember the darkness and the driving rain, and how scared i was when we passed the old bonding-house? well, it was beginning then, but it's much worse now. i had a horrible idea even then that there was something always following me--following me close. i didn't know what it was--i only knew there was _something_ close behind me." his manner and appearance alarmed westray. the organist's face was very pale, and a curious raising of the eyelids, which showed the whites of the eyes above the pupils, gave him the staring appearance of one confronted suddenly with some ghastly spectacle. westray remembered that the hallucination of pursuant enemies is one of the most common symptoms of incipient madness, and put his hand gently on the organist's arm. "don't excite yourself," he said; "this is all nonsense. don't get excited so late at night." mr sharnall brushed the hand aside. "i only used to have that feeling when i was out of doors, but now i have it often indoors--even in this very room. before i never knew what it was following me--i only knew it was something. but now i know what it is: it is a man--a man with a hammer. don't laugh. you don't _want_ to laugh; you only laugh because you think it will quiet me, but it won't. i think it is a man with a hammer. i have never seen his face yet, but i shall some day. only i know it is an evil face--not hideous, like pictures of devils or anything of that kind, but worse--a dreadful, disguised face, looking all right, but wearing a mask. he walks constantly behind me, and i feel every moment that the hammer may brain me." "come, come!" westray said in what is commonly supposed to be a soothing tone, "let us change this subject, or go to bed. i wonder how you will find the new position of your piano answer." the organist smiled. "do you know why i really put it like that?" he said. "it is because i am such a coward. i like to have my back against the wall, and then i know there can be no one behind me. there are many nights, when it gets late, that it is only with a great effort i can sit here. i grow so nervous that i should go to bed at once, only i say to myself, `nick'-- that's what they used to call me at home, you know, when i was a boy--`nick, you're not going to be beat; you're not going to be scared out of your own room by ghosts, surely.' and then i sit tight, and play on, but very often don't think much of what i'm playing. it is a sad state for a man to get into, is it not?" and westray could not traverse the statement. "even in the church," mr sharnall went on, "i don't care to practise much in the evening by myself. it used to be all right when cutlow was there to blow for me. he is a daft fellow, but still was some sort of company; but now the water-engine is put in, i feel lonely there, and don't care to go as often as i used. something made me tell lord blandamer how his water-engine contrived to make me frightened, and he said he should have to come up to the loft himself sometimes to keep me company." "well, let me know the first evening you want to practise," westray said, "and i will come, too, and sit in the loft. take care of yourself, and you will soon grow out of all these fancies, and laugh at them as much as i do." and he feigned a smile. but it was late at night; he was high-strung and nervous himself, and the fact that mr sharnall should have been brought to such a pitiable state of mental instability depressed him. the report that the bishop was going to lunch with mr sharnall on the day of the confirmation soon spread in cullerne. miss joliffe had told mr joliffe the pork-butcher, as her cousin, and mr joliffe, as churchwarden, had told canon parkyn. it was the second time within a few weeks that a piece of important news had reached the rector at second-hand. but on this occasion he experienced little of the chagrin that had possessed him when lord blandamer made the great offer to the restoration fund through westray. he did not feel resentment against mr sharnall; the affair was of too solemn an importance for any such personal and petty sentiments to find a place. any act of any bishop was vicariously an act of god, and to chafe at this dispensation would have been as out of place as to be incensed at a shipwreck or an earthquake. the fact of being selected as the entertainer of the bishop of carisbury invested mr sharnall in the rector's eyes with a distinction which could not have been possibly attained by mere intellect or technical skill or devoted drudgery. the organist became _ipso facto_ a person to be taken into account. the rectory had divined and discussed, and discussed and divined, how it was, could, would, should, have been that the bishop could be lunching with mr sharnall. could it be that the bishop had thought that mr sharnall kept an eating-house, or that the bishop took some special diet which only mr sharnall knew how to prepare? could it be that the bishop had some idea of making mr sharnall organist in his private chapel, for there was no vacancy in the cathedral? conjecture charged the blank wall of mystery full tilt, and retired broken from the assault. after talking of nothing else for many hours, mrs parkyn declared that the matter had no interest at all for her. "for my part, i cannot profess to understand such goings-on," she said in that convincing and convicting tone which implies that the speaker knows far more than he cares to state, and that the solution of the mystery must in any case be discreditable to all concerned. "i wonder, my dear," the rector said to his wife, "whether mr sharnall has the means to entertain the bishop properly." "properly!" said mrs parkyn--"properly! i think the whole proceeding entirely improper. do you mean has mr sharnall money enough to purchase a proper repast? i should say certainly not. or has he proper plates or forks or spoons, or a proper room in which to eat? of course he has not. or do you mean can he get things properly cooked? who is to do it? there is only feckless old miss joliffe and her stuck-up niece." the canon was much perturbed by the vision of discomfort which his wife had called up. "the bishop ought to be spared as much as _possible_," he said; "we ought to do all we _can_ to save him annoyance. what do you think? should we not put up with a little inconvenience, and ask sharnall to bring the bishop here, and lunch himself? he must know perfectly well that entertaining a bishop in a lodging-house is an unheard-of thing, and he would do to make up the sixth instead of old noot. we could easily tell noot he was not wanted." "sharnall is such a disreputable creature," mrs parkyn answered; "he is quite as likely as not to come tipsy; and, if he does not, he has no _breeding_ or education, and would scarcely understand polite conversation." "you forget, my dear, that the bishop is already pledged to lunch with mr sharnall, so that we should not be held responsible for introducing him. and sharnall has managed to pick up some sort of an education--i can't imagine where; but i found on one occasion that he could understand a little latin. it was the blandamer motto, `_aut fynes, aut finis_.' he may have been told what it meant, but he certainly seemed to know. of course, no real knowledge of latin can be obtained without a _university_ education"--and the rector pulled up his tie and collar--"but still chemists and persons of that sort do manage to get a smattering of it." "well, well, i don't suppose we are going to talk latin all through lunch," interrupted his wife. "you can do precisely as you please about asking him." the rector contented himself with the permission, however ungraciously accorded, and found himself a little later in mr sharnall's room. "mrs parkyn was hoping that she might have prevailed on you to lunch with us on the day of the confirmation. she was only waiting for the bishop's acceptance to send you an invitation; but we hear now," he said in a dubitative and tentative way--"we hear now that it is possible that the bishop may be lunching with you." there was a twitch about the corners of canon parkyn's mouth. the position that a bishop should be lunching with mr sharnall in a common lodging-house was so exquisitely funny that he could only restrain his laughter with difficulty. mr sharnall gave an assenting nod. "mrs parkyn was not quite sure whether you might have in your lodgings exactly everything that might be necessary for entertaining his lordship." "oh dear, yes," mr sharnall said. "it looks a little dowdy just this minute, because the chairs are at the upholsterers to have the gilt touched up; we are putting up new curtains, of _course_, and the housekeeper has already begun to polish the best silver." "it occurred to mrs parkyn," the rector continued, being too bent on saying what he had to say to pay much attention to the organist's remarks--"it occurred to mrs parkyn that it might perhaps be more convenient to you to bring the bishop to lunch at the rectory. it would spare you all trouble in preparation, and you would of course lunch with us yourself. it would be putting us to no inconvenience; mrs parkyn would be glad that you should lunch with us yourself." mr sharnall nodded, this time deprecatingly. "you are very kind. mrs parkyn is very considerate, but the bishop has signified his intention of lunching in _this_ house; i could scarcely venture to contravene his lordship's wishes." "the bishop is a friend of yours?" the rector asked. "you can scarcely say that; i do not think i have set eyes on the man for forty years." the rector was puzzled. "perhaps the bishop is under some misconception; perhaps he thinks that this house is still an inn--the hand of god, you know." "perhaps," said the organist; and there was a little pause. "i hope you will consider the matter. may i not tell mrs parkyn that you will urge the bishop to lunch at the rectory--that you both"--and he brought out the word bravely, though it cost him a pang to yoke the bishop with so unworthy a mate, and to fling the door of select hospitality open to mr sharnall--"that you both will lunch with us?" "i fear not," the organist said; "i fear i must say no. i shall be very busy preparing for the extra service, and if i am to play `see the conquering hero' as the bishop enters the church, i shall need time for practice. a piece like that takes some playing, you know." "i hope you will endeavour to render it in the very best manner," the rector said, and withdrew his forces _re infecta_. the story of mr sharnall's mental illusions, and particularly of the hallucination as to someone following him, had left an unpleasant impression on westray's mind. he was anxious about his fellow-lodger, and endeavoured to keep a kindly supervision over him, as he felt it to be possible that a person in such a state might do himself a mischief. on most evenings he either went down to mr sharnall's room, or asked the organist to come upstairs to his, considering that the solitude incident to bachelor life in advancing years was doubtless to blame to a large extent for these wandering fancies. mr sharnall occupied himself at night in sorting and reading the documents which had once belonged to martin joliffe. there was a vast number of them, representing the accumulation of a lifetime, and consisting of loose memoranda, of extracts from registers, of manuscript-books full of pedigrees and similar material. when he had first begun to examine them, with a view to their classification or destruction, he showed that the task was distinctly uncongenial to him; he was glad enough to make any excuse for interruption or for invoking westray's aid. the architect, on the other hand, was by nature inclined to archaeologic and genealogic studies, and would not have been displeased if mr sharnall had handed over to him the perusal of these papers entirely. he was curious to trace the origin of that chimera which had wasted a whole life--to discover what had led martin originally to believe that he had a claim to the blandamer peerage. he found, perhaps, an additional incentive in an interest which he was beginning unconsciously to take in anastasia joliffe, whose fortunes might be supposed to be affected by these investigations. but in a little while westray noticed a change in the organist's attitude as touching the papers. mr sharnall evinced a dislike to the architect examining them further; he began himself to devote a good deal more time and attention to their study, and he kept them jealously under lock and key. westray's nature led him to resent anything that suggested suspicion; he at once ceased to concern himself with the matter, and took care to show mr sharnall that he had no wish whatever to see more of the documents. as for anastasia, she laughed at the idea of there being any foundation underlying these fancies; she laughed at mr sharnall, and rallied westray, saying she believed that they both were going to embark on the quest of the nebuly coat. to miss euphemia it was no laughing matter. "i think, my dear," she said to her niece, "that all these searchings after wealth and fortune are not of god. i believe that trying to discover things"--and she used "things" with the majestic comprehensiveness of the female mind--"is generally bad for man. if it is good for us to be noblemen and rich, then providence will bring us to that station; but to try to prove one's self a nobleman is like star-gazing and fortune-telling. idolatry is as the sin of witchcraft. there can be no _blessing_ on it, and i reproach myself for ever having given dear martin's papers to mr sharnall at all. i only did so because i could not bear to go through them myself, and thought perhaps that there might be cheques or something valuable among them. i wish i had burnt everything at first, and now mr sharnall says he will not have the papers destroyed till he has been through them. i am sure they were no blessing at all to dear martin. i hope they may not bewitch these two gentlemen as well." chapter twelve. the scheme of restoration had been duly revised in the light of lord blandamer's generosity, and the work had now entered on such a methodical progress that westray was able on occasion to relax something of that close personal supervision which had been at first so exacting. mr sharnall often played for half an hour or more after the evening-service, and on such occasions westray found time, now and then, to make his way to the organ-loft. the organist liked to have him there; he was grateful for the token of interest, however slight, that was implied in such visits; and westray, though without technical knowledge, found much to interest him in the unfamiliar surroundings of the loft. it was a curious little kingdom of itself, situate over the great stone screen, which at cullerne divides the choir from the nave, but as remote and cut off from the outside world as a desert island. access was gained to it by a narrow, round, stone staircase, which led up from the nave at the south end of the screen. after the bottom door of this windowless staircase was opened and shut, anyone ascending was left for a moment in bewildering darkness. he had to grope the way by his feet feeling the stairs, and by his hand laid on the central stone shaft which had been polished to the smoothness of marble by countless other hands of past times. but, after half a dozen steps, the darkness resolved; there was first the dusk of dawn, and soon a burst of mellow light, when he reached the stairhead and stepped out into the loft. then there were two things which he noticed before any other--the bow of that vast norman arch which spanned the opening into the south transept, with its lofty and over-delicate roll and cavetto mouldings; and behind it the head of the blandamer window, where in the centre of the infinite multiplication of the tracery shone the sea-green and silver of the nebuly coat. afterwards he might remark the long-drawn roof of the nave, and the chevroned ribs of the norman vault, delimiting bay and bay with a saltire as they crossed; or his eyes might be led up to the lantern of the central tower, and follow the lighter ascending lines of abbot vinnicomb's perpendicular panelling, till they vanished in the windows far above. inside the loft there was room and to spare. it was formed on ample lines, and had space for a stool or two beside the performer's seat, while at the sides ran low bookcases which held the music library. in these shelves rested the great folios of boyce, and croft, and arnold, page and greene, battishill and crotch--all those splendid and ungrudging tomes for which the "rectors and foundation of cullerne" had subscribed in older and richer days. yet these were but the children of a later birth. round about them stood elder brethren, for cullerne minster was still left in possession of its seventeenth-century music-books. a famous set they were, a hundred or more bound in their old black polished calf, with a great gold medallion, and "tenor: decani," or "contra-tenor: cantoris", "basso," or "sopra," stamped in the middle of every cover. and inside was parchment with red-ruled margins, and on the parchment were inscribed services and "verse-anthems" and "ffull-anthems," all in engrossing hand and the most uncompromising of black ink. therein was a generous table of contents-- mr batten and mr gibbons, mr mundy and mr tomkins, doctor bull and doctor giles, all neatly filed and paged; and mr bird would incite singers long since turned to churchyard mould to "bring forthe ye timbrell, ye pleasant harp and ye violl," and reinsist with six parts, and a red capital letter, "ye pleasant harp and ye violl." it was a great place for dust, the organ-loft--dust that fell, and dust that rose; dust of wormy wood, dust of crumbling leather, dust of tattered mothy curtains that were dropping to pieces, dust of primeval green baize; but mr sharnall had breathed the dust for forty years, and felt more at home in that place than anywhere else. if it was crusoe's island, he was crusoe, monarch of all he surveyed. "here, you can take this key," he said one day to westray; "it unlocks the staircase-door; but either tell me when to expect you, or make a noise as you come up the steps. i don't like being startled. be sure you push the door to after you; it fastens itself. i am always particular about keeping the door locked, otherwise one doesn't know what stranger may take it into his head to walk up. i can't bear being startled." and he glanced behind him with a strange look in his eyes. a few days before the bishop's visit westray was with mr sharnall in the organ-loft. he had been there through most of the service, and, as he sat on his stool in the corner, had watched the curious diamond pattern of light and dark that the clerestory windows made with the vaulting-ribs. anyone outside would have seen islands of white cloud drifting across the blue sky, and each cloud as it passed threw the heavy chevroned diagonals inside into bold relief, and picked out that rebus of a carding-comb encircled by a wreath of vine-leaves which nicholas vinnicomb had inserted for a vaulting-boss. the architect had learned to regard the beetling roof with an almost superstitious awe, and was this day so fascinated with the strange effect as to be scarcely aware that the service was over till mr sharnall spoke. "you said you would like to hear my service in d flat--`sharnall in d flat,' did you not? i will play it through to you now, if you care to listen. of course, i can only give you the general effect, without voices, though, after all, i don't know that you won't get quite as good an idea of it as you could with any voices that we have here." westray woke up from his dreams and put himself into an attitude of proper attention, while mr sharnall played the service from a faded manuscript. "now," he said, as he came towards the end--"now listen. this is the best part of it--a fugal _gloria_, ending with a pedal-point. here you are, you see--a tonic pedal-point, this d flat, the very last raised note in my new pedal-board, held down right through." and he set his left foot on the pedal. "what do you think of _that_ for a _magnificat_?" he said, when it was finished; and westray was ready with all the conventional expressions of admiration. "it is not bad, is it?" mr sharnall asked; "but the gem of it is the _gloria_--not real fugue, but fugal, with a pedal-point. did you catch the effect of that point? i will keep the note down by itself for a second, so that you may get thoroughly hold of it, and then play the _gloria_ again." he held down the d flat, and the open pipe went booming and throbbing through the long nave arcades, and in the dark recesses of the triforium, and under the beetling vaulting, and quavered away high up in the lantern, till it seemed like the death-groan of a giant. "take it up," westray said; "i can't bear the throbbing." "very well; now listen while i give you the _gloria_. no, i really think i had better go through the whole service again; you see, it leads up more naturally to the finale." he began the service again, and played it with all the conscientious attention and sympathy that the creative artist must necessarily give to his own work. he enjoyed, too, that pleasurable surprise which awaits the discovery that a composition laid aside for many years and half forgotten is better and stronger than had been imagined, even as a disused dress brought out of the wardrobe sometimes astonishes us with its freshness and value. westray stood on a foot-pace at the end of the loft which allowed him to look over the curtain into the church. his eyes roamed through the building as he listened, but he did not appreciate the music the less. nay, rather, he appreciated it the more, as some writers find literary perception and power of expression quickened at the influence of music itself. the great church was empty. janaway had left for his tea; the doors were locked, no strangers could intrude; there was no sound, no murmur, no voice, save only the voices of the organ-pipes. so westray listened. stay, were there no other voices? was there nothing he heard--nothing that spoke within him? at first he was only conscious of _something_--something that drew his attention away from the music, and then the disturbing influence was resolved into another voice, small, but rising very clear even above "sharnall in d flat." "the arch never sleeps," said that still and ominous voice. "the arch never sleeps; they have bound on us a burden too heavy to be borne. we are shifting it; we never sleep." and his eyes turned to the cross arches under the tower. there, above the bow of the south transept, showed the great crack, black and writhen as a lightning-flash, just as it had showed any time for a century--just the same to the ordinary observer, but not to the architect. he looked at it fixedly for a moment, and then, forgetting mr sharnall and the music, left the loft, and made his way to the wooden platform that the masons had built up under the roof. mr sharnall did not even perceive that he had gone down, and dashed _con furore_ into the _gloria_. "give me the full great," he called to the architect, who he thought was behind him; "give me the full great, all but the reed," and snatched the stops out himself when there was no response. "it went better that time--distinctly better," he said, as the last note ceased to sound, and then turned round for westray's comment; but the loft was empty--he was alone. "curse the fellow!" he said; "he might at least have let me know that he was going away. ah, well, it's all poor stuff, no doubt." and he shut up the manuscript with a lingering and affectionate touch, that contrasted with so severe a criticism. "it's poor stuff; why should i expect anyone to listen to it?" it was full two hours later that westray came quickly into the organist's room at bellevue lodge. "i beg your pardon, sharnall," he said, "for leaving you so cavalierly. you must have thought me rude and inappreciative; but the fact is i was so startled that i forgot to tell you why i went. while you were playing i happened to look up at that great crack over the south transept arch, and saw something very like recent movement. i went up at once to the scaffolding, and have been there ever since. i don't like it at all; it seems to me that the crack is opening, and extending. it may mean very serious mischief, and i have made up my mind to go up to london by the last train to-night. i must get sir george farquhar's opinion at once." the organist grunted. the wound inflicted on his susceptibility had rankled deeply, and indignation had been tenderly nursed. a piece of his mind was to have been given to westray, and he regretted the very reasonableness of the explanation that robbed him of his opportunity. "pray don't apologise," he said; "i never noticed that you had gone. i really quite forgot that you had been there." westray was too full of his discovery to take note of the other's annoyance. he was one of those excitable persons who mistake hurry for decision of action. "yes," he said, "i must be off to london in half an hour. the matter is far too serious to play fast-and-loose with. it is quite possible that we shall have to stop the organ, or even to forbid the use of the church altogether, till we can shore and strut the arch. i must go and put my things together." so, with heroic promptness and determination, he flung himself into the last train, and spent the greater part of the night in stopping at every wayside station, when his purpose would have been equally served by a letter or by taking the express at cullerne road the next morning. chapter thirteen. the organ was not silenced, nor was the service suspended. sir george came down to cullerne, inspected the arch, and rallied his subordinate for an anxiety which was considered to be unjustifiable. yes, the wall above the arch _had_ moved a little, but not more than was to be expected from the repairs which were being undertaken with the vaulting. it was only the old wall coming to its proper bearings--he would have been surprised, in fact, if no movement had taken place; it was much safer as it was. canon parkyn was in high good-humour. he rejoiced in seeing the pert and officious young clerk of the works put in his proper place; and sir george had lunched at the rectory. there was a repetition of the facetious proposal that sir george should wait for payment of his fees until the tower should fall, which acquired fresh point from the circumstance that all payments were now provided for by lord blandamer. the ha-ha-ing which accompanied this witticism palled at length even upon the robust sir george, and he winced under a dig in the ribs, which an extra glass of port had emboldened the canon to administer. "well, well, mr rector," he said, "we cannot put old heads on young shoulders. mr westray was quite justified in referring the matter to me. it _has_ an ugly look; one needs _experience_ to be able to see through things like this." and he pulled up his collar, and adjusted his tie. westray was content to accept his chief's decision as a matter of faith, though not of conviction. the black lightning-flash was impressed on his mental retina, the restless cry of the arches was continually in his ear; he seldom passed the transept-crossing without hearing it. but he bore his rebuke with exemplary resignation--the more so that he was much interested in some visits which lord blandamer paid him at this period. lord blandamer called more than once at bellevue lodge in the evenings, even as late as nine o'clock, and would sit with westray for two hours together, turning over plans and discussing the restoration. the architect learnt to appreciate the charm of his manner, and was continually astonished at the architectural knowledge and critical power which he displayed. mr sharnall would sometimes join them for a few minutes, but lord blandamer never appeared quite at his ease when the organist was present; and westray could not help thinking that mr sharnall was sometimes tactless, and even rude, considering that he was beholden to lord blandamer for new pedals and new bellows and a water-engine _in esse_, and for the entire repair of the organ _in posse_. "i can't help being `beholden to him,' as you genteelly put it," mr sharnall said one evening, when lord blandamer had gone. "i can't _stop_ his giving new bellows or a new pedal-board. and we do want the new board and the additional pipes. as it is, i can't play german music, can't touch a good deal of bach's organ work. who is to say this man nay, if he chooses to alter the organ? but i'm not going to truckle to anyone, and least of all to him. do you want me to fall flat on my face because he is a lord? pooh! we could all be lords like him. give me another week with martin's papers, and i'll open your eyes. ay, you may stare and sniff if you please, but you'll open your eyes then. _ex oriente lux_--that's where the light's coming from, out of martin's papers. once this confirmation over, and you'll see. i can't settle to the papers till that's done with. what do people want to confirm these boys and girls for? it only makes hypocrites of wholesome children. i hate the whole business. if people want to make their views public, let them do it at five-and-twenty; then we should believe that they knew something of what they were about." the day of the bishop's visit had arrived; the bishop had arrived himself; he had entered the door of bellevue lodge; he had been received by miss euphemia joliffe as one who receives an angel awares; he had lunched in mr sharnall's room, and had partaken of the cold lamb, and the stilton, and even of the cider-cup, to just such an extent as became a healthy and good-hearted and host-considering bishop. "you have given me a regular oxford lunch," he said. "your landlady has been brought up in the good tradition." and he smiled, never doubting that he was partaking of the ordinary provision of the house, and that mr sharnall fared thus sumptuously every day. he knew not that the meal was as much a set piece as a dinner on the stage, and that cold lamb and stilton and cider-cup were more often represented by the bottom of a tin of potted meat and--a gill of cheap whisky. "a regular oxford lunch." and then they fell to talking of old days, and the bishop called mr sharnall "nick," and mr sharnall called the bishop of carum "john"; and they walked round the room looking at pictures of college groups and college eights, and the bishop examined very tenderly the little water-colour sketch that mr sharnall had once made of the inner quad; and they identified in it their own old rooms, and the rooms of several other men of their acquaintance. the talk did mr sharnall good; he felt the better for it every moment. he had meant to be very proud and reserved with the bishop--to be most dignified and coldly courteous. he had meant to show that, though john willis might wear the gaiters, nicholas sharnall could retain his sturdy independence, and was not going to fawn or to admit himself to be the mental inferior of any man. he had meant to _give_ a tirade against confirmation, against the neglect of music, against rectors, with perhaps a back-thrust at the bench of bishops itself. but he had done none of these things, because neither pride nor reserve nor assertiveness were possible in john willis's company. he had merely eaten a good lunch, and talked with a kindly, broad-minded gentleman, long enough to warm his withered heart, and make him feel that there were still possibilities in life. there is a bell that rings for a few strokes three-quarters of an hour before every service at cullerne. it is called the burgess bell--some say because it was meant to warn such burgesses as dwelt at a distance that it was time to start for church; whilst others will have it that burgess is but a broken-down form of _expergiscere_--"awake! awake!"-- that those who dozed might rise for prayer. the still air of the afternoon was yet vibrating with the burgess bell, and the bishop rose to take his leave. if it was the organist of cullerne who had been ill at ease when their interview began, it was the bishop of carisbury who was embarrassed at the end of it. he had asked himself to lunch with mr sharnall with a definite object, and towards the attainment of that object nothing had been done. he had learnt that his old friend had fallen upon evil times, and, worse, had fallen into evil courses--that the failing which had ruined his oxford career had broken out again with a fresh fire in advancing age, that nicholas sharnall was in danger of a drunkard's judgment. there had been lucid intervals in the organist's life; the plague would lie dormant for years, and then break out, to cancel all the progress that had been made. it was like a "race-game" where the little leaden horse is moved steadily forward, till at last the die falls on the fatal number, and the racer must lose a turn, or go back six, or, even in the worst issue, begin his whole course again. it was in the forlorn hope of doing something, however little, to arrest a man on the downward slope that the bishop had come to bellevue lodge; he hoped to speak the word in season that should avail. yet nothing had been said. he felt like a clerk who has sought an interview with his principal to ask for an increase of salary, and then, fearing to broach the subject, pretends to have come on other business. he felt like a son longing to ask his father's counsel in some grievous scrape, or like an extravagant wife waiting her opportunity to confess some heavy debt. "a quarter past two," the bishop said; "i must be going. it has been a great pleasure to recall the old times. i hope we shall meet again soon; but remember it is your turn now to come and see me. carisbury is not so very far off, so do come. there is always a bed ready for you. will you walk up the street with me now? i have to go to the rectory, and i suppose you will be going to the church, will you not?" "yes," said mr sharnall; "i'll come with you if you wait one minute. i think i'll take just a drop of something before i go, if you'll excuse me. i feel rather run down, and the service is a long one. you won't join me, of course?" and he went to the cupboard. the bishop's opportunity was come. "don't, sharnall. don't, nick," he said; "don't take that stuff. forgive me for speaking openly, the time is so short. i am not speaking professionally or from the religious standpoint, but only just as one man of the world to another, just as one friend to another, because i cannot bear to see you going on like this without trying to stop you. don't take offence, nick," he added, as he saw the change of the other's countenance; "our old friendship gives me a right to speak; the story you are writing on your own face gives me a right to speak. give it up. there is time yet to turn; give it up. let me help you; is there nothing i can do to help?" the angry look that crossed mr sharnall's face had given way to sadness. "it is all very easy for you," he said; "you've done everything in life, and have a long row of milestones behind you to show how you've moved on. i have done nothing, only gone back, and have all the milestones in front to show how i've failed. it's easy to twit me when you've got everything you want--position, reputation, fortune, a living faith to keep you up to it. i am nobody, miserably poor, have no friends, and don't believe half we say in church. what am i to do? no one cares a fig about me; what have i got to live for? to drink is the only chance i have of feeling a little pleasure in life; of losing for a few moments the dreadful consciousness of being an outcast; of losing for a moment the remembrance of happy days long ago: that's the greatest torment of all, willis. don't blame me if i drink; it's the _elixir vitae_ for me just as much as for paracelsus." and he turned the handle of the cupboard. "don't," the bishop said again, putting his hand on the organist's arm; "don't do it; don't touch it. don't make success any criterion of life; don't talk about `getting on.' we shan't be judged by how we have got on. come along with me; show you've got your old resolution, your old will-power." "i _haven't_ got the power," mr sharnall said; "i can't help it." but he took his hand from the cupboard-door. "then let me help it for you," said the bishop; and he opened the cupboard, found a half-used bottle of whisky, drove the cork firmly into it, and put it under his arm inside the lappet of his coat. "come along." so the bishop of carisbury walked up the high street of cullerne with a bottle of whisky under his left arm. but no one could see that, because it was hid under his coat; they only saw that he had his right arm inside mr sharnall's. some thought this an act of christian condescension, but others praised the times that were past; bishops were losing caste, they said, and it was a sad day for the church when they were found associating openly with persons so manifestly their inferiors. "we must see more of each other," the bishop said, as they walked under the arcade in front of the shops. "you must get out of this quag somehow. you can't expect to do it all at once, but we must make a beginning. i have taken away your temptation under my coat, and you must make a start from this minute; you must make me a promise _now_. i have to be in cullerne again in six days' time, and will come and see you. you must promise me not to touch anything for these six days, and you must drive back with me to carisbury when i go back then, and spend a few days with me. promise me this, nick; the time is pressing, and i must leave you, but you must promise me this first." the organist hesitated for a moment, but the bishop gripped his arm. "promise me this; i will not go till you promise." "yes, i promise." and lying-and-mischief-making mrs flint, who was passing, told afterwards how she had overheard the bishop discussing with mr sharnall the best means for introducing ritualism into the minster, and how the organist had promised to do his very best to help him so far as the musical part of the sendee was concerned. the confirmation was concluded without any contretemps, save that two of the grammar school boys incurred an open and well-merited rebuke from the master for appearing in gloves of a much lighter slate colour than was in any way decorous, and that this circumstance reduced the youngest miss bulteel to such a state of hysteric giggling that her mother was forced to remove her from the church, and thus deprive her of spiritual privileges for another year. mr sharnall bore his probation bravely. three days had passed, and he had not broken his vow--no, not in one jot or tittle. they had been days of fine weather, brilliantly clear autumn days of blue sky and exhilarating air. they had been bright days for mr sharnall; he was himself exhilarated; he felt a new life coursing in his veins. the bishop's talk had done him good; from his heart he thanked the bishop for it. giving up drinking had done him no harm; he felt all the better for his abstinence. it had not depressed him at all; on the contrary, he was more cheerful than he had been for years. scales had fallen from his eyes since that talk; he had regained his true bearings; he began to see the verities of life. how he had wasted his time! why _had_ he been so sour? why _had_ he indulged his spleen? why _had_ he taken such a jaundiced view of life? he would put aside all jealousies; he would have no enmities; he would be broader-minded--oh, so much broader-minded; he would embrace all mankind--yes, even canon parkyn. above all, he would recognise that he was well advanced in life; he would be more sober-thinking, would leave childish things, would resolutely renounce his absurd infatuation for anastasia. what a ridiculous idea--a crabbed old sexagenarian harbouring affection for a young girl! henceforth she should be nothing to him--absolutely nothing. no, that would be foolish; it would not be fair to her to cut her off from all friendship; he could feel for her a fatherly affection--it should be paternal and nothing more. he would bid adieu to all that folly, and his life should not be a whit the emptier for the loss. he would fill it with interests--all kinds of interests, and his music should be the first. he would take up again, and carry out to the end, that oratorio which he had turned over in his mind for years--the "absalom." he had several numbers at his fingers' ends; he would work out the bass solo, "oh, absalom, my son, my son!" and the double chorus that followed it, "make ready, ye mighty; up and bare your swords!" so he discoursed joyfully with his own heart, and felt above measure elated at the great and sudden change that was wrought in him, not recognising that the clouds return after the rain, and that the leopard may change his spots as easily as man may change his habits. to change a habit at fifty-five or forty-five or thirty-five; to ordain that rivers shall flow uphill; to divert the relentless sequence of cause and effect--how often dare we say this happens? _nemo repente_--no man ever suddenly became good. a moment's spiritual agony may blunt our instincts and paralyse the evil in us--for a while, even as chloroform may dull our bodily sense; but for permanence there is no sudden turning of the mind; sudden repentances in life or death are equally impossible. three halcyon days were followed by one of those dark and lowering mornings when the blank life seems blanker, and when the gloom of nature is too accurately reflected in the nervous temperament of man. on healthy youth climatic influences have no effect, and robust middle age, if it perceive them, goes on its way steadfast or stolid, with a _cela passera, tout passera_. but on the feeble and the failing such times fall with a weight of fretful despondency; and so they fell on mr sharnall. he was very restless about the time of the mid-day meal. there came up a thick, dark fog from the sea, which went rolling in great masses over cullerne flat, till its fringe caught the outskirts of the town. after that, it settled in the streets, and took up its special abode in bellevue lodge; till miss euphemia coughed so that she had to take two ipecacuanha lozenges, and mr sharnall was forced to ring for a lamp to see his victuals. he went up to westray's room to ask if he might eat his dinner upstairs, but he found that the architect had gone to london, and would not be back till the evening train; so he was thrown upon his own resources. he ate little, and by the end of the meal depression had so far got the better of him, that he found himself standing before a well-known cupboard. perhaps the abstemiousness of the last three days had told upon him, and drove him for refuge to his usual comforter. it was by instinct that he went to the cupboard; he was not even conscious of doing so till he had the open door in his hand. then resolution returned to him, aided, it may be, by the reflection that the cupboard was bare (for the bishop had taken away the whisky), and he shut the door sharply. was it possible that he had so soon forgotten his promise--had come so perilously near falling back into the mire, after the bright prospects of the last days, after so lucid an interval? he went to his bureau and buried himself in martin joliffe's papers, till the burgess bell gave warning of the afternoon service. the gloom and fog made way by degrees for a drizzling rain, which resolved itself into a steady downpour as the afternoon wore on. it was so heavy that mr sharnall could hear the indistinct murmur of millions of raindrops on the long lead roofs, and their more noisy splash and spatter as they struck the windows in the lantern and north transept. he was in a bad humour as he came down from the loft. the boys had sung sleepily and flat; jaques had murdered the tenor solo with his strained and raucous voice; and old janaway remembered afterwards that mr sharnall had never vouchsafed a good-afternoon as he strode angrily down the aisle. things were no better when he reached bellevue lodge. he was wet and chilled, and there was no fire in the grate, because it was too early in the year for such luxuries to be afforded. he would go to the kitchen, and take his tea there. it was saturday afternoon. miss joliffe would be at the dorcas meeting, but anastasia would be in; and this reflection came to him as a ray of sunlight in a dark and lowering time. anastasia would be in, and alone; he would sit by the fire and drink a cup of hot tea, while anastasia should talk to him and gladden his heart. he tapped lightly at the kitchen-door, and as he opened it a gusty buffet of damp air smote him on the face; the room was empty. through a half-open sash the wet had driven in, and darkened the top of the deal table which stood against the window; the fire was but a smouldering ash. he shut the window instinctively while he reflected. where could anastasia be? she must have left the kitchen some time, otherwise the fire would not be so low, and she would have seen that the rain was beating in. she must be upstairs; she had no doubt taken advantage of westray's absence to set his room in order. he would go up to her; perhaps there was a fire in westray's room. he went up the circular stone staircase, that ran like a wide well from top to bottom of the old hand of god. the stone steps and the stone floor of the hall, the stuccoed walls, and the coved stucco roof which held the skylight at the top, made a whispering-gallery of that gaunt staircase; and before mr sharnall had climbed half-way up he heard voices. they were voices in conversation; anastasia had company. and then he heard that one was a man's voice. what right had any man to be in westray's room? what man had any right to be talking to anastasia? a wild suspicion passed through his mind--no, that was quite impossible. he would not play the eavesdropper or creep near them to listen; but, as he reflected, he had mounted a step or two higher, and the voices were now more distinct. anastasia had finished speaking, and the man began again. there was one second of uncertainty in mr sharnall's mind, while the hope that it was not, balanced the fear that it was; and then doubt vanished, and he knew the voice to be lord blandamer's. the organist sprang up two or three steps very quickly. he would go straight to them--straight into westray's room; he would--and then he paused; he would do, what? what right had he to go there at all? what had he to do with them? what was there for anyone to do? he paused, then turned and went downstairs again, telling himself that he was a fool--that he was making mountains of molehills, that there did not exist, in fact, even a molehill; yet having all the while a sickening feeling within him, as if some gripping hand had got hold of his poor physical and material heart, and was squeezing it. his room looked more gloomy than ever when he got back to it, but it did not matter now, because he was not going to remain there. he only stopped for a minute to sweep back into the bureau all those loose papers of martin joliffe's that were lying in a tumble on the open desk-flap. he smiled grimly as he put them back and locked them in. _le jour viendra qui tout paiera_. these papers held a vengeance that would atone for all wrongs. he took down his heavy and wet-sodden overcoat from the peg in the hall, and reflected with some satisfaction that the bad weather could not seriously damage it, for it had turned green with wear, and must be replaced as soon as he got his next quarter's salary. the rain still fell heavily, but he _must_ go out. four walls were too narrow to hold his chafing mood, and the sadness of outward nature accorded well with a gloomy spirit. so he shut the street-door noiselessly, and went down the semicircular flight of stone steps in front of the hand of god, just as lord blandamer had gone down them on that historic evening when anastasia first saw him. he turned back to look at the house, just as lord blandamer had turned back then; but was not so fortunate as his illustrious predecessor, for westray's window was tight shut, and there was no one to be seen. "i wish i may never look upon the place again," he said to himself, half in earnest, and half with that cynicism which men affect because they know fate seldom takes them at their word. for an hour or more he wandered aimlessly, and found himself, as night fell, on the western outskirts of the town, where a small tannery carries on the last pretence of commercial activity in cullerne. it is here that the cull, which has run for miles under willow and alder, through deep pastures golden with marsh marigolds or scented with meadow-sweet, past cuckoo-flower and pitcher-plant and iris and nodding bulrush, forsakes better traditions, and becomes a common town-sluice before it deepens at the wharves, and meets the sandy churn of the tideway. mr sharnall had become aware that he was tired, and he stood and leant over the iron paling that divides the roadway from the stream. he did not know how tired he was till he stopped walking, nor how the rain had wetted him till he bent his head a little forward, and a cascade of water fell from the brim of his worn-out hat. it was a forlorn and dismal stream at which he looked. the low tannery buildings of wood projected in part over the water, and were supported on iron props, to which were attached water-whitened skins and repulsive portions of entrails, that swung slowly from side to side as the river took them. the water here is little more than three feet deep, and beneath its soiled current can be seen a sandy bottom on which grow patches of coarse duck-weed. to mr sharnall these patches of a green so dark and drain-soiled as to be almost black in the failing light, seemed tresses of drowned hair, and he weaved stories about them for himself as the stream now swayed them to and fro, and now carried them out at length. he observed things with that vacant observation which the body at times insists on maintaining, when the mind is busy with some overmastering preoccupation. he observed the most trivial details; he made an inventory of the things which he could see lying on the dirty bed of the river underneath the dirty water. there was a tin bucket with a hole in the bottom; there was a brown teapot without a spout; there was an earthenware blacking-bottle too strong to be broken; there were other shattered glass bottles and shards of crockery; there was a rim of a silk hat, and more than one toeless boot. he turned away, and looked down the road towards the town. they were beginning to light the lamps, and the reflections showed a criss-cross of white lines on the muddy road, where the water stood in the wheel-tracks. there was a dark vehicle coming down the road now, making a fresh track in the mud, and leaving two shimmering lines behind it as it went. he gave a little start when it came nearer, and he saw that it was the undertaker's cart carrying out a coffin for some pauper at the union workhouse. he gave a start and a shiver; the wet had come through his overcoat; he could feel it on his arms; he could feel the cold and clinging wet striking at his knees. he was stiff with standing so long, and a rheumatic pain checked him suddenly as he tried to straighten himself. he would walk quickly to warm himself--would go home at once. home-- what _home_ had he? that great, gaunt hand of god. he detested it and all that were within its walls. that was no home. yet he was walking briskly towards it, having no other whither to go. he was in the mean little streets, he was within five minutes of his goal, when he heard singing. he was passing the same little inn which he had passed the first night that westray came. the same voice was singing inside which had sung the night that westray came. westray had brought discomfort; westray had brought lord blandamer. things had never been the same since; he wished westray had never come at all; he wished--oh, how he wished!--that all might be as it was before--that all might jog along quietly as it had for a generation before. she certainly had a fine voice, this woman. it really would be worth while seeing who she was; he wished he could just look inside the door. stay, he could easily make an excuse for looking in: he would order a little hot whisky-and-water. he was so wet, it was prudent to take something to drink. it might ward off a bad chill. he would only take a very little, and only as a medicine, of course; there could be no harm in _that_--it was mere prudence. he took off his hat, shook the rain from it, turned the handle of the door very gently, with the consideration of a musician who will do nothing to interrupt another who is making music, and went in. he found himself in that sanded parlour which he had seen once before through the window. it was a long, low room, with heavy beams crossing the roof, and at the end was an open fireplace, where a kettle hung above a smouldering fire. in a corner sat an old man playing on a fiddle, and near him the creole woman stood singing; there were some tables round the room, and behind them benches on which a dozen men were sitting. there was no young man among them, and most had long passed the meridian of life. their faces were sun-tanned and mahogany-coloured; some wore earrings in their ears, and strange curls of grey hair at the side of their heads. they looked as if they might have been sitting there for years--as if they might be the crew of some long-foundered vessel to whom has been accorded a nirvana of endless tavern-fellowship. none of them took any notice of mr sharnall, for music was exercising its transporting power, and their thoughts were far away. some were with old cullerne whalers, with the harpoon and the ice-floe; some dreamt of square-stemmed timber-brigs, of the baltic and the white memel-logs, of wild nights at sea and wilder nights ashore; and some, remembering violet skies and moonlight through the mango-groves, looked on the creole woman, and tried to recall in her faded features, sweet, swart faces that had kindled youthful fires a generation since. "then the grog, boys--the grog, boys, bring hither," sang the creole. "fill it up true to the brim. may the mem'ry of nelson ne'er wither nor the star of his glory grow dim." there were rummers standing on the tables, and now and then a drinking-brother would break the sugar-knobs in his liquor with a glass stirrer, or take a deep draught of the brown jorum that steamed before him. no one spoke to mr sharnall; only the landlord, without asking what he would take, set before him a glass filled with the same hot spirit as the other guests were drinking. the organist accepted his fate with less reluctance than he ought perhaps to have displayed, and a few minutes later was drinking and smoking with the rest. he found the liquor to his liking, and soon experienced the restoring influences of the warm room and of the spirit. he hung his coat up on a peg, and in its dripping condition, and in the wet which had penetrated to his skin, found ample justification for accepting without demur a second bumper with which the landlord replaced his empty glass. rummer followed rummer, and still the creole woman sang at intervals, and still the company smoked and drank. mr sharnall drank too, but by-and-by saw things less clearly, as the room grew hotter and more clouded with tobacco-smoke. then he found the creole woman standing before him, and holding out a shell for contributions. he had in his pocket only one single coin--a half-crown that was meant to be a fortnight's pocket-money; but he was excited, and had no hesitation. "there," he said, with an air of one who gives a kingdom--"there, take that: you deserve it; but sing me a song that i heard you sing once before, something about the rolling sea." she nodded that she understood, and after the collection was finished, gave the money to the blind man, and bade him play for her. it was a long ballad, with many verses and a refrain of: "oh, take me back to those i love, or bring them here to me; i have no heart to rove, to rove across the rolling sea." at the end she came back, and sat down on the bench by mr sharnall. "will you not give me something to drink?" she said, speaking in very good english. "you all drink; why should not i?" he beckoned to the landlord to bring her a glass, and she drank of it, pledging the organist. "you sing well," he said, "and with a little training should sing very well indeed. how do you come to be here? you ought to do better than this; if i were you, i would not sing in such company." she looked at him angrily. "how do _i_ come to be here? how do _you_ come to be here? if i had a little training, i should sing better, and if i had your training, mr sharnall"--and she brought out his name with a sneering emphasis--"i should not be here at all, drinking myself silly in a place like this." she got up, and went back to the old fiddler, but her words had a sobering influence on the organist, and cut him to the quick. so all his good resolutions had vanished. his promise to the bishop was broken; the bishop would be back again on monday, and find him as bad as ever--would find him worse; for the devil had returned, and was making riot in the garnished house. he turned to pay his reckoning, but his half-crown had gone to the creole; he had no money, he was forced to explain to the landlord, to humiliate himself, to tell his name and address. the man grumbled and made demur. gentlemen who drank in good company, he said, should be prepared to pay their shot like gentlemen. mr sharnall had drunk enough to make it a serious thing for a poor man not to get paid. mr sharnall's story might be true, but it was a funny thing for an organist to come and drink at the merrymouth, and have no money in his pocket. it had stopped raining; he could leave his overcoat as a pledge of good faith, and come back and fetch it later. so mr sharnall was constrained to leave this part of his equipment, and was severed from a well-worn overcoat, which had been the companion of years. he smiled sadly to himself as he turned at the open door, and saw his coat still hang dripping on the peg. if it were put up to auction, would it ever fetch enough to pay for what he had drunk? it was true that it had stopped raining, and though the sky was still overcast, there was a lightness diffused behind the clouds that spoke of a rising moon. what should he do? whither should he turn? he could not go back to the hand of god; there were some there who did not want him--whom he did not want. westray would not be home, or, if he were, westray would know that he had been drinking; he could not bear that they should see that he had been drinking again. and then there came into his mind another thought: he would go to the church, the water-engine should blow for him, and he would play himself sober. stay, _should_ he go to the church--the great church of saint sepulchre alone? would he be alone there? if he thought that he would be alone, he would feel more secure; but might there not be someone else there, or something else? he gave a little shiver, but the drink was in his veins; he laughed pot-valiantly, and turned up an alley towards the centre tower, that loomed dark in the wet, misty whiteness of the cloud screened moon. chapter fourteen. westray returned to cullerne by the evening train. it was near ten o'clock, and he was finishing his supper, when someone tapped at the door, and miss euphemia joliffe came in. "i beg your pardon for interrupting you, sir," she said; "i am a little anxious about mr sharnall. he was not in at teatime, and has not come back since. i thought you might know perhaps where he was. it is years since he has been out so late in the evening." "i haven't the least idea where he is," westray said rather testily, for he was tired with a long day's work. "i suppose he has gone out somewhere to supper." "no one ever asks mr sharnall out. i do not think he can be gone out to supper." "oh, well, i dare say he will turn up in due course; let me hear before you go to bed if he has come back;" and he poured himself out another cup of tea, for he was one of those thin-blooded and old-womanly men who elevate the drinking of tea instead of other liquids into a special merit. "he could not understand," he said, "why everybody did not drink tea. it was so much more refreshing--one could work so much better after drinking tea." he turned to some calculations for the section of a tie-rod, with which sir george farquhar had at last consented to strengthen the south side of the tower, and did not notice how time passed till there came another irritating tap, and his landlady reappeared. "it is nearly twelve o'clock," she said, "and we have seen nothing of mr sharnall. i am so alarmed! i am sure i am very sorry to trouble you, mr westray, but my niece and i are so alarmed." "i don't quite see what i am to do," westray said, looking up. "could he have gone out with lord blandamer? do you think lord blandamer could have asked him to fording?" "lord blandamer was here this afternoon," miss joliffe answered, "but he never saw mr sharnall, because mr sharnall was not at home." "oh, lord blandamer was here, was he?" asked westray. "did he leave no message for me?" "he asked if you were in, but he left no message for you. he drank a cup of tea with us. i think he came in merely as a friendly visitor," miss joliffe said with some dignity. "i think he came in to drink a cup of tea with me. i was unfortunately at the dorcas meeting when he first arrived, but on my return he drank tea with me." "it is curious; he seems generally to come on saturday afternoons," said westray. "are you _always_ at the dorcas meeting on saturday afternoons?" "yes," miss joliffe said, "i am always at the meeting on saturday afternoons." there was a minute's pause--westray and miss joliffe were both thinking. "well, well," westray said, "i shall be working for some time yet, and will _let_ mr sharnall in if he comes; but i suspect that he has been invited to spend the night at fording. anyhow, you can go to bed with a clear conscience, miss joliffe; you have waited up far beyond your usual time." so miss euphemia went to bed, and left westray alone; and a few minutes later the four quarter-chimes rang, and the tenor struck twelve, and then the bells fell to playing a tune, as they did every three hours day and night. those who dwell near saint sepulchre's take no note of the bells. the ear grows so accustomed to them, that quarter by quarter and hour by hour strike unperceived. if strangers come to stop under the shadow of the church the clangour disturbs their sleep for the first night, and after that they, too, hear nothing. so westray would sit working late night by night, and could not say whether the bells had rung or not. it was only when attention was too wide awake that he heard them, but he heard them this night, and listened while they played the sober melody of "mount ephraim." [see appendix at end for tune.] he got up, flung his window open, and looked out. the storm had passed; the moon, which was within a few hours of the full, rode serenely in the blue heaven with a long bank of dappled white cloud below, whose edge shone with an amber iridescence. he looked over the clustered roofs and chimneys of the town; the upward glow from the market-place showed that the lamps were still burning, though he could not see them. then, as the glow lessened gradually and finally became extinct, he knew that the lights were being put out because midnight was past. the moonlight glittered on the roofs, which were still wet, and above all towered in gigantic sable mass the centre tower of saint sepulchre's. westray felt a curious physical tension. he was excited, he could not tell why; he knew that sleep would be impossible if he were to go to bed. it _was_ an odd thing that sharnall had not come home; sharnall _must_ have gone to fording. he had spoken vaguely of an invitation to fording that he had received; but if he had gone there he must have taken some things with him for the night, and he had not taken anything, or miss euphemia would have said so. stay, he would go down to sharnall's room and see if he could find any trace of his taking luggage; perhaps he had left some message to explain his absence. he lit a candle and went down, down the great well-staircase where the stone steps echoed under his feet. a patch of bright moonshine fell on the stairs from the skylight at the top, and a noise of someone moving in the attics told him that miss joliffe was not yet asleep. there was nothing in the organist's room to give any explanation of his absence. the light of the candle was reflected on the front of the piano, and westray shuddered involuntarily as he remembered the conversation which he had a few weeks before with this friend, and mr sharnall's strange hallucinations as to the man that walked behind him with a hammer. he looked into the bedroom with a momentary apprehension that his friend might have been seized with illness, and be lying all this time unconscious; but there was no one there--the bed was undisturbed. so he went back to his own room upstairs, but the night had turned so chill that he could no longer bear the open window. he stood with his hand upon the sash looking out for a moment before he pulled it down, and noticed how the centre tower dominated and prevailed over all the town. it was impossible, surely, that this rock-like mass could be insecure; how puny and insufficient to uphold such a tottering giant seemed the tie-rods whose section he was working out. and then he thought of the crack above the south transept arch that he had seen from the organ-loft, and remembered how "sharnall in d flat" had been interrupted by the discovery. why, mr sharnall might be in the church; perhaps he had gone down to practise and been shut in. perhaps his key had broken, and he could not get out; he wondered that he had not thought of the church before. in a minute he had made up his mind to go to the minster. as resident architect he possessed a master key which opened all the doors; he would walk round, and see if he could find anything of the missing organist before going to bed. he strode quickly through the deserted streets. the lamps were all put out, for cullerne economised gas at times of full moon. there was nothing moving, his footsteps rang on the pavement, and echoed from wall to wall. he took the short-cut by the wharves, and in a few minutes came to the old bonding-house. the shadows hung like black velvet in the spaces between the brick buttresses that shored up the wall towards the quay. he smiled to himself as he thought of the organist's nervousness, of those strange fancies as to someone lurking in the black hiding-holes, and as to buildings being in some way connected with man's fate. yet he knew that his smile was assumed, for he felt all the while the oppression of the loneliness, of the sadness of a half-ruined building, of the gurgling mutter of the river, and instinctively quickened his pace. he was glad when he had passed the spot, and again that night, as he looked back, he saw the strange effect of light and darkness which produced the impression of someone standing in the shadow of the last buttress space. the illusion was so perfect that he thought he could make out the figure of a man, in a long loose cape that napped in the wind. he had passed the wrought-iron gates now--he was in the churchyard, and it was then that he first became aware of a soft, low, droning, sound which seemed to fill the air all about him. he stopped for a moment to listen; what was it? where was the noise? it grew more distinct as he passed along the flagged stone path which led to the north door. yes, it certainly came from inside the church. what could it be? what could anyone be doing in the church at this hour of night? he was in the north porch now, and then he knew what it was. it was a low note of the organ--a pedal-note; he was almost sure it was that very pedal-point which the organist had explained to him with such pride. the sound reassured him nothing had happened to mr sharnall--he was practising in the church; it was only some mad freak of his to be playing so late; he was practising that service "sharnall in d flat." he took out his key to unlock the wicket, and was surprised to find it already open, because he knew that it was the organist's habit to lock himself in. he passed into the great church. it was strange, there was no sound of music; there was no one playing; there was only the intolerably monotonous booming of a single pedal-note, with an occasional muffled thud when the water-engine turned spasmodically to replenish the emptying bellows. "sharnall!" he shouted--"sharnall, what are you doing? don't you know how late it is?" he paused, and thought at first that someone was answering him--he thought that he heard people muttering in the choir; but it was only the echo of his own voice, his own voice tossed from pillar to pillar and arch to arch, till it faded into a wail of "sharnall, sharnall!" in the lantern. it was the first time that he had been in the church at night, and he stood for a moment overcome with the mystery of the place, while he gazed at the columns of the nave standing white in the moonlight like a row of vast shrouded figures. he called again to mr sharnall, and again received no answer, and then he made his way up the nave to the little doorway that leads to the organ-loft stairs. this door also was open, and he felt sure now that mr sharnall was not in the organ-loft at all, for had he been he would certainly have locked himself in. the pedal-note must be merely ciphering, or something, perhaps a book, might have fallen upon it, and was holding it down. he need not go up to the loft now; he would not go up. the throbbing of the low note had on him the same unpleasant effect as on a previous occasion. he tried to reassure himself, yet felt all the while a growing premonition that something might be wrong, something might be terribly wrong. the lateness of the hour, the isolation from all things living, the spectral moonlight which made the darkness darker--this combination of utter silence, with the distressing vibration of the pedal-note, filled him with something akin to panic. it seemed to him as if the place was full of phantoms, as if the monks of saint sepulchre's were risen from under their gravestones, as if there were other dire faces among them such as wait continually on deeds of evil. he checked his alarm before it mastered him. come what might, he would go up to the organ-loft, and he plunged into the staircase that leads up out of the nave. it is a circular stair, twisted round a central pillar, of which mention has already been made, and though short, is very dark even in bright daylight. but at night the blackness is inky and impenetrable, and westray fumbled for an appreciable time before he had climbed sufficiently far up to perceive the glimmer of moonlight at the top. he stepped out at last into the loft, and saw that the organ seat was empty. the great window at the end of the south transept shone full in front of him; it seemed as if it must be day and not night--the light from the window was so strong in comparison with the darkness which he had left. there was a subdued shimmer in the tracery where the stained glass gleamed diaphanous--amethyst and topaz, chrysoprase and jasper, a dozen jewels as in the foundations of the city of god. and in the midst, in the head of the centre light, shone out brighter than all, with an inherent radiance of its own, the cognisance of the blandamers, the sea-green and silver of the nebuly coat. westray gave a step forward into the loft, and then his foot struck against something, and he nearly fell. it was something soft and yielding that he had struck, something of which the mere touch filled him with horrible surmise. he bent down to see what it was, and a white object met his eyes. it was the white face of a man turned up towards the vaulting; he had stumbled over the body of mr sharnall, who lay on the floor with the back of his head on the pedal-note. westray had bent low down, and he looked full in the eyes of the organist, but they were fixed and glazing. the moonlight that shone on the dead face seemed to fall on it through that brighter spot in the head of the middle light; it was as if the nebuly coat had blighted the very life out of the man who lay so still upon the floor. chapter fifteen. no evidence of any importance was given at the inquest except westray's and the doctor's, and no other evidence was, in fact, required. dr ennefer had made an autopsy, and found that the immediate cause of death was a blow on the back of the head. but the organs showed traces of alcoholic habit, and the heart was distinctly diseased. it was probable that mr sharnall had been seized with a fainting fit as he left the organ-stool, and had fallen backwards with his head on the pedal-board. he must have fallen with much violence, and the pedal-note had made a bad wound, such as would be produced by a blunt instrument. the inquest was nearly finished when, without any warning, westray found himself, as by intuition, asking: "the wound was such a one, you mean, as might have been produced by the blow of a hammer?" the doctor seemed surprised, the jury and the little audience stared, but most surprised of all was westray at his own question. "you have no _locus standi_, sir," the coroner said severely; "such an interrogation is irregular. you are to esteem it an act of grace if i allow the medical man to reply." "yes," said dr ennefer, with a reserve in his voice that implied that he was not there to answer every irrelevant question that it might please foolish people to put to him--"yes, such a wound as might have been caused by a hammer, or by any other blunt instrument used with violence." "even by a heavy stick?" westray suggested. the doctor maintained a dignified silence, and the coroner struck in: "i must say i think you are wasting our time, mr westray. i am the last person to stifle legitimate inquiry, but no inquiry is really needed here; it is quite certain that this poor man came to his end by falling heavily, and dashing his head against this wooden note in the pedals." "_is_ it quite certain?" westray asked. "is dr ennefer quite sure that the wound _could_ have been caused by a mere fall; i only want to know that dr ennefer is quite sure." the coroner looked at the doctor with a deprecating glance, which implied apologies that so much unnecessary trouble should be given, and a hope that he would be graciously pleased to put an end to it by an authoritative statement. "oh, i am quite sure," the doctor responded. "yes"--and he hesitated for the fraction of a second--"oh yes, there is no doubt such a wound could be caused by a fall." "i merely wish to point out," said westray, "that the pedal-note on which he fell is to a certain extent a yielding substance; it would yield, you must remember, at the first impact." "that is quite true," the doctor said; "i had taken that into account, and admit that one would scarcely expect so serious an injury to have been caused. but, of course, it _was_ so caused, because there is no other explanation; you don't suggest, i presume, that there was any foul play. it is certainly a case of accident or foul play." "oh no, i don't suggest anything." the coroner raised his eyebrows; he was tired, and could not understand such waste of time. but the doctor, curiously enough, seemed to have grown more tolerant of interruption. "i have examined the injury very carefully," he said, "and have come to the deliberate conclusion that it must have been caused by the wooden key. we must also recollect that the effect of any blow would be intensified by a weak state of health. i don't wish to rake up anything against the poor fellow's memory, or to say any word that may cause you pain, mr westray, as his friend; but an examination of the body revealed traces of chronic alcoholism. we must recollect that." "the man was, in fact, a confirmed drunkard," the coroner said. he lived at carisbury, and, being a stranger both to cullerne and its inhabitants, had no scruple in speaking plainly; and, besides this, he was nettled at the architect's interference. "you mean the man was a confirmed drunkard," he repeated. "he was nothing of the kind," westray said hotly. "i do not say that he never took more than was good for him, but he was in no sense an habitual drunkard." "i did not ask _your_ opinion," retorted the coroner; "we do not want any lay conjectures. what do you say, mr ennefer?" the surgeon was vexed in his turn at not receiving the conventional title of doctor, the more so because he knew that he had no legal right to it. to be called "mr" demeaned him, he considered, in the eyes of present or prospective patients, and he passed at once into an attitude of opposition. "oh no, you quite mistake me, mr coroner. i did not mean that our poor friend was an habitual drunkard. i never remember to have actually seen him the worse for liquor." "well, what do you mean? you say the body shows traces of alcoholism, but that he was not a drunkard." "have we any evidence as to mr sharnall's state on the evening of his death?" a juror asked, with a pleasant consciousness that he was taking a dispassionate view, and making a point of importance. "yes, we have considerable evidence," said the coroner. "call charles white." there stepped forward a little man with a red face and blinking eyes. his name was charles white; he was landlord of the merrymouth inn. the deceased visited his inn on the evening in question. he did not know deceased by sight, but found out afterwards who he was. it was a bad night, deceased was very wet, and took something to drink; he drank a fairish amount, but not _that_ much, not more than a gentleman should drink. deceased was not drunk when he went away. "he was drunk enough to leave his top-coat behind him, was he not?" the coroner asked. "did you not find this coat after he was gone?" and he pointed to a poor masterless garment, that looked greener and more outworn than ever as it hung over the back of a chair. "yes, deceased had certainly left his coat behind him, but he was not drunk." "there are different standards of drunkenness, gentlemen," said the coroner, imitating as well as he might the facetious cogency of a real judge, "and i imagine that the standard of the merrymouth may be more advanced than in some other places. i don't think"--and he looked sarcastically at westray--"i do _not_ think we need carry this inquiry farther. we have a man who drinks, not an habitual drunkard, mr ennefer says, but one who drinks enough to bring himself into a thoroughly diseased state. this man sits fuddling in a low public-house all the evening, and is so far overtaken by liquor when he goes away, that he leaves his overcoat behind him. he actually leaves his coat behind him, though we have it that it was a pouring wet night. he goes to the organ-loft in a tipsy state, slips as he is getting on to his stool, falls heavily with the back of his head on a piece of wood, and is found dead some hours later by an unimpeachable and careful witness"--and he gave a little sniff--"with his head still on this piece of wood. take note of that--when he was found his head was still on this very pedal which had caused the fatal injury. gentlemen, i do not think we need any further evidence; i think your course is pretty clear." all was, indeed, very clear. the jury with a unanimous verdict of accidental death put the colophon to the sad history of mr sharnall, and ruled that the same failing which had blighted his life, had brought him at last to a drunkard's end. westray walked back to the hand of god with the forlorn old top-coat over his arm. the coroner had formally handed it over to him. he was evidently a close friend of the deceased, he would perhaps take charge of his wearing apparel. the architect's thoughts were too preoccupied to allow him to resent the sneer which accompanied these remarks; he went off full of sorrow and gloomy forebodings. death in so strange a shape formed a topic of tavern discussion in cullerne, second only to a murder itself. not since mr leveritt, the timber-merchant, shot a barmaid at the blandamer arms, a generation since, had any such dramatic action taken place on cullerne boards. the loafers swore over it in all its bearings as they spat upon the pavement at the corner of the market square. mr smiles, the shop-walker in rose and storey's general drapery mart, discussed it genteelly with the ladies who sat before the counter on the high wicker-seated chairs. dr ennefer was betrayed into ill-advised conversation while being shaved, and got his chin cut. mr joliffe gave away a packet of moral reflections gratis with every pound of sausage, and turned up the whites of his eyes over the sin of intemperance, which had called away his poor friend in so terrible a state of unpreparedness. quite a crowd followed the coffin to its last resting-place, and the church was unusually full on the sunday morning which followed the catastrophe. people expected a "pulpit reference" from canon parkyn, and there were the additional, though subordinate, attractions of the playing of the dead march, and the possibility of an amateur organist breaking down in the anthem. church-going, which sprung from such unworthy motives, was very properly disappointed. canon parkyn would not, he said, pander to sensationalism by any allusion in his discourse, nor could the dead march, he conceived, be played with propriety under such very unpleasant circumstances. the new organist got through the service with provokingly colourless mediocrity, and the congregation came out of saint sepulchre's in a disappointed mood, as people who had been defrauded of their rights. then the nine days' wonder ceased, and mr sharnall passed into the great oblivion of middle-class dead. his successor was not immediately appointed. canon parkyn arranged that the second master at the national school, who had a pretty notion of music, and was a pupil of mr sharnall, should be spared to fill the gap. as queen elizabeth, of pious memory, recruited the privy purse by keeping in her own hand vacant bishoprics, so the rector farmed the post of organist at cullerne minster. he thus managed to effect so important a reduction in the sordid emoluments of that office, that he was five pounds in pocket before a year was ended. but if the public had forgotten mr sharnall, westray had not. the architect was a man of gregarious instinct. as there is a tradition and bonding of common interest about the universities, and in a less degree about army, navy, public schools, and professions, which draws together and marks with its impress those who are attached to them, so there is a certain cabala and membership among lodgers which none can understand except those who are free of that guild. the lodging-house life, call it squalid, mean, dreary if you will, is not without its alleviations and counterpoises. it is a life of youth for the most part, for lodgers of mr sharnall's age are comparatively rare; it is a life of simple needs and simple tastes, for lodgings are not artistic, nor favourable to the development of any undue refinement; it is not a rich life, for men as a rule set up their own houses as soon as they are able to do so; it is a life of work and buoyant anticipation, where men are equipping for the struggle, and laying the foundations of fortune, or digging the pit of indigence. such conditions beget and foster good fellowship, and those who have spent time in lodgings can look back to whole-hearted and disinterested friendships, when all were equal before high heaven, hail-fellows well met, who knew no artificial distinctions of rank--when all were travelling the first stage of life's journey in happy chorus together, and had not reached that point where the high road bifurcates, and the diverging branches of success and failure lead old comrades so very far apart. ah, what a camaraderie and fellowship, knit close by the urgency of making both ends meet, strengthened by the necessity of withstanding rapacious, or negligent, or tyrannous landladies, sweetened by kindnesses and courtesies which cost the giver little, but mean much to the receiver! did sickness of a transitory sort (for grievous illness is little known in lodgings) fall on the ground-floor tenant, then did not the first-floor come down to comfort him in the evenings? first-floor might be tired after a long day's work, and note when his frugal meal was done that 'twas a fine evening, or that a good company was billed for the local theatre; yet he would grudge not his leisure, but go down to sit with ground-floor, and tell him the news of the day, perhaps even would take him a few oranges or a tin of sardines. and ground-floor, who had chafed all the day at being shut in, and had read himself stupid for want of anything else to do, how glad he was to see first-floor, and how the chat did him more good than all the doctor's stuff! and later on, when some ladies came to lunch with first-floor on the day of the flower-show, did not ground-floor go out and place his sitting-room completely at his fellow-lodger's disposal, so that the company might find greater convenience and change of air after meat? they were fearful joys, these feminine visits, when ladies who were kind enough to ask a young man to spend a sunday with them, still further added to their kindness, by accepting with all possible effusion the invitation which he one day ventured to give. it was a fearful joy, and cost the host more anxious preparation than a state funeral brings to earl-marshal. as brave a face as might be must be put on everything; so many details were to be thought out, so many little insufficiencies were to be masked. but did not the result recompense all? was not the young man conscious that, though his rooms might be small, there was about them a delicate touch which made up for much, that everything breathed of refinement from the photographs and silver toddy-spoon upon the mantelpiece to rossetti's poems and "marius the epicurean," which covered negligently a stain on the green tablecloth? and these kindly ladies came in riant mood, well knowing all his little anxieties and preparations, yet showing they knew none of them; resolved to praise his rooms, his puny treasures, even his cookery and perilous wine, and skilful to turn little contretemps into interesting novelties. householders, yours is a noble lot, ye are the men, and wisdom shall die with you. yet pity not too profoundly him that inhabiteth lodgings, lest he turn and rend you, pitying you in turn that have bound on your shoulders heavy burdens of which he knows nothing; saying to you that seed time is more profitable than harvest, and the wandering years than the practice of the master. refrain from too much pity, and believe that loneliness is not always lonely. westray was of a gregarious temperament, and missed his fellow-lodger. the cranky little man, with all his soured outlook, must still have had some power of evoking sympathy, some attractive element in his composition. he concealed it under sharp words and moody bitterness, but it must still have been there, for westray felt his loss more than he had thought possible. the organist and he had met twice and thrice a day for a year past. they had discussed the minster that both loved so well, within whose walls both were occupied; they had discussed the nebuly coat, and the blandamers, and miss euphemia. there was only one subject which they did not discuss--namely, miss anastasia joliffe, though she was very often in the thoughts of both. it was all over now, yet every day westray found himself making a mental note to tell this to mr sharnall, to ask mr sharnall's advice on that, and then remembering that there is no knowledge in the grave. the gaunt hand of god was ten times gaunter now that there was no lodger on the ground-floor. footfalls sounded more hollow at night on the stone steps of the staircase, and miss joliffe and anastasia went early to bed. "let us go upstairs, my dear," miss euphemia would say when the chimes sounded a quarter to ten. "these long evenings are so lonely, are they not? and be sure you see that the windows are properly hasped." and then they hurried through the hall, and went up the staircase together side by side, as if they were afraid to be separated by a single step. even westray knew something of the same feeling when he returned late at night to the cavernous great house. he tried to put his hand as quickly as he might upon the matchbox, which lay ready for him on the marble-topped sideboard in the dark hall; and sometimes when he had lit the candle would instinctively glance at the door of mr sharnall's room, half expecting to see it open, and the old face look out that had so often greeted him on such occasions. miss joliffe had made no attempt to find a new lodger. no "apartments to let" was put in the window, and such chattels as mr sharnall possessed remained exactly as he left them. only one thing was moved--the collection of martin joliffe's papers, and these westray had taken upstairs to his own room. when they opened the dead man's bureau with the keys found in his pocket to see whether he had left any will or instructions, there was discovered in one of the drawers a note addressed to westray. it was dated a fortnight before his death, and was very short: "_if i go away and am not heard of, or if anything happens to me, get hold of martin joliffe's papers at once. take them up to your own room, lock them up, and don't let them out of your hands. tell miss joliffe it is my wish, and she will hand them over to you. be very careful there isn't a fire, or lest they should be destroyed in any other way. read them carefully, and draw your own conclusions; you will find some notes of mine in the little red pocket-book_." the architect had read these words many times. they were no doubt the outcome of the delusions of which mr sharnall had more than once spoken--of that dread of some enemy pursuing him, which had darkened the organist's latter days. yet to read these things set out in black and white, after what had happened, might well give rise to curious thoughts. the coincidence was so strange, so terribly strange. a man following with a hammer--that had been the organist's hallucination; the vision of an assailant creeping up behind, and doing him to death with an awful, stealthy blow. and the reality--an end sudden and unexpected, a blow on the back of the head, which had been caused by a heavy fall. was it mere coincidence, was it some inexplicable presentiment, or was it more than either? had there, in fact, existed a reason why the organist should think that someone had a grudge against him, that he was likely to be attacked? had some dreadful scene been really enacted in the loneliness of the great church that night? had the organist been taken unawares, or heard some movement in the silence, and, turning round, found himself alone with his murderer? and if a murderer, whose was the face into which the victim looked? and as westray thought he shuddered; it seemed it might have been no human face at all, but some fearful presence, some visible presentment of the evil that walketh in darkness. then the architect would brush such follies away like cobwebs, and, turning back, consider who could have found his interest in such a deed. against whom did the dead man urge him to be on guard lest martin's papers should be spirited away? was there some other claimant of that ill-omened peerage of whom he knew nothing, or was it--and westray resolutely quenched the thought that had risen a hundred times before his mind, and cast it aside as a malign and baseless suspicion. if there was any clue it must lie in those same papers, and he followed the instruction given him, and took them to his own room. he did not show miss joliffe the note; to do so could only have shaken her further, and she had felt the shock too severely already. he only told her of mr sharnall's wishes for the temporary disposal of her brother's papers. she begged him not to take them. "dear mr westray," she said, "do not touch them, do not let us have anything to do with them. i wanted poor dear mr sharnall not to go meddling with them, and now see what has happened. perhaps it is a judgment"--and she uttered the word under her breath, having a medieval faith in the vengeful irritability of providence, and seeing manifestations of it in any untoward event, from the overturning of an inkstand to the death of a lodger. "perhaps it is a judgment, and he might have been alive now if he had refrained. what good would it do us if all dear martin hoped should turn out true? he always said, poor fellow, that he would be `my lord' some day; but now he is gone there is no one except anastasia, and she would never wish to be `my lady,' i am sure, poor girl. you would not, darling, wish to be `my lady' even if you could, would you?" anastasia looked up from her book with a deprecating smile, which lost itself in an air of vexation, when she found that the architect's eyes were fixed steadfastly upon her, and that a responsive smile spread over his face. she flushed very slightly, and turned back abruptly to her book, feeling quite unjustifiably annoyed at the interest in her doings which the young man's gaze was meant to imply. what right had he to express concern, even with a look, in matters which affected _her_? she almost wished she _was_ indeed a peeress, and could slay him with her noble birth, as did one lady clara of old times. it was only lately that she had become conscious of this interested, would-be interesting, look, which westray assumed in her presence. was it possible that _he_ was falling in love with her? and at the thought there rose before her fancy the features of someone else, haughty, hard, perhaps malign, but oh, so powerful, and quite eclipsed and blotted out the lifeless amiability of this young man who hung upon her lips. could mr westray be thinking of falling in love with her? it was impossible, and yet this following her with his eyes, and the mellific manner which he adopted when speaking to her, insisted on its possibility. she ran over hastily in her mind, as she had done several times of late, the course of their relations. was she to blame? could anything that she had ever done be wrested into predilection or even into appreciation? could natural kindness or courtesy have been so utterly misunderstood? she was victoriously acquitted by this commission of mental inquiry, and left the court without a stain upon her character. she certainly had never given him the very least encouragement. at the risk of rudeness she _must_ check these attentions in their beginning. short of actual discourtesy, she must show him that this warm interest in her doings, these sympathetic glances, were exceedingly distasteful. she never would look near him again, she would keep her eyes rigorously cast down whenever he was present, and as she made this prudent resolution she quite unintentionally looked up, and found his patient gaze again fixed upon her. "oh, you are too severe, miss joliffe," the architect said; "we should all be delighted to see a title come to miss anastasia, and," he added softly, "i am sure no one would become it better." he longed to drop the formal prefix of miss, and to speak of her simply as anastasia. a few months before he would have done so naturally and without reflection, but there was something in the girl's manner which led him more recently to forego this pleasure. then the potential peeress got up and left the room. "i am just going to look after the bread," she said; "i think it ought to be baked by this time." miss joliffe's scruples were at last overborne, and westray retained the papers, partly because it was represented to her that if he did not examine them it would be a flagrant neglect of the wishes of a dead man--wishes that are held sacred above all others in the circles to which miss joliffe belonged--and partly because possession is nine points of the law, and the architect already had them safe under lock and key in his own room. but he was not able to devote any immediate attention to them, for a crisis in his life was approaching, which tended for the present to engross his thoughts. he had entertained for some time an attachment to anastasia joliffe. when he originally became aware of this feeling he battled vigorously against it, and his efforts were at first attended with some success. he was profoundly conscious that any connection with the joliffes would be derogatory to his dignity; he feared that the discrepancy between their relative positions was sufficiently marked to attract attention, if not to provoke hostile criticism. people would certainly say that an architect was marrying strangely below him, in choosing a landlady's niece. if he were to do such a thing, he would no doubt be throwing himself away socially. his father, who was dead, had been a wesleyan pastor; and his mother, who survived, entertained so great a respect for the high position of that ministry that she had impressed upon westray from boyhood the privileges and responsibilities of his birth. but apart from this objection, there was the further drawback that an early marriage might unduly burden him with domestic cares, and so arrest his professional progress. such considerations had due weight with an equally-balanced mind, and westray was soon able to congratulate himself on having effectually extinguished any dangerous inclinations by sheer strength of reason. this happy and philosophic state of things was not of long duration. his admiration smouldered only, and was not quenched, but it was a totally extraneous influence, rather than the constant contemplation of anastasia's beauty and excellencies, which fanned the flame into renewed activity. this extraneous factor was the entrance of lord blandamer into the little circle of bellevue lodge. westray had lately become doubtful as to the real object of lord blandamer's visits, and nursed a latent idea that he was using the church, and the restoration, and westray himself, to gain a _pied-a-terre_ at bellevue lodge for the prosecution of other plans. the long conversations in which the architect and the munificent donor still indulged, the examination of plans, the discussion of details, had lost something of their old savour. westray had done his best to convince himself that his own suspicions were groundless; he had continually pointed out to himself, and insisted to himself, that the mere fact of lord blandamer contributing such sums to the restoration as he either had contributed, or had promised to contribute, showed that the church was indeed his primary concern. it was impossible to conceive that any man, however wealthy, should spend many thousand pounds to obtain an entree to bellevue lodge; moreover, it was impossible to conceive that lord blandamer should ever marry anastasia--the disparity in such a match would, westray admitted, be still greater than in his own. yet he was convinced that anastasia was often in lord blandamer's thoughts. it was true that the master of fording gave no definite outward sign of any predilection when westray was present. he never singled anastasia out either for regard or conversation on such occasions as chance brought her into his company. at times he even made a show of turning away from her, of studiously neglecting her presence. but westray felt that the fact was there. there is some subtle effluence of love which hovers about one who entertains a strong affection for another. looks may be carefully guarded, speech may be framed to mislead, yet that pervading ambient of affection is strong to betray where perception is sharpened by jealousy. now and then the architect would persuade himself that he was mistaken; he would reproach himself with his own suspicious disposition, with his own lack of generosity. but then some little episode would occur, some wholly undemonstrable trifle, which swept his cooler judgment to the winds, and gave him a quite incommensurate heartburn. he would recall, for instance, the fact that for their interviews lord blandamer had commonly selected a saturday afternoon. lord blandamer had explained this by saying that he was busy through the week; but then a lord was not like a schoolboy with a saturday half-holiday. what business could he have to occupy him all the week, and leave him free on saturdays? it was strange enough, and stranger from the fact that miss euphemia joliffe was invariably occupied on that particular afternoon at the dorcas meeting; stranger from the fact that there had been some unaccountable misunderstandings between lord blandamer and westray as to the exact hour fixed for their interviews, and that more than once when the architect had returned at five, he had found that lord blandamer had taken four as the time of their meeting, and had been already waiting an hour at bellevue lodge. poor mr sharnall also must have noticed that something was going on, for he had hinted as much to westray a fortnight or so before he died. westray was uncertain as to lord blandamer's feelings; he gave the architect the idea of a man who had some definite object to pursue in making himself interesting to anastasia, while his own affections were not compromised. that object could certainly not be marriage, and if it was not marriage, what was it? in ordinary cases an answer might have been easy, yet westray hesitated to give it. it was hard to think that this grave man, of great wealth and great position, who had roamed the world, and known men and manners, should stoop to common lures. yet westray came to think it, and his own feelings towards anastasia were elevated by the resolve to be her knightly champion against all base attempts. can man's deepest love be deepened? then it must surely be by the knowledge that he is protector as well as lover, by the knowledge that he is rescuing innocence, and rescuing it for--himself. thoughts such as these bring exaltation to the humblest-minded, and they quickened the slow-flowing and thin fluid that filled the architect's veins. he came back one evening from the church weary with a long day's work, and was sitting by the fire immersed in a medley of sleepy and half-conscious consideration, now of the crack in the centre tower, now of the tragedy of the organ-loft, now of anastasia, when the elder miss joliffe entered. "dear me, sir," she said, "i did not know you were in! i only came to see your fire was burning. are you ready for your tea? would you like anything special to-night? you do look so very tired. i am sure you are working too hard; all the running about on ladders and scaffolds must be very trying. i think indeed, sir, if i may make so bold, that you should take a holiday; you have not had a holiday since you came to live with us." "it is not impossible, miss joliffe, that i may take your advice before very long. it is not impossible that i may before long go for a holiday." he spoke with that preternatural gravity which people are accustomed to throw into their reply, if asked a trivial question when their own thoughts are secretly occupied with some matter that they consider of deep importance. how could this commonplace woman guess that he was thinking of death and love? he must be gentle with her and forgive her interruption. yes, fate might, indeed, drive him to take a holiday. he had nearly made up his mind to propose to anastasia. it was scarcely to be doubted that she would at once accept him, but there must be no half-measures, he would brook no shilly-shallying, he would not be played fast and loose with. she must either accept him fully and freely, and at once, or he would withdraw his offer, and in that case, or still more in the entirely improbable case of refusal, he would leave bellevue lodge forthwith. "yes, indeed, i may ere long have to go away for a holiday." the conscious forbearance of replying at all gave a quiet dignity to his tone, and an involuntary sigh that accompanied his words was not lost upon miss joliffe. to her this speech seemed oracular and ominous; there was a sepulchral mystery in so vague an expression. he might _have_ to take a holiday. what could this mean? was this poor young man completely broken by the loss of his friend mr sharnall, or was he conscious of the seeds of some fell disease that others knew nothing of? he might _have to_ take a holiday. ah, it was not a mere holiday of which he spoke--he meant something more serious than that; his grave, sad manner could only mean some long absence. perhaps he was going to leave cullerne. to lose him would be a very serious matter to miss joliffe from the material point of view; he was her sheet-anchor, the last anchor that kept bellevue lodge from drifting into bankruptcy. mr sharnall was dead, and with him had died the tiny pittance which he contributed to the upkeep of the place, and lodgers were few and far between in cullerne. miss joliffe might well have remembered these things, but she did not. the only thought that crossed her mind was that if mr westray went away she would lose yet another friend. she did not approach the matter from the material point of view, she looked on him only as a friend; she viewed him as no money-making machine, but only as that most precious of all treasures--a last friend. "i may have to leave you for awhile," he said again, with the same portentous solemnity. "i hope not, sir," she interrupted, as though by her very eagerness she might avert threatened evil--"i hope not; we should miss you terribly, mr westray, with dear mr sharnall gone too. i do not know what we should do having no man in the house. it is so very lonely if you are away even for a night. i am an old woman now, and it does not matter much for me, but anastasia is so nervous at night since the dreadful accident." westray's face brightened a little at the mention of anastasia's name. yes, his must certainly be a very deep affection, that the naming of her very name should bring him such pleasure. it was on _his_ protection, then, that she leant; she looked on _him_ as her defender. the muscles of his not gigantic arms seemed to swell and leap to bursting in his coat-sleeves. those arms should screen his loved one from all evil. visions of perseus, and sir galahad, and cophetua, swept before his eyes; he had almost cried to miss euphemia, "you need have no fear, i love your niece. i shall bow down and raise her to my throne. they that would touch her shall only do so over my dead body," when hesitating common-sense plucked him by the sleeve; he must consult his mother before taking this grave step. it was well that reason thus restrained him, for such a declaration might have brought miss joliffe to a swoon. as it was, she noticed the cloud lifting on his face, and was pleased to think that her conversation cheered him. a little company was no doubt good for him, and she sought in her mind for some further topic of interest. yes, of course, she had it. "lord blandamer was here this afternoon. he came just like anyone else might have come, in such a very kind and condescending way to ask after me. he feared that dear mr sharnall's death might have been too severe a shock for us both, and, indeed, it has been a terrible blow. he was so considerate, and sat for nearly an hour--for forty-seven minutes i should say by the clock, and took tea with us in the kitchen as if he were one of the family. i never could have expected such condescension, and when he went away he left a most polite message for you, sir, to say that he was sorry that you were not in, but he hoped to call again before long." the cloud had returned to westray's face. if he had been the hero of a novel his brow would have been black as night; as it was he only looked rather sulky. "i shall have to go to london to-night," he said stiffly, without acknowledging miss joliffe's remarks; "i shall not be back to-morrow, and may be away a few days. i will write to let you know when i shall be back." miss joliffe started as if she had received an electric shock. "to london to-night," she began--"this very night?" "yes," westray said, with a dryness that would have suggested of itself that the interview was to be terminated, even if he had not added: "i shall be glad to be left alone now; i have several letters to write before i can get away." so miss euphemia went to impart this strange matter to the maiden who was _ex hypothesi_ leaning on the architect's strong arm. "what _do_ you think, anastasia?" she said. "mr westray is going to london to-night, perhaps for some days." "is he?" was all her niece's comment; but there was a languor and indifference in the voice, that might have sent the thermometer of the architect's affection from boiling-point to below blood-heat, if he could have heard her speak. westray sat moodily for a few moments after his landlady had gone. for the first time in his life he wished he was a smoker. he wished he had a pipe in his mouth, and could pull in and puff out smoke as he had seen sharnall do when _he_ was moody. he wanted some work for his restless body while his restless mind was turning things over. it was the news of lord blandamer's visit, as on this very afternoon, that fanned smouldering thoughts into flame. this was the first time, so far as westray knew, that lord blandamer had come to bellevue lodge without at least a formal excuse of business. with that painful effort which we use to convince ourselves of things of which we wish to be convinced in the face of all difficulties; with that blind, stumbling hope against hope with which we try to reconcile things irreconcilable, if only by so doing we can conjure away a haunting spectre, or lull to sleep a bitter suspicion; the architect had hitherto resolved to believe that if lord blandamer came with some frequency to bellevue lodge, he was only prompted to do so by a desire to keep in touch with the restoration, to follow with intelligence the expenditure of money which he was so lavishly providing. it had been the easier for westray to persuade himself that lord blandamer's motives were legitimate, because he felt that the other must find a natural attraction in the society of a talented young professional man. an occasional conversation with a clever architect on things architectural, or on other affairs of common interest (for westray was careful to avoid harping unduly on any single topic) must undoubtedly prove a relief to lord blandamer from the monotony of bachelor life in the country; and in such considerations westray found a subsidiary, and sometimes he was inclined to imagine primary, interest for these visits to bellevue lodge. if various circumstances had conspired of late to impugn the sufficiency of these motives, westray had not admitted as much in his own mind; if he had been disquieted, he had constantly assured himself that disquietude was unreasonable. but now disillusion had befallen him. lord blandamer had visited bellevue lodge as it were in his own right; he had definitely abandoned the pretence of coming to see westray; he had been drinking tea with miss joliffe; he had spent an hour in the kitchen with miss joliffe and--anastasia. it could only mean one thing, and westray's resolution was taken. an object which had seemed at best but mildly desirable, became of singular value when he believed that another was trying to possess himself of it; jealousy had quickened love, duty and conscience insisted that he should save the girl from the snare that was being set for her. the great renunciation must be made; he, westray, must marry beneath him, but before doing so he would take his mother into his confidence, though there is no record of perseus doing as much before he cut loose andromeda. meanwhile, no time must be lost; he would start this very night. the last train for london had already left, but he would walk to cullerne road station and catch the night-mail from thence. he liked walking, and need take no luggage, for there were things that he could use at his mother's house. it was seven o'clock when he came to this resolve, and an hour later he had left the last house in cullerne behind him, and entered upon his night excursion. the line of the roman way which connected carauna (carisbury) with its port culurnum (cullerne) is still followed by the modern road, and runs as nearly straight as may be for the sixteen miles which separate those places. about half-way between them the great southern main line crosses the highway at right angles, and here is cullerne road station. the first half of the way runs across a flat sandy tract called mallory heath, where the short greensward encroaches on the road, and where the eye roaming east or west or north can discern nothing except a limitless expanse of heather, broken here and there by patches of gorse and bracken, or by clumps of touselled and wind-thinned pines and scotch firs. the tawny-coloured, sandy, track is difficult to follow in the dark, and there are posts set up at intervals on the skirts of the way for travellers' guidance. these posts show out white against a starless night, and dark against the snow which sometimes covers the heath with a silvery sheet. on a clear night the traveller can see the far-off lamps of the station at cullerne road a mile after he has left the old seaport town. they stand out like a thin line of light in the distant darkness, a line continuous at first, but afterwards resolvable into individual units of lamps as he walks further along the straight road. many a weary wayfarer has watched those lamps hang changeless in the distance, and chafed at their immobility. they seem to come no nearer to him for all the milestones, with the distance from hyde park corner graven in old figures on their lichened faces, that he has passed. only the increasing sound of the trains tells him that he is nearing his goal, and by degrees the dull rumble becomes a clanking roar as the expresses rush headlong by. on a crisp winter day they leave behind them a trail of whitest wool, and in the night-time a fiery serpent follows them when the open furnace-door flings on the cloud a splendid radiance. but in the dead heats of midsummer the sun dries up the steam, and they speed along, the more wonderful because there is no trace to tell what power it is that drives them. of all these things westray saw nothing. a soft white fog had fallen upon everything. it drifted by in delicate whirling wreaths, that seemed to have an innate motion of their own where all had been still but a minute before. it covered his clothes with a film of the finest powdery moisture that ran at a touch into heavy drops, it hung in dripping dew on his moustache, and hair, and eyebrows, it blinded him, and made him catch his breath. it had come rolling in from the sea as on that night when mr sharnall was taken, and westray could hear the distant groaning of fog-horns in the channel; and looking backwards towards cullerne, knew from a blurred glare, now green, now red, that a vessel in the offing was signalling for a coastwise pilot. he plodded steadily forward, stopping now and then when he found his feet on the grass sward to recover the road, and rejoicing when one of the white posts assured him that he was still keeping the right direction. the blinding fog isolated him in a strange manner; it cut him off from nature, for he could see nothing of her; it cut him off from man, for he could not have seen even a legion of soldiers had they surrounded him. this removal of outside influences threw him back upon himself, and delivered him to introspection; he began for the hundredth time to weigh his position, to consider whether the momentous step that he was taking was necessary to his ease of mind, was right, was prudent. to make a proposal of marriage is a matter that may give the strongest-minded pause, and westray's mind was not of the strongest. he was clever, imaginative, obstinate, scrupulous to a fault; but had not that broad outlook on life which comes of experience, nor the power and resolution to readily take a decision under difficult circumstances, and to abide by it once taken. so it was that reason made a shuttlecock of his present resolve, and half a dozen times he stopped in the road meaning to abandon his purpose, and turn back to cullerne. yet half a dozen times he went on, though with slow feet, thinking always, was he right in what he was doing, was he right? and the fog grew thicker; it seemed almost to be stifling him; he could not see his hand if he held it at arm's length before his face. was he right, was there any right or any wrong, was anything real, was not everything subjective--the creation of his own brain? did he exist, was he himself, was he in the body or out of the body? and then a wild dismay, a horror of the darkness and the fog, seized hold of him. he stretched out his arms, and groped in the mist as if he hoped to lay hold of someone, or something, to reassure him as to his own identity, and at last a mind-panic got the better of him; he turned and started back to cullerne. it was only for a moment, and then reason began to recover her sway; he stopped, and sat down on the heather at the side of the road, careless that every spray was wet and dripping, and collected his thoughts. his heart was beating madly as in one that wakes from a nightmare, but he was now ashamed of his weakness and of the mental _debacle_, though there had been none to see it. what could have possessed him, what madness was this? after a few minutes he was able to turn round once more, and resumed his walk towards the railway with a firm, quick step, which should prove to his own satisfaction that he was master of himself. for the rest of his journey he dismissed bewildering questions of right and wrong, of prudence and imprudence, laying it down as an axiom that his emprise was both right and prudent, and busied himself with the more material and homely considerations of ways and means. he amused himself in attempting to fix the sum for which it would be possible for him and anastasia to keep house, and by mentally straining to the utmost the resources at his command managed to make them approach his estimate. another man in similar circumstances might perhaps have given himself to reviewing the chances of success in his proposal, but westray did not trouble himself with any doubts on this point. it was a foregone conclusion that if he once offered himself anastasia would accept him; she could not be so oblivious to the advantages which such a marriage would offer, both in material considerations and in the connection with a superior family. he only regarded the matter from his own standpoint; once he was convinced that _he_ cared enough for anastasia to make her an offer, then he was sure that she would accept him. it was true that he could not, on the spur of the moment, recollect many instances in which she had openly evinced a predilection for him, but he was conscious that she thought well of him, and she was no doubt too modest to make manifest, feelings which she could never under ordinary circumstances hope to see returned. yet he certainly _had_ received encouragement of a quiet and unobtrusive kind, quite sufficient to warrant the most favourable conclusions. he remembered how many, many times their eyes had met when they were in one another's company; she must certainly have read the tenderness which had inspired his glances, and by answering them she had given perhaps the greatest encouragement that true modesty would permit. how delicate and infinitely gracious her acknowledgment had been, how often had she looked at him as it were furtively, and then, finding his passionate gaze upon her, had at once cast her own eyes shyly to the ground! and in his reveries he took not into reckoning, the fact that through these later weeks he had scarcely ever taken his gaze off her, so long as she was in the same room with him. it would have been strange if their eyes had not sometimes met, because she must needs now and then obey that impulse which forces us to look at those who are looking at us. certainly, he meditated, her eyes had given him encouragement, and then she had accepted gratefully a bunch of lilies of the valley which he said lightly had been given him, but which he had really bought _ad hoc_ at carisbury. but, again, he ought perhaps to have reflected that it would have been difficult for her to refuse them. how could she have refused them? how could any girl under the circumstances do less than take with thanks a few lilies of the valley? to decline them would be affectation; by declining she might attach a false and ridiculous significance to a kindly act. yes, she had encouraged him in the matter of the lilies, and if she had not worn some of them in her bosom, as he had hoped she might, that, no doubt, was because she feared to show her preference too markedly. he had noticed particularly the interest she had shown when a bad cold had confined him for a few days to the house, and this very evening had he not heard that she missed him when he was absent even for a night? he smiled at this thought, invisibly in the fog; and has not a man a right to some complacence, on whose presence in the house hang a fair maiden's peace and security? miss joliffe had said that anastasia felt nervous whenever he, westray, was away; it was very possible that anastasia had given her aunt a hint that she would like him to be told this, and he smiled again in the fog; he certainly need have no fear of any rejection of his suit. he had been so deeply immersed in these reassuring considerations that he walked steadily on unconscious of all exterior objects and conditions until he saw the misty lights of the station, and knew that his goal was reached. his misgivings and tergiversations had so much delayed him by the way, that it was past midnight, and the train was already due. there were no other travellers on the platform, or in the little waiting-room where a paraffin-lamp with blackened chimney struggled feebly with the fog. it was not a cheery room, and he was glad to be called back from a contemplation of a roll of texts hanging on the wall, and a bottle of stale water on the table, to human things by the entry of a drowsy official who was discharging the duties of station-master, booking-clerk, and porter all at once. "are you waiting for the london train, sir?" he asked in a surprised tone, that showed that the night-mail found few passengers at cullerne road. "she will be in now in a few minutes; have you your ticket?" they went together to the booking-office. the station-master handed him a third-class ticket, without even asking how he wished to travel. "ah, thank you," westray said, "but i think i will go first-class to-night. i shall be more likely to have a compartment to myself, and shall be less disturbed by people getting in and out." "certainly, sir," said the station-master, with the marked increase of respect due to a first-class passenger--"certainly, sir; please give me back the other ticket. i shall have to write you one--we do not keep them ready; we are so very seldom asked for first-class at this station." "no, i suppose not," westray said. "things happen funny," the station-master remarked while he _got_ his pen. "i wrote one by this same train a month ago, and before that i don't think we have ever sold one since the station was opened." "ah," westray said, paying little attention, for he was engaged in a new mental disputation as to whether he was really justified in travelling first-class. he had just settled that at such a life-crisis as he had now reached, it was necessary that the body should be spared fatigue in order that the mind might be as vigorous as possible for dealing with a difficult situation, and that the extra expense was therefore justified; when the station-master went on: "yes, i wrote a ticket, just as i might for you, for lord blandamer not a month ago. perhaps you know lord blandamer?" he added venturously; yet with a suggestion that even the sodality of first-class travelling was not in itself a passport to so distinguished an acquaintance. the mention of lord blandamer's name gave a galvanic shock to westray's flagging attention. "oh yes," he said, "i know lord blandamer." "do you, indeed, sir"--and respect had risen by a skip greater than any allowed in counterpoint. "well, i wrote a ticket for his lordship by this very train not a month ago; no, it was not a month ago, for 'twas the very night the poor organist at cullerne was took." "yes," said the would-be indifferent westray; "where did lord blandamer come from?" "i do not know," the station-master replied--"i do _not_ know, sir," he repeated, with the unnecessary emphasis common to the uneducated or unintelligent. "was he driving?" "no, he walked up to this station just as you might yourself. excuse me, sir," he broke off; "here she comes." they heard the distant thunder of the approaching train, and were in time to see the gates of the level-crossing at the end of the platform swing silently open as if by ghostly hands, till their red lanterns blocked the cullerne road. no one got out, and no one but westray got in; there was some interchanging of post-office bags in the fog, and then the station-master-booking-clerk-porter waved a lamp, and the train steamed away. westray found himself in a cavernous carriage, of which the cloth seats were cold and damp as the lining of a coffin. he turned up the collar of his coat, folded his arms in a napoleonic attitude, and threw himself back into a corner to think. it was curious--it was very curious. he had been under the impression that lord blandamer had left cullerne early on the night of poor sharnall's accident; lord blandamer had told them at bellevue lodge that he was going away by the afternoon train when he left them. yet here he was at cullerne road at midnight, and if he had not come from cullerne, whence had he come? he could not have come from fording, for from fording he would certainly have taken the train at lytchett. it was curious, and while he was so thinking he fell asleep. chapter sixteen. a day or two later miss joliffe said to anastasia: "i think you had a letter from mr westray this morning, my dear, had you not? did he say anything about his return? did he say when he was coming back?" "no, dear aunt, he said nothing about coming back. he only wrote a few lines on a matter of business." "oh yes, just so," miss joliffe said dryly, feeling a little hurt at what seemed like any lack of confidence on her niece's part. miss joliffe would have said that she knew anastasia's mind so well that no secrets were hid from her. anastasia would have said that her aunt knew everything except a few _little_ secrets, and, as a matter of fact, the one perhaps knew as much of the other as it is expedient that age should know of youth. "the mind is its own place, and in itself can make a hell of heaven, a heaven of hell." of all earthly consolations this is the greatest, that the mind is its own place. the mind is an impregnable fortress which can be held against all comers, the mind is a sanctuary open day or night to the pursued, the mind is a flowery pleasance where shade refreshes even in summer droughts. to some trusted friend we try to give the clue of the labyrinth, but the ball of silk is too short to guide any but ourselves along all the way. there are sunny mountain-tops, there are innocent green arbours, or closes of too highly-perfumed flowers, or dank dungeons of despair, or guilty _mycethmi_ black as night, where we walk alone, whither we may lead no one with us by the hand. miss euphemia joliffe would have liked to ignore altogether the matter of westray's letter, and to have made no further remarks thereon; but curiosity is in woman a stronger influence than pride, and curiosity drove her to recur to the letter. "thank you, my dear, for explaining about it. i am sure you will tell me if there are any messages for me in it." "no, there was no message at all for you, i think," said anastasia. "i will get it for you by-and-by, and you shall see all he says;" and with that she left the room as if to fetch the letter. it was only a subterfuge, for she felt westray's correspondence burning a hole in her pocket all the while; but she was anxious that her aunt should not see the letter until an answer to it had been posted; and hoped that if she once escaped from the room, the matter would drop out of memory. miss joliffe fired a parting shot to try to bring her niece to her bearings as she was going out: "i do not know, my dear, that i should encourage any correspondence from mr westray, if i were you. it would be more seemly, perhaps, that he should write to me on any little matter of business than to you." but anastasia feigned not to hear her, and held on her course. she betook herself to the room that had once been mr sharnall's, but was now distressingly empty and forlorn, and there finding writing materials, sat down to compose an answer to westray's letter. she knew its contents thoroughly well, she knew its expressions almost by heart, yet she spread it out on the table before her, and read and re-read it as many times as if it were the most difficult of cryptograms. "dearest anastasia," it began, and she found a grievance in the very first word, "dearest." what right had he to call her "dearest"? she was one of those unintelligible females who do not shower superlatives on every chance acquaintance. she must, no doubt, have been callous as judged by modern standards, or at least, singularly unimaginative, for among her few correspondents she had not one whom she addressed as "dearest." no, not even her aunt, for at such rare times of absence from home as she had occasion to write to miss joliffe, "my dear aunt euphemia" was the invocation. it was curious that this same word "dearest" had occasioned westray also considerable thought and dubiety. should he call her "dearest anastasia," or "dear miss joliffe"? the first sounded too forward, the second too formal. he had discussed this and other details with his mother, and the die had at last fallen on "dearest." at the worst such an address could only be criticised as proleptic, since it must be justified almost immediately by anastasia's acceptance of his proposal. "dearest anastasia--for dearest you are and ever will be to me--i feel sure that your heart will go out to meet my heart in what i am saying; that your kindness will support me in the important step which has now to be taken." anastasia shook her head, though there was no one to see her. there was a suggestion of fate overbearing prudence in westray's words, a suggestion that he needed sympathy in an unpleasant predicament, that jarred on her intolerably. "i have known you now a year, and know that my happiness is centred in you; you too have known me a year, and i trust that i have read aright the message that your eyes have been sending to me. "`for i shall happiest be to-night, or saddest in the town; heaven send i read their message right, those eyes of hazel brown.'" anastasia found space in the press of her annoyance to laugh. it was more than a smile, it was a laugh, a quiet little laugh to herself, which in a man would have been called a buckle. her eyes were not hazel brown, they were no brown at all; but then brown rhymed with town, and after all the verse might perhaps be a quotation, and must so be taken only to apply to the situation in general. she read the sentence again, "i have known you now a year; you too have known me a year." westray had thought this poetic insistence gave a touch of romance, and balanced the sentence; but to anastasia it seemed the reiteration of a platitude. if he had known her a year, then she had known him a year, and to a female mind the sequitur was complete. "have i read the message right, dearest? is your heart my own?" message? what message did he speak of? what message did he imagine she had wished to give _him_ with her eyes? he had stared at her persistently for weeks past, and if her eyes sometimes caught his, that was only because she could not help it; except when between whiles she glanced at him of set purpose, because it amused her to see how silly a man in love may look. "say that it is; tell me that your heart is my own" (and the request seemed to her too preposterous to admit even of comment). "i watch your present, dear anastasia, with solicitude. sometimes i think that you are even now exposed to dangers of whose very existence you know nothing; and sometimes i look forward with anxiety to the future, so undecipherable, if misfortune or death should overtake your aunt. let me help you to decipher this riddle. let me be your shield now, and your support in the days to come. be my wife, and give me the right to be your protector. i am detained in london by business for some days more; but i shall await your answer here with overwhelming eagerness, yet, may i say it? not without hope. "your most loving and devoted "edward westray." she folded the letter up with much deliberation, and put it back into its envelope. if westray had sought far and wide for means of damaging his own cause, he could scarcely have found anything better calculated for that purpose than these last paragraphs. they took away much of that desire to spare, to make unpleasantness as little unpleasant as may be, which generally accompanies a refusal. his sententiousness was unbearable. what right had he to advise before he knew whether she would listen to him? what were these dangers to which she was even now exposed, and from which mr westray was to shield her? she asked herself the question formally, though she knew the answer all the while. her own heart had told her enough of late, to remove all difficulty in reading between mr westray's lines. a jealous man is, if possible, more contemptible than a jealous woman. man's greater strength postulates a broader mind and wider outlook; and if he fail in these, his failure is more conspicuous than woman's. anastasia had traced to jealousy the origin of westray's enigmatic remarks; but if she was strong enough to hold him ridiculous for his pains, she was also weak enough to take a woman's pleasure in having excited the interest of the man she ridiculed. she laughed again at the proposal that she should join him in deciphering any riddles, still more such as were undecipherable; and the air of patronage involved in his anxiety to provide for her future was the more distasteful in that she had great ideas of providing for it herself. she had told herself a hundred times that it was only affection for her aunt that kept her at home. were "anything to happen" to miss joliffe, she would at once seek her own living. she had often reckoned up the accomplishments which would aid her in such an endeavour. she had received her education--even if it were somewhat desultory and discontinuous--at good schools. she had always been a voracious reader, and possessed an extensive knowledge of english literature, particularly of the masters of fiction; she could play the piano and the violin tolerably, though mr sharnall would have qualified her estimate. she had an easy touch in oils and water-colour, which her father said she must have inherited from his mother--from that sophia joliffe who painted the great picture of the flowers and caterpillar, and her spirited caricatures had afforded much merriment to her schoolfellows. she made her own clothes, and was sure that she had a taste in matters of dress design and manufacture that would bring her distinction if she were only given the opportunity of employing it; she believed that she had an affection for children, and a natural talent for training them, though she never saw any at cullerne. with gifts such as these, which must be patent to others as well as herself, there would surely be no difficulty in obtaining an excellent place as governess if she should ever determine to adopt that walk of life; and she was sometimes inclined to gird at fate, which for the present led her to deprive the world of these benefits. in her inmost heart, however, she doubted whether she would be really justified in devoting herself to teaching; for she was conscious that she might be called to fill a higher mission, and to instruct by the pen rather than by word of mouth. as every soldier carries in his knapsack the baton of the field marshal, so every girl in her teens knows that there lie hidden in the recesses of her _armoire_, the robes and coronet and full insignia of a first-rate novelist. she may not choose to take them out and air them, the crown may tarnish by disuse, the moth of indolence may corrupt, but there lies the panoply in which she may on any day appear fully dight, for the astonishment of an awakening world. jane austen and maria edgworth are heroines, whose aureoles shine in the painted windows of such airy castles; charlotte bronte wrote her masterpieces in a seclusion as deep as that of bellevue lodge; and anastasia joliffe thought many a time of that day when, afar off from her watch-tower in quiet cullerne, she would follow the triumphant progress of an epoch-making romance. it would be published under a _nom de plume_, of course, she would not use her own name till she had felt her feet; and the choice of the pseudonym was the only definite step towards this venture that she had yet made. the period was still uncertain. sometimes the action was to be placed in the eighteenth century, with tall silver urns and spindled-legged tables, and breast-waisted dresses; sometimes in the struggle of the roses, when barons swam rivers in full armour after a bloody bout; sometimes in the civil war, when vandyke drew the arched eyebrow and taper hand, and when the shadow of death was over all. it was to the civil war that her fancy turned oftenest, and now and again, as she sat before her looking-glass, she fancied that she had a vandyke face herself. and so it was indeed; and if the mirror was fogged and dull and outworn, and if the dress that it reflected was not of plum or amber velvet, one still might fancy that she was a loyalist daughter whose fortunes were fallen with her master's. the limner of the king would have rejoiced to paint the sweet, young, oval face and little mouth; he would have found the space between the eyebrow and the eyelid to his liking. if the plot were still shadowy, her characters were always with her, in armour or sprigged prints; and, the mind being its own place, she took about a little court of her own, where dreadful tragedies were enacted, and valorous deeds done; where passionate young love suffered and wept, and where a mere girl of eighteen, by consummate resolution, daring, beauty, genius, and physical strength, always righted the situation, and brought peace at the last. with resources such as these, the future did not present itself in dark colours to anastasia; nor did its riddle appear to her nearly so undecipherable as mr westray had supposed. she would have resented, with all the confidence of inexperience, _any_ attempt to furnish her with prospects; and she resented westray's offer all the more vigorously because it seemed to carry with it a suggestion of her own forlorn position, to insist unduly on her own good fortune in receiving such a proposal, and on his condescension in making it. there are women who put marriage in the forefront of life, whose thoughts revolve constantly about it as a centre, and with whom an advantageous match, or, failing that, a match of some sort, is the primary object. there are others who regard marriage as an eventuality, to be contemplated without either eagerness or avoidance, to be accepted or declined according as its circumstances may be favourable or unfavourable. again, there are some who seem, even from youth, to resolutely eliminate wedlock from their thoughts, to permit themselves no mental discussion upon this subject. though a man profess that he will never marry, experience has shown that his resolve is often subject to reconsideration. but with unmarrying women the case is different, and unmarried for the most part they remain, for man is often so weak-kneed a creature in matters of the heart, that he refrains from pursuing where an unsympathetic attitude discourages pursuit. it may be that some of these women, also, would wish to reconsider their verdict, but find that they have reached an age when there is no place for repentance; yet, for the most part, woman's resolve upon such matters is more stable than man's, and that because the interests at stake in marriage are for her more vital than can ever be the case with man. it was to the class of indifferentists that anastasia belonged; she neither sought nor shunned a change of state, but regarded marriage as an accident that, in befalling her, might substantially change the outlook. it would render a life of teaching, no doubt, impossible; domestic or maternal cares might to some extent trammel even literary activity (for, married or not married, she was determined to fulfil her mission of writing), but in no case was she inclined to regard marriage as an escape from difficulties, as the solution of so trivial a problem as that of existence. she read westray's letter once more from beginning to end. it was duller than ever. it reflected its writer; she had always thought him unromantic, and now he seemed to her intolerably prosaic, conceited, pettifogging, utilitarian. to be his wife! she had rather slave as a nursery-governess all her life! and how could she write fiction with such a one for mentor and company? he would expect her to be methodic, to see that eggs were fresh, and beds well aired. so, by thinking, she reasoned herself into such a theoretic reprobation of this attempt upon her, that his offer became a heinous crime. if she answered him shortly, brusquely, nay rudely, it would be but what he deserved for making her ridiculous to herself by so absurd a proposal, and she opened her writing-case with much firmness and resolution. it was a little wooden case covered in imitation leather, with _papeterie_ stamped in gold upon the top. she had no exaggerated notions as to its intrinsic worth, but it was valuable in her eyes as being a present from her father. it was, in fact, the only gift he ever had bestowed upon her; but on this he had expended at least half a crown, in a fit of unusual generosity when he sent her with a great flourish of trumpets to mrs howard's school at carisbury. she remembered his very words. "take this, child," he said; "you are now going to a first-class place of education, and it is right that you should have a proper equipment," and so gave her the _papeterie_. it had to cover a multitude of deficiencies, and poor anastasia lamented that it had not been a new hair-brush, half a dozen pocket-handkerchiefs, or even a sound pair of shoes. still it had stood in good stead, for with it she had written all her letters ever since, and being the only receptacle with lock and key to which she had access, she had made it a little ark and coffer for certain girlish treasures. with such it was stuffed so full that they came crowding out as she opened it. there were several letters to which romance attached, relics of that delightful but far too short school-time at carisbury; there was her programme, with rudely-scribbled names of partners, for the splendid dance at the term's end, to which a selection of other girls' brothers were invited; a pressed rose given her by someone which she had worn in her bosom on that historic occasion, and many other equally priceless mementoes. somehow these things seemed now neither so romantic nor so precious as on former occasions; she was even inclined to smile, and to make light of them, and then a little bit of paper fluttered off the table on to the floor. she stooped and picked up the flap of an envelope with the coronet and "fording" stamped in black upon it which she had found one day when westray's waste-paper basket was emptied. it was a simple device enough, but it must have furnished her food for thought, for it lay under her eyes on the table for at least ten minutes before she put it carefully back into the _papeterie_, and began her letter to westray. she found no difficulty in answering, but the interval of reflection had soothed her irritation, and blunted her animosity. her reply was neither brusque nor rude, it leant rather to conventionalism than to originality, and she used, after all, those phrases which have been commonplaces in such circumstances, since man first asked and woman first refused. she thanked mr westray for the kind interest which he had taken in her, she was deeply conscious of the consideration which he had shown her. she was grieved--sincerely grieved--to tell him that things could not be as he wished. she was so afraid that her letter would seem unkind; she did not mean it to be unkind. however difficult it was to say it now, she thought it was the truest kindness not to disguise from him that things _never_ could be as he wished. she paused a little to review this last sentiment, but she allowed it to remain, for she was anxious to avoid any recrudescence of the suppliant's passion, and to show that her decision was final. she should always feel the greatest esteem for mr westray; she trusted that the present circumstances would not interrupt their friendship in any way. she hoped that their relations might continue as in the past, and in this hope she remained very truly his. she gave a sigh of relief when the letter was finished, and read it through carefully, putting in commas and semicolons and colons at what she thought appropriate places. such punctilio pleased her; it was, she considered, due from one who aspired to a literary style, and aimed at making a living by the pen. though this was the first answer to a proposal that she had written on her own account, she was not altogether without practice in such matters, as she had composed others for her heroines who had found themselves in like position. her manner, also, was perhaps unconsciously influenced by a perusal of "the young person's compleat correspondent, and guide to answers to be given in the various circumstances of life," which, in a tattered calf covering, formed an item in miss euphemia's library. it was not till the missive was duly sealed up and posted that she told her aunt of what had happened. "there is mr westray's letter," she said, "if you would care to read it," and passed over to miss joliffe the piece of white paper on which a man had staked his fate. miss joliffe took the letter with an attempt to assume an indifferent manner, which was unsuccessful, because an offer of marriage has about it a certain exhalation and atmosphere that betrays its importance even to the most unsuspicious. she was a slow reader, and, after wiping and adjusting her spectacles, sat down for a steady and patient consideration of the matter before her. but the first word that she deciphered, "dearest," startled her composure, and she pressed on through the letter with a haste that was foreign to her disposition. her mouth grew rounder as she read, and she sighed out "dear's" and "dear anastasia's" and "dear child's" at intervals as a relief to her feelings. anastasia stood by her, following the lines of writing that she knew by heart, with all the impatience of one who is reading ten times faster than another who turns the page. miss joliffe's mind was filled with conflicting emotions; she was glad at the prospect of a more assured future that was opening before her niece, she was hurt at not having been taken sooner into confidence, for anastasia must certainly have known that he was going to propose; she was chagrined at not having noticed a courtship which had been carried on under her very eyes; she was troubled at the thought that the marriage would entail the separation from one who was to her as a child. how weary she would find it to walk alone down the long paths of old age! how hard it was to be deprived of a dear arm on whose support she had reckoned for when "the slow dark hours begin"! but she thrust this reflection away from her as selfish, and contrition for having harboured it found expression in a hand wrinkled and roughened by hard wear, which stole into anastasia's. "my dear," she said, "i am very glad at your good fortune; this is a great thing that has befallen you." a general content that anastasia should have received a proposal silenced her misgivings. to the recipient, an offer of marriage, be it good, bad, or indifferent, to be accepted or to be refused, brings a certain complacent satisfaction. she may pretend to make light of it, to be displeased at it, to resent it, as did anastasia; but in her heart of hearts there lurks the self-appreciating reflection that she has won the completest admiration of a man. if he be a man that she would not marry under any conditions, if he be a fool, or a spendthrift, or an evil-liver, he is still a man, and she has captured him. her relations share in the same pleasurable reflections. if the offer is accepted, then a future has been provided for one whose future, maybe, was not too certain; if it is declined, then they congratulate themselves on the high morale or strong common-sense of a kinswoman who refuses to be won by gold, or to link her destiny with an unsuitable partner. "it is a great thing, my dear, that has befallen you," miss joliffe repeated. "i wish you all happiness, dear anastasia, and may all blessings wait upon you in this engagement." "aunt," interrupted her niece, "please don't say that. i have refused him, _of course_; how could you think that i should marry mr westray? i never have thought of any such thing with him. i never had the least idea of his writing like this." "you have refused him?" said the elder lady with a startled emphasis. again a selfish reflection crossed her mind--they were not to be parted after all--and again she put it resolutely away. she ran over in her mind all the possible objections that could have influenced her niece in arriving at such a conclusion. religion was the keynote of miss joliffe's life; to religion her thought reverted as the needle to the pole, and to it she turned for an explanation now. it must be some religious consideration that had proved an obstacle to anastasia. "i do not think you need find any difficulty in his having been brought up as a wesleyan," she said, with a profound conviction that she had put her finger on the matter, and with some consciousness of her own perspicacity. "his father has been dead some time, and though his mother is still alive, you would not have to live with her. i do not think, dear, she would at all wish you to become a methodist. as for our mr westray, your mr westray, i should say now," and she assumed that expression of archness which is considered appropriate to such occasions, "i am sure he is a sound churchman. he goes regularly to the minster on sundays, and i dare say, being an architect, and often in church on week-days, he has found out that the order of the church of england is more satisfactory than that of any other sect. though i am sure i do not wish to say one word against wesleyans; they are no doubt true protestants, and a bulwark against more serious errors. i rejoice that your lover's early training will have saved him from any inclination to ritualism." "my dear aunt," anastasia broke in, with a stress of earnest deprecation on the "dear" that startled her aunt, "please do _not_ go on like that. do not call mr westray my lover; i have told you that i will have nothing to do with him." miss joliffe's thoughts had moved through a wide arc. now that this offer of marriage was about to be refused, now that this engagement was not to be, the advantages that it offered stood out in high relief. it seemed too sad that the curtain should be rung down just as the action of a drama of intense interest was beginning, that the good should slip through their fingers just as they were grasping it. she gave no thought now to that fear of a lonely old age which had troubled her a few minutes before; she only saw the provision for the future which anastasia was wilfully sacrificing. her hand tightened automatically, and crumpled a long piece of paper that she was holding. it was only a milkman's bill, and yet it might perhaps have unconsciously given a materialistic colour to her thoughts. "we should not reject any good thing that is put before us," she said a little stiffly, "without being very certain that we are right to do so. i do not know what would become of you, anastasia, if anything were to happen to me." "that is exactly what he says, that is the very argument which he uses. why should you take such a gloomy view of things? why should something _happening_ always mean something bad. let us hope something good will happen, that someone else will make me a better offer." she laughed, and went on reflectively: "i wonder whether mr westray will come back here to lodge; i hope he won't." hardly were the words out of her mouth when she was sorry for uttering them, for she saw the look of sadness which overspread miss joliffe's face. "dear aunt," she cried, "i am so sorry; i didn't mean to say that. i know what a difference it would make; we cannot afford to lose our last lodger. i hope he _will_ come back, and i will do everything i can to make things comfortable, short of marrying him. i will earn some money myself. i will _write_." "how will you write? who is there to write to?" miss joliffe said, and then the blank look on her face grew blanker, and she took out her handkerchief. "there is no one to help us. anyone who ever cared for us is dead long ago; there is no one to write to now." chapter seventeen. westray played the role of rejected lover most conscientiously; he treated the episode of his refusal on strictly conventional lines. he assured himself and his mother that the light of his life was extinguished, that he was the most unhappy of mortals. it was at this time that he wrote some verses called "autumn," with a refrain of-- "for all my hopes are cold and dead, and fallen like the fallen leaves," which were published in the _clapton methodist_, and afterwards set to music by a young lady who wished to bind up another wounded heart. he attempted to lie awake of nights with indifferent success, and hinted in conversation at the depressing influence which insomnia exerts over its victims. for several meals in succession he refused to eat heartily of such dishes as he did not like, and his mother felt serious anxiety as to his general state of health. she inveighed intemperately against anastasia for having refused her son, but then she would have inveighed still more intemperately had anastasia accepted him. she wearied him with the portentous gloom which she affected in his presence, and quoted lady clara vere de vere's cruelty in turning honest hearts to gall, till even the rejected one was forced to smile bitterly at so inapposite a parallel. though mrs westray senior poured out the vials of her wrath on anastasia for having refused to become mrs westray junior, she was at heart devoutly glad at the turn events had taken. at heart westray could not have said whether he was glad or sorry. he told himself that he was deeply in love with anastasia, and that this love was further ennobled by a chivalrous desire to shield her from evil; but he could not altogether forget that the unfortunate event had at least saved him from the unconventionality of marrying his landlady's niece. he told himself that his grief was sincere and profound, but it was possible that chagrin and wounded pride were after all his predominant feelings. there were other reflections which he thrust aside as indecorous at this acute stage of the tragedy, but which, nevertheless, were able to exercise a mildly consoling influence in the background. he would be spared the anxieties of early and impecunious marriage, his professional career would not be weighted by family cares, the whole world was once more open before him, and the slate clean. these were considerations which could not prudently be overlooked, though it would be unseemly to emphasise them too strongly when the poignancy of regret should dominate every other feeling. he wrote to sir george farquhar, and obtained ten days' leave of absence on the score of indisposition; and he wrote to miss euphemia joliffe to tell her that he intended to seek other rooms. from the first he had decided that this latter step was inevitable. he could not bear the daily renewal of regret, the daily opening of the wound that would be caused by the sight of anastasia, or by such chance intercourse with her as further residence at bellevue lodge must entail. there is no need to speculate whether his decision was influenced in part by a concession to humiliated pride; men do not take pleasure in revisiting the scenes of a disastrous rout, and it must be admitted that the possibility of summoning a lost love to his presence when he rang for boiling water, had in it something of the grotesque. he had no difficulty in finding other lodgings by correspondence, and he spared himself the necessity of returning at all to his former abode by writing to ask clerk janaway to move his belongings. one morning, a month later, miss joliffe sat in that room which had been occupied by the late mr sharnall. she was alone, for anastasia had gone to the office of the _cullerne advertiser_ with an announcement in which one a.j. intimated that she was willing to take a post as nursery-governess. it was a bright morning but cold, and miss joliffe drew an old white knitted shawl closer about her, for there was no fire in the grate. there was no fire because she could not afford it, yet the sun pouring in through the windows made the room warmer than the kitchen, where the embers had been allowed to die out since breakfast. she and anastasia did without fire on these bright autumn days to save coals; they ate a cold dinner, and went early to bed for the same reason, yet the stock in the cellar grew gradually less. miss joliffe had examined it that very morning, and found it terribly small; nor was there any money nor any credit left with which to replenish it. on the table before her was a pile of papers, some yellow, some pink, some white, some blue, but all neatly folded. they were folded lengthways and to the same breadth, for they were martin joliffe's bills, and he had been scrupulously neat and orderly in his habits. it is true that there were among them some few that she had herself contracted, but then she had always been careful to follow exactly her brother's method both of folding and also of docketing them on the exterior. yes, no doubt she was immediately responsible for some, and she knew just which they were from the outside without any need to open them. she took up one of them: "rose and storey, importers of french millinery, flowers, feathers, ribbons, etcetera. mantle and jacket show-rooms." alas, alas! how frail is human nature! even in the midst of her misfortunes, even in the eclipse of old age, such words stirred miss joliffe's interest--flowers, feathers, ribbons, mantles, and jackets; she saw the delightful show-room , , , and , market place, cullerne--saw it in the dignified solitude of a summer morning when a dress was to be tried on, saw it in the crush and glorious scramble of a remnant sale. "family and complimentary mourning, costumes, skirts, etcetera; foreign and british silks, guaranteed makes." after that the written entry seemed mere bathos: "material and trimming one bonnet, shillings and pence; one hat, shillings pence. total, pound shillings pence." it really was not worth while making a fuss about, and the bunch of cherries and bit of spangled net were well worth the shilling pence, that anastasia's had cost more than hers. hole, pharmaceutical chemist: "drops, shilling pence; liniment, shilling; mixture, shilling pence," repeated many times. "cod-liver oil, shilling pence, and shillings pence, and shilling pence again. pounds shillings pence, with shillings pence interest," for the bill was four years old. that was for anastasia at a critical time when nothing seemed to suit her, and dr ennefer feared a decline; but all the medicine for poor martin was entered in dr ennefer's own account. pilkington, the shoemaker, had his tale to tell: "miss joliffe: semi-pold. lace boots, treble soles, pound shilling pence. miss a. jol.: semi-pold. lace boots, treble soles, pound shilling pence. pair mohair laces, pence. ditto, silk, shilling." yes, she was indeed a guilty woman. it was she that had "run up" _these_ accounts, and she grew red to think that her own hand should have helped to build so dismal a pile. debt, like every other habit that runs counter to the common good, brings with it its own punishment, because society protects itself by making unpleasant the ways of such as inconvenience their neighbours. it is true that some are born with a special talent and capacity for debt--they live on it, and live merrily withal, but most debtors feel the weight of their chains, and suffer greater pangs than those which they inflict on any defrauded creditor. if the millstone grinds slowly it grinds small, and undischarged accounts bring more pain than the goods to which they relate ever brought pleasure. among such bitternesses surely most bitter are the bills for things of which the fruition has ceased--for worn-out finery, for withered flowers, for drunk wine. pilkington's boots, were they never so treble soled, could not endure for ever, and miss joliffe's eyes followed unconsciously under the table to where a vertical fissure showed the lining white at the side of either boot. where were new boots to come from now, whence was to come clothing to wear, and bread to eat? nay, more, the day of passive endurance was past; action had begun. the cullerne water company threatened to cut off the water, the cullerne gas company threatened to cut off the gas. eaves, the milkman, threatened a summons unless that long, long bill of his (all built up of pitiful little pints) was paid forthwith. the thing had come to the _triarii_, miss joliffe's front was routed, the last rank was wavering. what was she to do, whither was she to turn? she must sell some of the furniture, but who would buy such old stuff? and if she sold furniture, what lodger would take half-empty rooms? she looked wildly round, she thrust her hands into the pile of papers, she turned them over with a feverish action, till she seemed to be turning hay once more as a little girl in the meadows at wydcombe. then she heard footsteps on the pavement outside, and thought for a moment that it was anastasia returned before she was expected, till a heavy tread told her that a man was coming, and she saw that it was mr joliffe, her cousin, churchwarden and pork-butcher. his bulky and unwieldy form moved levelly past the windows; he paused and looked up at the house as if to make sure that he was not mistaken, and then he slowly mounted the semicircular flight of stone steps and rang the bell. in person he was tall, but disproportionately stout for his height. his face was broad, and his loose double chin gave it a flabby appearance. a pallid complexion and black-grey hair, brushed straightly down where he was not bald, produced an impression of sanctimoniousness which was increased by a fawning manner of speech. mr sharnall was used to call him a hypocrite, but the aspersion was false, as such an aspersion commonly is. hypocrites, in the pure and undiluted sense, rarely exist outside the pages of fiction. except in the lower classes, where deceit thrives under the incentive of clerical patronage, men seldom assume deliberately the garb of religion to obtain temporal advantages or to further their own ends. it is probable that in nine cases out of ten, where practice does not accord sufficiently with profession to please the censorious, the discrepancy is due to inherent weakness of purpose, to the duality of our nature, and not to any conscious deception. if a man leading the lower life should find himself in religious, or high-minded, or pure society, and speak or behave as if he were religious, or high-minded, or pure, he does so in nine cases out of ten not with any definite wish to deceive, but because he is temporarily influenced by better company. for the time he believes what he says, or has persuaded himself that he believes it. if he is froward with the froward, so he is just with the just, and the more sympathetic and susceptible his nature, the more amenable is he to temporary influences. it is this chameleon adaptability that passes for hypocrisy. cousin joliffe was no hypocrite, he acted up to his light; and even if the light be a badly-trimmed, greasy, evil-smelling paraffin-lamp, the man who acts up to it is only the more to be pitied. cousin joliffe was one of those amateur ecclesiastics whose talk is of things religious, whom church questions interest, and who seem to have missed their vocation in not having taken orders. if canon parkyn had been a high churchman, cousin joliffe would have been high church; but the canon being low-church, cousin joliffe was an earnest evangelical, as he delighted to describe himself. he was rector's churchwarden, took a leading part in prayer-meetings, with a keen interest in school-treats, ham teas, and magic lanterns, and was particularly proud of having been asked more than once to assist in the mission room at carisbury, where the vicar of christ church carried on revival work among the somnolent surroundings of a great cathedral. he was without any sense of humour or any refinement of feeling--self-important, full of the dignity of his office, thrifty to meanness, but he acted up to his light, and was no hypocrite. in that petty middle-class, narrow-minded and penuriously pretentious, which was the main factor of cullerne life, he possessed considerable influence and authority. among his immediate surroundings a word from churchwarden joliffe carried more weight than an outsider would have imagined, and long usage had credited him with the delicate position of _censor morum_ to the community. did the wife of a parishioner venture into such a place of temptation as the theatre at carisbury, was she seen being sculled by young bulteel in his new skiff of a summer evening, the churchwarden was charged to interview her husband, to point out to him privately the scandal that was being caused, and to show him how his duty lay in keeping his belongings in better order. was a man trying to carry fire in his bosom by dalliance at the bar of the blandamer arms, then a hint was given to his spouse that she should use such influence as would ensure evenings being spent at home. did a young man waste the sabbath afternoon in walking with his dog on cullerne flat, he would receive "the tishbite's warning, a discourse showing the necessity of a proper observance of the lord's day." did a pig-tailed hoyden giggle at the grammar school boys from her pew in the minster, the impropriety was reported by the churchwarden to her mother. on such occasions he was scrupulous in assuming a frock-coat and a silk hat. both were well-worn, and designed in the fashion of another day; but they were in his eyes insignia of office, and as he felt the tails of the coat about his knees they seemed to him as it were the skirts of aaron's garment. miss joliffe was not slow to notice that he was thus equipped this morning; she knew that he had come to pay her a visit of circumstance, and swept her papers hurriedly into a drawer. she felt as if they were guilty things these bills, as if she had been engaged in a guilty action in even "going through" them, as if she had been detected in doing that which she should not do, and guiltiest of all seemed the very hurry of concealment with which she hid such compromising papers. she tried to perform that feat of mental gymnastics called retaining one's composure, the desperate and forced composure which the coiner assumes when opening the door to the police, the composure which a woman assumes in returning to her husband with the kisses of a lover tingling on her lips. it _is_ a feat to change the current of the mind, to let the burning thought that is dearest or bitterest to us go by the board, to answer coherently to the banalities of conversation, to check the throbbing pulse. the feat was beyond miss joliffe's powers; she was but a poor actress, and the churchwarden saw that she was ill at ease as she opened the door. "good-morning, cousin," he said with one of those interrogative glances which are often more irritating and more difficult to parry than a direct question; "you are not looking at all the thing this morning. i hope you are not feeling unwell; i hope i do not intrude." "oh no," she said, making as good an attempt at continuous speech as the quick beating of her heart allowed; "it is only that your visit is a little surprise. i am a little flurried; i am not quite so young as i was." "ay," he said, as she showed him into mr sharnall's room, "we are all of us growing older; it behoves us to walk circumspectly, for we never know when we may be taken." he looked at her so closely and compassionately that she felt very old indeed; it really seemed as if she ought to be "taken" at once, as if she was neglecting her duty in not dying away incontinently. she drew the knitted shawl more tightly round her spare and shivering body. "i am afraid you will find this room a little cold," she said; "we are having the kitchen chimney cleaned, so i was sitting here." she gave a hurried glance at the bureau, feeling a suspicion that she might not have shut the drawer tight, or that one of the bills might have somehow got left out. no, all was safe, but her excuse had not deceived the churchwarden. "phemie," he said, not unkindly, though the word brought tears to her eyes, for it was the first time that anyone had called her by the old childhood name since the night that martin died--"phemie, you should not stint yourself in fires. it is a false economy; you must let me send you a coal ticket." "oh no, thank you very much; we have plenty," she cried, speaking quickly, for she would rather have starved outright, than that it should be said a member of the dorcas society had taken a parish coal ticket. he urged her no more, but took the chair that she offered him, feeling a little uncomfortable withal, as a well-clothed and overfed man should, in the presence of penury. it was true he had not been to see her for some time; but, then, bellevue lodge was so far off, and he had been so pressed with the cares of the parish and of his business. besides that, their walks of life were so different, and there was naturally a strong objection to any kinswoman of his keeping a lodging-house. he felt sorry now that compassion had betrayed him into calling her "cousin" and "phemie"; she certainly _was_ a distant kinswoman, but _not_, he repeated to himself, a cousin; he hoped she had not noticed his familiarity. he wiped his face with a pocket-handkerchief that had seen some service, and gave an introductory cough. "there is a little matter on which i should like to have a few words with you," he said, and miss joliffe's heart was in her mouth; he _had_ heard, then, of these terrible debts and of the threatened summons. "forgive me if i go direct to business. i am a business man and a plain man, and like plain speaking." it is wonderful to what rude remarks, and unkind remarks and untrue remarks such words as these commonly form the prelude, and how very few of these plain speakers enjoy being plainly spoken to in turn. "we were talking just now," he went on, "of the duty of walking circumspectly, but it is our duty, miss joliffe, to see that those over whom we are set in authority walk circumspectly as well. i mean no reproach to you, but others beside me think it would be well that you should keep closer watch over your niece. there is a nobleman of high station that visits much too often at this house. i will _not_ name any names"--and this with a tone of magnanimous forbearance--"but you will guess who i mean, because the nobility is not that frequent hereabout. i am sorry to have to speak of such things which ladies generally see quick enough for themselves, but as churchwarden i can't shut my ears to what is matter of town talk; and more by token when a namesake of my own is concerned." the composure which miss joliffe had been seeking in vain, came back to her at the pork-butcher's words, partly in the relief that he had not broached the subject of debts which had been foremost in her mind, partly in the surprise and indignation occasioned by his talk of anastasia. her manner and very appearance changed, and none would have recognised the dispirited and broken-down old lady in the sharpness of her rejoinder. "mr joliffe," she apostrophised with tart dignity, "you must forgive me for thinking that i know a good deal more about the nobleman in question than you do, and i can assure you _he_ is a perfect gentleman. if he has visited this house, it has been to see mr westray about the restoration of the minster. i should have thought one that was churchwarden would have known better than to go bandying scandals about his betters; it is small encouragement for a nobleman to take an interest in the church if the churchwarden is to backbite him for it." she saw that her cousin was a little taken aback, and she carried the war into the enemy's country, and gave another thrust. "not but what lord blandamer has called upon me too, apart from mr westray. and what have you to say to _that_? if his lordship has thought fit to honour me by drinking a cup of tea under my roof, there are many in cullerne would have been glad to get out their best china if he had only asked himself to _their_ houses. and there are some might well follow his example, and show themselves a little oftener to their friends and relations." the churchwarden wiped his face again, and puffed a little. "far be it from me," he said, dwelling on the expression with all the pleasure that a man of slight education takes in a book phrase that he has got by heart--"far be it from me to set scandals afloat--'twas _you_ that used the word scandal--but i have daughters of my own to consider. i have nothing to say against anastasia, who, i believe, is a good girl enough"--and his patronising manner grated terribly on miss joliffe--"though i wish i could see her take more interest in the sunday-school, but i won't hide from you that she has a way of carrying herself and mincing her words which does _not_ befit her station. it makes people take notice, and 'twould be more becoming she should drop it, seeing she will have to earn her own living in service. i don't want to say anything against lord blandamer either--he seems to be well-intentioned to the church--but if tales are true the _old_ lord was no better than he should be, and things have happened before now on your side of the family, miss joliffe, that make connections feel uncomfortable about anastasia. we are told that the sins of the fathers will be visited to the third and fourth generation." "well," miss joliffe said, and made a formidable pause on this adverb, "if it is the manners of your side of the family to come and insult people in their own houses, i am glad i belong to the other side." she was alive to the profound gravity of such a sentiment, yet was prepared to take her stand upon it, and awaited another charge from the churchwarden with a dignity and confidence that would have become the old guard. but no fierce passage of arms followed; there was a pause, and if a dignified ending were desired the interview should here have ended. but to ordinary mortals the sound of their own voices is so musical as to deaden any sense of anticlimax; talking is continued for talking's sake, and heroics tail off into desultory conversation. both sides were conscious that they had overstated their sentiments, and were content to leave main issues undecided. miss joliffe did not take the bills out of their drawer again after the churchwarden had left her. the current of her ideas had been changed, and for the moment she had no thought for anything except the innuendoes of her visitor. she rehearsed to herself without difficulty the occasions of lord blandamer's visits, and although she was fully persuaded that any suspicions as to his motives were altogether without foundation, she was forced to admit that he _had_ been at bellevue lodge more than once when she had been absent. this was no doubt a pure coincidence, but we were enjoined to be wise as serpents as well as innocent as doves, and she would take care that no further occasion was given for idle talk. anastasia on her return found her aunt unusually reserved and taciturn. miss joliffe had determined to behave exactly as usual to anastasia because her niece was entirely free from fault; but she was vexed at what the churchwarden had said, and her manner was so mysterious and coldly dignified as to convince anastasia that some cause for serious annoyance had occurred. did anastasia remark that it was a close morning, her aunt looked frowningly abstracted and gave no reply; did anastasia declare that she had not been able to get any knitting-needles, they were quite out of them, her aunt said, "oh!" in a tone of rebuke and resignation which implied that there were far more serious matters in the world than knitting-needles. this dispensation lasted a full half-hour, but beyond that the kindly old heart was quite unequal to supporting a proper hauteur. the sweet warmth of her nature thawed the chilly exterior; she was ashamed of her moodiness, and tried to "make up" for it to anastasia by manifestation of special affection. but she evaded her niece's attempts at probing the matter, and was resolved that the girl should know nothing of cousin joliffe's suggestions or even of the fact of his visit. but if anastasia knew nothing of these things, she was like to be singular in her ignorance. all cullerne knew; it was in the air. the churchwarden had taken a few of the elders into his confidence, and asked their advice as to the propriety of his visit of remonstrance. the elders, male and female, heartily approved of his action, and had in their turn taken into confidence a few of their intimate and specially-to-be-trusted friends. then ill-natured and tale-bearing miss sharp told lying and mischief-making mrs flint, and lying and mischief-making mrs flint talked the matter over at great length with the rector, who loved all kinds of gossip, especially of the highly-spiced order. it was speedily matter of common knowledge that lord blandamer was at the hand of god (so ridiculous of a lodging-house keeper christening a public-house bellevue lodge!) at _all_ hours of the day _and_ night, and that miss joliffe was content to look at the ceiling on such occasions; and worse, to go to meetings so as to leave the field undisturbed (what intolerable hypocrisy making an excuse of the dorcas meetings!); that lord blandamer loaded--simply loaded--that pert and good-for-nothing girl with presents; that even the young architect was forced to change his lodgings by such disreputable goings-on. people wondered how miss joliffe and her niece had the effrontery to show themselves at church on sundays; the younger creature, at least, must have _some_ sense of shame left, for she never ventured to exhibit in _public_ either the fine dresses or the jewellery that her lover gave her. such stories came to westray's ears, and stirred in him the modicum of chivalry which leavens the lump of most men's being. he was still smarting under his repulse, but he would have felt himself disgraced if he had allowed the scandal to pass unchallenged, and he rebutted it with such ardour that people shrugged their shoulders, and hinted that there had been something between _him_, too, and anastasia. clerk janaway was inclined to take a distressingly opportunist and matter-of-fact view of the question. he neither reprobated nor defended. in his mind the divine right of peers was firmly established. so long as they were rich and spent their money freely, we should not be too particular. they were to be judged by standards other than those of common men; for his part, he was glad they had got in place of an old curmudgeon a man who would take an interest in the church, and spend money on the place and the people. if he took a fancy to a pretty face, where was the harm? 'twas nothing to the likes of them, best let well alone; and then he would cut short the churchwarden's wailings and godly lamentations by "decanting" on the glories of fording, and the boon it was to the countryside to have the place kept up once more. "clerk janaway, your sentiments do you no credit," said the pork-butcher on one such occasion, for he was given to gossip with the sexton on terms of condescending equality. "i have seen fording myself, having driven there with the carisbury field club, and felt sure it must be a source of temptation if not guarded against. that one man should live in such a house is an impiety; he is led to go about like nebuchadnezzar, saying: `is not this great babylon that i have builded?'" "_he_ never builded it," said the clerk with some inconsequence; "'twere builded centuries ago. i've heard 'tis that old no one don't know _who_ builded it. your parents was dissenters, mr joliffe, and never taught you the catechism when you was young; but as for me, i order myself to my betters as i should, so long as they orders themselves to me. 'taint no use to say as how we're all level; you've only got to go to mothers' meetings, my old missus says, to see that. 'tis no use looking for too much, nor eating salt with red herrings." "well, well," the other deprecated, "i'm not blaming his lordship so much as them that lead him on." "don't go for to blame the girl, neither, too hardly; there's faults on both sides. his grandfather didn't always toe the line, and there were some on her side didn't set too good an example, neither. i've seen many a queer thing in my time, and have got to think blood's blood, and forerunners more to blame than children. if there's drink in fathers, there'll be drink in sons and grandsons till 'tis worked out; and if there's wild love in the mothers, daughters 'll likely sell their apples too. no, no, god-amighty never made us equal, and don't expect us all to be churchwardens. some on us comes of virtuous forerunners, and are born with wings at the back of our shoulders like you"--and he gave a whimsical look at his listener's heavy figure--"to lift us up to the vaulting; and some on us our fathers fits out with lead soles to the bottom of our boots to keep us on the floor." saturday afternoon was lord blandamer's hour, and for three saturdays running miss joliffe deserted the dorcas meeting in order to keep guard at home. it rejoiced the moral hearts of ill-natured and tale-bearing miss sharp and of lying and mischief-making mrs flint that the disreputable old woman had at least the decency not to show herself among her betters, but such defection was a sore trial to miss joliffe. she told herself on each occasion that she _could_ not make such a sacrifice again, and yet the love of anastasia constrained her. to her niece she offered the patent excuse of being unwell, but the girl watched her with wonder and dismay chafe feverishly through the two hours, which had been immemorially consecrated to these meetings. the recurrence of a weekly pleasure, which seems so limitless in youth and middle age, becomes less inexhaustible as life turns towards sunset. thirty takes lightly enough the foregoing of a saturday reunion, the uncongenial spending of a sunday; but seventy can see the end of the series, and grudges every unit of the total that remains. for three saturdays miss joliffe watched, and for three saturdays no suspicious visitor appeared. "we have seen nothing of lord blandamer lately," she would remark at frequent intervals with as much indifference as the subject would allow. "there is nothing to bring him here now that mr westray has gone. why should he come?" why, indeed, and what difference would it make to her if he never came again? these were questions that anastasia had discussed with herself, at every hour of every day of those blank three weeks. she had ample time for such foolish discussions, for such vain imaginings, for she was left much to herself, having no mind-companions either of her own age or of any other. she was one of those unfortunate persons whose education and instincts' unfit them for their position. the diversions of youth had been denied her, the pleasures of dress or company had never been within her reach. for pastime she was turned back continually to her own thoughts, and an active imagination and much desultory reading had educated her in a school of romance, which found no counterpart in the life of cullerne. she was proud at heart (and it is curious that those are often the proudest who in their neighbours' estimation have least cause for pride), but not conceited in manner in spite of mr joliffe's animadversion on the mincing of her words. yet it was not her pride that had kept her from making friends, but merely the incompatibility of mental temperament, which builds the barrier not so much between education and ignorance, as between refinement and materialism, between romance and commonplace. that barrier is so insurmountable that any attempt upon it must end in failure that is often pathetic from its very hopelessness; even the warmth of ardent affection has never yet succeeded in evolving a mental companionship from such discordant material. by kindly dispensation of nature the breadth of the gulf, indeed, is hidden from those who cannot cross it. they know it is there, they have some inkling of the difference of view, but they think that love may build a bridge across, or that in time they may find some other access to the further side. sometimes they fancy that they are nearer to the goal, that they walk step and step with those they love; but this, alas! is not to be, because the mental sympathy, the touch of illumination that welds minds together, is wanting. it was so with miss joliffe the elder--she longed to be near her niece, and was so very far away; she thought that they went hand in hand, when all the while a different mental outlook set them poles asunder. with all her thousand good honest qualities, she was absolutely alien to the girl; and anastasia felt as if she was living among people of another nation, among people who did not understand her language, and she took refuge in silence. the dulness of cullerne had grown more oppressive to her in the last year. she longed for a life something wider, she longed for sympathy. she longed for what a tall and well-favoured maiden of her years most naturally desires, however much she may be ignorant of her desire; she longed for someone to admire her and to love her; she longed for someone about whom she could weave a romance. the junior partner in rose and storey perhaps discerned her need, and tried to supply it. he paid her such odious compliments on the "hang of her things," that she would never have entered the shop again, were it not that bellevue lodge was bound hand and foot to rose and storey, for they were undertakers as well as milliners; and, besides, the little affair of the bonnets, the expenses of martin's funeral, were still unsatisfied. there was a young dairy farmer, with a face like a red harvest moon, who stopped at her aunt's door on his way to market. he would sell miss joliffe eggs and butter at wholesale prices, and grinned in a most tiresome way whenever he caught sight of anastasia. the rector patronised her insufferably; and though old mr noot was kind, he treated her like a small child, and sometimes patted her cheek, which she felt to be disconcerting at eighteen. and then the prince of romance appeared in lord blandamer. the moment that she first saw him on the doorstep that windy autumn afternoon, when yellow leaves were flying, she recognised him for a prince. the moment that he spoke to her she knew that he recognised her for a lady, and for this she felt unspeakably glad and grateful. since then the wonder had grown. it grew all the faster from the hero's restraint. he had seen anastasia but little, he spoke but little to her, he never gave her even a glance of interest, still less such glances as westray launched at her so lavishly. and yet the wonder grew. he was so different from other men she had seen, so different from all the other people she had ever met. she could not have told how she knew this, and yet she knew. it must have been an atmosphere which followed him wherever he went--that penumbra with which the gods wrap heroes--which told her he was different. the gambits of the great game of love are strangely limited, and there is little variation in the after-play. if it were not for the personal share we take, such doings would lack interest by reason of their monotony, by their too close resemblance to the primeval type. this is why the game seems dull enough to onlookers; they shock us with the callousness with which they are apt to regard our ecstasies. this is why the straightforward game palls sometimes on the players themselves after a while; and why they are led to take refuge from dulness in solving problems, in the tangled irregularities of the knight's move. anastasia would have smiled if she had been told that she had fallen in love; it might have been a thin smile, pale as winter's sunshine, but she would have smiled. it was _impossible_ for her to fall in love, because she knew that kings no longer marry beggar-maids, and she was far too well brought up to fall in love, except as a preliminary to marriage. no heroine of miss austen would permit herself even to feel attraction to a quarter from which no offer of marriage was possible; therefore anastasia could not have fallen in love. she certainly was not in the least in love, but it was true lord blandamer interested her. he interested her so much, in fact, as to be in her thoughts at all hours of the day; it was strange that no matter with what things her mind was occupied, his image should continually present itself. she wondered why this was; perhaps it was his power--she thought it was the feeling of his power, a very insolence of power that dominated all these little folk, and yet was most powerful in its restraint. she liked to think of the compact, close-knit body, of the curling, crisp, iron-grey hair, of the grey eyes, and of the hard, clear-cut face. yes, she liked the face because it _was_ hard, because it had a resolute look in it that said he meant to go whither he wished to go. there was no doubt she must have taken considerable interest in him, for she found herself dreading to pronounce his name even in the most ordinary conversation, because she felt it difficult to keep her voice at the dead level of indifference. she dreaded when others spoke of him, and yet there was no other subject that occupied her so much. and sometimes when they talked of him she had a curious feeling of jealousy, a feeling that no one had a right even to talk of him except herself; and she would smile to herself with a little scornful smile, because she thought that she knew more about him, could understand him better than them all. it was fortunate, perhaps, that the arbitrament of cullerne conversation did not rest with anastasia, or there would have been but little talking at this time; for if it seemed preposterous that others should dare to discuss lord blandamer, it seemed equally preposterous that they should take an interest in discussing anything else. she certainly was _not_ in love; it was only the natural interest, she told herself, that anyone--anyone with education and refinement--must take in a strange and powerful character. every detail about him interested her. there was a fascination in his voice, there was a melody in his low, clear voice that charmed, and made even trifling remarks seem important. did he but say it was a rainy afternoon, did he but ask if mr westray were at home, there was such mystery in his tone that no rabbinical cabalist ever read more between the lines than did miss anastasia joliffe. even in her devotions thought wandered far from the pew where she and her aunt sat in cullerne church; she found her eyes looking for the sea-green and silver, for the nebuly coat in abbot vinnicomb's window; and from the clear light yellow of the aureole round john baptist's head, fancy called up a whirl of faded lemon-coloured acacia leaves, that were in the air that day the hero first appeared. yet, if heart wavered, head stood firm. he should never know her interest in him; no word, no changing colour should ever betray her; he should never guess that agitation sometimes scarcely left her breath to make so short a rejoinder as "good-night." for three saturdays, then, miss joliffe the elder sat on guard at bellevue lodge; for three saturday afternoons in succession, she sat and chafed as the hours of the dorcas meeting came and went. but nothing happened; the heavens remained in their accustomed place, the minster tower stood firm, and then she knew that the churchwarden had been duped, that her own judgment had been right, that lord blandamer's only motive for coming to her house had been to see mr westray, and that now mr westray was gone lord blandamer would come no more. the fourth saturday arrived; miss joliffe was brighter than her niece had seen her for a calendar month. "i feel a good deal better, my dear, this afternoon," she said; "i think i shall be able to go to the dorcas meeting. the room gets so close that i have avoided going of late, but i think i shall not feel it too much to-day. i will just change, and put on my bonnet; you will not mind staying at home while i am away, will you?" and so she went. anastasia sat in the window-seat of the lower room. the sash was open, for the spring days were lengthening, and a soft, sweet air was moving about sundown. she told herself that she was making a bodice; an open workbox stood beside her, and there was spread around just such a medley of patterns, linings, scissors, cotton-reels, and buttons as is required for the proper and ceremonious carrying on of "work." but she was not working. the bodice itself, the very cause and spring of all these preparations, lay on her lap, and there, too, had fallen her hands. she half sat, half lay back on the window-seat, roaming in fancy far away, while she drank in the breath of the spring, and watched a little patch of transparent yellow sky between the houses grow pinker and more golden, as the sunset went on. then a man came down the street and mounted the steps in front of bellevue lodge; but she did not see him, because he was walking in from the country, and so did not pass her window. it was the door-bell that first broke her dreams. she slid down from her perch, and hastened to let her aunt in, for she had no doubt that it was miss joliffe who had come back from the meeting. the opening of the front-door was not a thing to be hurried through, for though there was little indeed in bellevue lodge to attract burglars, and though if burglars came they would surely select some approach other than the main entrance, yet miss joliffe insisted that when she was from home the door should be secured as if to stand a siege. so anastasia drew the top bolt, and slipped the chain, and unlocked the lock. there was a little difficulty with the bottom bolt, and she had to cry out: "i am sorry for keeping you waiting; this fastening _will_ stick." but it gave at last; she swung the heavy door back, and found herself face to face with lord blandamer. chapter eighteen. they stood face to face, and looked at one another for a second. anyone seeing those two figures silhouetted against the yellow sunset sky might have taken them for cousins, or even for brother and sister. they were both dressed in black, were both dark, and of nearly the same height, for though the man was not short, the girl was very tall. the pause that anastasia made was due to surprise. a little while ago it would have been a natural thing enough to open the door and find lord blandamer, but the month that had elapsed since last he came to bellevue lodge had changed the position. it seemed to her that she stood before him confessed, that he must know that all these weeks she had been thinking of him, had been wondering why he did not come, had been longing for him to come, that he must know the pleasure which filled her now because he was come back again. and if he knew all this, she, too, had learnt to know something, had learnt to know how great a portion of her thoughts he filled. this eating of the tree of knowledge had abashed her, for now her soul stood before her naked. did it so stand naked before him too? she was shocked that she should feel this attraction where there could be no thought of marriage; she thought that she should die if he should ever guess that one so lowly had gazed upon the sun and been dazzled. the pause that lord blandamer made was not due to surprise, for he knew quite well that it would be anastasia who opened the door. it was rather that pause which a man makes who has undertaken a difficult business, and hesitates for a moment when it comes to the touch. she cast her eyes down to the ground; he looked full at her, looked at her from head to foot, and knew that his resolution was strong enough to carry to a conclusion the affair on which he had come. she spoke first. "i am sorry my aunt is not at home," and kept her right hand on the edge of the open door, feeling grateful for any support. as the words came out she was relieved to find that it was indeed she herself who was speaking, that it was her own voice, and that her voice sounded much as usual. "i am sorry she is not in," he said, and he, too, spoke after all in just those same low, clear tones to which she was accustomed--"i am sorry she is not in, but it was _you_ that i came to see." she said nothing; her heart beat so fast that she could not have spoken even in monosyllables. she did not move, but kept her hand still on the edge of the door, feeling afraid lest she should fall if she let it go. "i have something i should like to say to you; may i come in?" she hesitated for a moment, as he knew that she would hesitate, and then let him in, as he knew that she would let him in. he shut the heavy front-door behind them, and there was no talk now of turning locks or shooting bolts; the house was left at the mercy of any burglars who might happen to be thereabout. anastasia led the way. she did not take him into mr sharnall's old room, partly because she had left half-finished clothes lying there, and partly from the more romantic reflection that it was in westray's room that they had met before. they walked through the hall and up the stairs, she going first and he following, and she was glad of the temporary respite which the long flights secured her. they entered the room, and again he shut the door behind them. there was no fire, and the window was open, but she felt as if she were in a fiery furnace. he saw her distress, but made as if he saw nothing, and pitied her for the agitation which he caused. for the past six months anastasia had concealed her feelings so very well that he had read them like a book. he had watched the development of the plot without pride, or pleasure of success, without sardonic amusement, without remorse; with some dislike for a role which force of circumstances imposed on him, but with an unwavering resolve to walk the way which he had set before him. he knew the exact point which the action of the play had reached, he knew that anastasia would grant whatever he asked of her. they were standing face to face again. to the girl it all seemed a dream; she did not know whether she was waking or sleeping; she did not know whether she was in the body or out of the body. it was all a dream, but it was a delightful dream; there was no bitterness of reflection now, no anxiety, no regard for past or future, only utter absorption in the present moment. she was with the man who had possessed her thoughts for a month past; he had come back to her. she had not to consider whether she should ever see him again; he was with her now. she had not to think whether he was there for good or evil, she had lost all volition in the will of the man who stood before her; she was the slave of his ring, rejoicing in her slavery, and ready to do his bidding as all the other slaves of that ring. he was sorry for the feelings which he had aroused, sorry for the affection he had stirred, sorry for the very love of himself that he saw written in her face. he took her hand in his, and his touch filled her with an exquisite content; her hand lay in his neither lifelessly nor entirely passively, yet only lightly returning the light pressure of his fingers. to her the situation was the supreme moment of a life; to him it was passionless as the betrothal piece in a flemish window. "anastasia," he said, "you guess what it is i have to tell you; you guess what it is that i have to ask you." she heard him speaking, and his voice was as delightful music in her delightful dream; she knew that he was going to ask something of her, and she knew that she would give him anything and all that he asked. "i know that you love me," he went on, with an inversion of the due order of the proposition, and an assumption that would have been intolerable in anyone else, "and you know that i love you dearly." it was a proper compliment to her perspicuity that she should know already that he loved her, but his mind smiled as he thought how insufficient sometimes are the bases of knowledge. "i love you dearly, and am come to ask you to be my wife." she heard what he said, and understood it; she had been prepared for his asking anything save this one thing that he had asked. the surprise of it overwhelmed her, the joy of it stunned her; she could neither speak nor move. he saw that she was powerless and speechless, and drew her closer to him. there was none of the impetuous eagerness of a lover in the action; he drew her gently towards him because it seemed appropriate to the occasion that he should do so. she lay for a minute in his arms, her head bent down, and her face hidden, while he looked not so much at her as above her. his eyes wandered over the mass of her dark-brown wavy hair that mrs flint said was not wavy by nature, but crimped to make her look like a blandamer, and so bolster up her father's nonsensical pretensions. his eyes took full account of that wave and the silken fineness of her dark-brown hair, and then looked vaguely out beyond till they fell on the great flower-picture that hung on the opposite wall. the painting had devolved upon westray on mr sharnall's death, but he had not yet removed it, and lord blandamer's eyes rested on it now so fixedly, that he seemed to be thinking more of the trashy flowers and of the wriggling caterpillar, than of the girl in his arms. his mind came back to the exigencies of the situation. "will you marry me, anastasia--will you marry me, dear anstice?" the home name seemed to add a touch of endearment, and he used it advisedly. "anstice, will you let me make you my wife?" she said nothing, but threw her arms about his neck, and raised her face a little for the first time. it was an assent that would have contented any man, and to lord blandamer it came as a matter of course; he had never for a moment doubted her acceptance of his offer. if she had raised her face to be kissed, her expectation was gratified; he kissed her indeed, but only lightly on the brow, as actor may kiss actress on the stage. if anyone had been there to see, they would have known from his eyes that his thoughts were far from his body, that they were busied with somebody or something, that seemed to him of more importance than the particular action in which he was now engaged. but anastasia saw nothing; she only knew that he had asked her to marry him, and that she was in his arms. he waited a moment, as if wondering how long the present position would continue, and what was the next step to take; but the girl was the first to relieve the tension. the wildest intoxication of the first surprise was passing off, and with returning capacity for reflection a doubt had arisen that flung a shadow like a cloud upon her joy. she disengaged herself from his arms that strove in orthodox manner to retain her. "don't," she said--"don't. we have been too rash. i know what you have asked me. i shall remember it always, and love you for it to my dying day, but it cannot be. there are things you must know before you ask me. i do not think you would ask me if you knew all." for the first time he seemed a little more in earnest, a little more like a man living life, a little less like a man rehearsing a part that he had got by heart. this was an unexpected piece of action, an episode that was not in his acting edition, that put him for the moment at a loss; though he knew it could not in any way affect the main issues of the play. he expostulated, he tried to take her hand again. "tell me what it is, child, that is troubling you," he said; "there can be nothing, nothing under heaven that could make me wish to unsay what i have said, nothing that could make us wish to undo what we have done. nothing can rob me now of the knowledge that you love me. tell me what it is." "i cannot tell you," she answered him. "it is something i cannot tell; don't ask me. i will write it. leave me now--please leave me; no one shall know that you have been here, no one must know what has passed between us." miss joliffe came back from the dorcas meeting a little downhearted and out of humour. things had not gone so smoothly as usual. no one had inquired after her health, though she had missed three meetings in succession; people had received her little compliments and cheery small-talk with the driest of negatives or affirmatives; she had an uncomfortable feeling that she was being cold-shouldered. that high moralist, mrs flint, edged her chair away from the poor lady of set purpose, and miss joliffe found herself at last left isolated from all, except mrs purlin, the builder's wife, who was far too fat and lethargic to be anything but ignorantly good-natured. then, in a fit of pained abstraction, miss joliffe had made such a bad calculation as entirely to spoil a flannel petticoat with a rheumatic belt and camphor pockets, which she had looked upon as something of a _chef d'oeuvre_. but when she got back to bellevue lodge her vexation vanished, and was entirely absorbed in solicitude for her niece. anstice was unwell, anstice was quite ill, quite flushed, and complaining of headache. if miss joliffe had feigned indisposition for three saturdays as an excuse for not leaving the house, anastasia had little need for simulation on this the fourth saturday. she was, in effect, so dazed by the event which had happened, and so preoccupied by her own thoughts, that she could scarcely return coherent replies to her aunt's questions. miss joliffe had rung and received no answer, had discovered that the front-door was unlocked, and had at last found anastasia sitting forlorn in mr westray's room with the window open. a chill was indicated, and miss joliffe put her to bed at once. bed is a first aid that even ambulance classes have not entirely taught us to dispense with; it is, moreover, a poor man's remedy, being exceedingly cheap, if, indeed, the poor man is rich enough to have a bed at all. had anastasia been miss bulteel, or even mrs parkyn, or lying and mischief-making mrs flint, dr ennefer would have been summoned forthwith; but being only anastasia, and having the vision of debt before her eyes, she prevailed on her aunt to wait to see what the night brought forth, before sending for the doctor. meanwhile dr bed, infinitely cleverest and infinitely safest of physicians, was called in, and with him was associated that excellent general practitioner dr wait. hot flannels, hot bottles, hot possets, and a bedroom fire were exhibited, and when at nine o'clock miss joliffe kissed her niece and retired for the night, she by no means despaired of the patient's speedy recovery from so sudden and unaccountable an attack. anastasia was alone; what a relief to be alone again, though she felt that such a thought was treasonable and unkind to the warm old heart that had just left her, to that warm old heart which yearned so deeply to her, but with which she had not shared her story! she was alone, and she lay a little while in quiet content looking at the fire through the iron bars at the foot of her bedstead. it was the first bedroom fire she had had for two years, and she enjoyed the luxury with a pleasure proportionate to its rarity. she was not sleepy, but grew gradually more composed, and was able to reflect on the letter which she had promised to write. it would be difficult, and she assured herself with much vigour that it must raise insurmountable obstacles, that they were obstacles which one in lord blandamer's position must admit to be quite insurmountable. yes, in this letter she would write the colophon of so wondrous a romance, the epilogue of so amazing a tragedy. but it was her conscience that demanded the sacrifice, and she took the more pleasure in making it, because she felt at heart that the pound of flesh might never really after all be cut. how thoroughly do we enjoy these sacrifices to conscience, these followings of honour's code severe, when we know that none will be mean enough to take us at our word! to what easily-gained heights of morality does it raise us to protest that we never could accept the gift that will eventually be forced into our reluctant hands, to insist that we regard as the shortest of loans the money which we never shall be called upon to repay. it was something of the same sort with anastasia. she told herself that by her letter she would give the death-blow to her love, and perhaps believed what she told, yet all the while kept hope hidden at the bottom of the box, even as in the most real perils of a dream we sometimes are supported by the sub-waking sense that we _are_ dreaming. a little later anastasia was sitting before her bedroom fire writing. it has a magic of its own--the bedroom fire. not such a one as night by night warms hothouse bedrooms of the rich, but that which burns but once or twice a year. how the coals glow between the bars, how the red light shimmers on the black-lead bricks, how the posset steams upon the hob! milk or tea, cocoa or coffee, poor commonplace liquids, are they not transmuted in the alembic of a bedroom fire, till they become nepenthe for a heartache or a philtre for romance? ah, the romance of it, when youth forestalls to-morrow's conquest, when middle life forgets that yesterday is past for ever, when even querulous old age thinks it may still have its "honour and its toil"! an old blue cloak, which served the turn of dressing-gown, had fallen apart in the exigencies of composition, and showed underlying tracts of white nightgown. below, the firelight fell on bare feet resting on the edge of the brass fender till the heat made her curl up her toes, and above, the firelight contoured certain generous curves. the roundness and the bloom of maidenhood was upon her, that bloom so transient, so irreplaceable, that renders any attempt to simulate it so profoundly ludicrous. the mass of dark hair, which turned lying-and-mischief-making mrs flint so envious, was gathered behind with a bow of black ribbon, and hung loosely over the back of her chair. she sat there writing and rewriting, erasing, blotting, tearing up, till the night was far spent, till she feared that the modest resources of the _papeterie_ would be exhausted before toil came to fruition. it was finished at last, and if it was a little formal or high-flown, or stilted, is not a certain formality postulated on momentous occasions? who would write that he was "delighted" to accept a bishopric? who would go to a levee in a straw hat? "dear lord blandamer" (the letter ran), "i do not know how i ought to write to you, for i have little experience of life to guide me. i thank you with all my heart for what you have told me. i am glad to think of it, and i always shall be. i believe there must be many strong reasons why you should not think of marrying me, yet if there are, you must know them far better than i, and you have disregarded them. but there is one reason that you cannot know, for it is known to very few; i hope it is known only to some of our own relations. perhaps i ought not to write of it at all, but i have no one to advise me. i mean what is right, and if i am doing wrong you will forgive me, will you not? and burn this letter when you have read it. "i have no right to the name i am called by; my cousins in the market place think we should use some other, but we do not even know what our real name would be. when my grandmother married old mr joliffe, she had already a son two or three years old. this son was my father, and mr joliffe adopted him; but my grandmother had no right to any but her maiden name. we never knew what that was, though my father tried all his life to find it out, and thought he was very near finding out when he fell into his last illness. we think his head must have been affected, for he used to say strange things about his parentage. perhaps the thought of this disgrace troubled him, as it has often troubled me, though i never thought it would trouble me so much as now. "i have not told my aunt about what you have said to me, and no one else shall ever know it, but it will be the sweetest memory to me of all my life. "your very sincere friend, "anastasia joliffe." it was finished at last; she had slain all her hopes, she had slain her love. he would never marry her, he would never come near her again; but she had unburdened herself of her secret, and she could not have married him with that secret untold. it was three o'clock when she crept back again to bed. the fire had gone out, she was very cold, and she was glad to get back to her bed. then nature came to her aid and sent her kindly sleep, and if her sleep was not dreamless, she dreamt of dresses, and horses, and carriages, of men-servants, and maid-servants, of lady blandamer's great house of fording, and of lady blandamer's husband. lord blandamer also sat up very late that night. as he read before another bedroom fire he turned the pages of his book with the utmost regularity; his cigar never once went out. there was nothing to show that his thoughts wandered, nothing to show that his mind was in any way preoccupied. he was reading eugenid's "aristeia" of the pagans martyred under honorius; and weighed the pros and cons of the argument as dispassionately as if the events of the afternoon had never taken place, as if there had been no such person as anastasia joliffe in the world. anastasia's letter reached him the next day at lunch, but he finished his meal before opening it. yet he must have known whence it came, for there was a bold "bellevue lodge" embossed in red on the flap of the envelope. martin joliffe had ordered stamped paper and envelopes years ago, because he said that people of whom he made genealogical inquiries paid more attention to stamped than to plain paper--it was a credential of respectability. in cullerne this had been looked upon as a gross instance of his extravagance; mrs bulteel and canon parkyn alone could use headed paper with propriety, and even the rectory only printed, and did not emboss. martin had exhausted his supply years ago, and never ordered a second batch, because the first was still unpaid for; but anastasia kept by her half a dozen of these fateful envelopes. she had purloined them when she was a girl at school, and to her they were still a cherished remnant of gentility, that pallium under which so many of us would fain hide our rags. she had used one on this momentous occasion; it seemed a fitting cover for despatches to fording, and might divert attention from the straw paper on which her letter was written. lord blandamer had seen the bellevue lodge, had divined the genesis of the embossed inscription, had unravelled all anastasia's thoughts in using it, yet let the letter lie till he had finished lunch. when he read it afterwards he criticised it as he might the composition of a stranger, as a document with which he had no very close concern. yet he appreciated the effort which it must have cost the girl to write it, was touched by her words, and felt a certain grave compassion for her. but it was the strange juggle of circumstance, the sophoclean irony of a position of which he alone held the key, that most impressed themselves upon his mood. he ordered his horse, and took the road to cullerne, but his agent met him before he had passed the first lodge, and asked some further instructions for the planting at the top of the park. so he turned and rode up to the great belt of beeches which was then being planted, and was so long engaged there that dusk forced him to abandon his journey to the town. he rode back to fording at a foot-pace, choosing devious paths, and enjoying the sunset in the autumn woods. he would write to anastasia, and put off his visit till the next day. with him there was no such wholesale destruction of writing-paper as had attended anastasia's efforts on the previous night. one single sheet saw his letter begun and ended, a quarter of an hour sufficed for committing his sentiments very neatly to writing; he flung off his sentences easily, as easily as odysseus tossed his heavy stone beyond all the marks of the phaeacians: "my dearest child, "i need not speak now of the weary hours of suspense which i passed in waiting for your letter. they are over, and all is sunshine after the clouds. i need not tell you how my heart beat when i saw an envelope with your address, nor how eagerly my fingers tore it open, for now all is happiness. thank you, a thousand times thank you for your letter; it is like you, all candour, all kindness, and all truth. put aside your scruples; everything that you say is not a featherweight in the balance; do not trouble about your name in the past, for you will have a new name in the future. it is not i, but you, who overlook obstacles, for have you not overlooked all the years that lie between your age and mine? i have but a moment to scribble these lines; you must forgive their weakness, and take for said all that should be said. i shall be with you to-morrow morning, and till then am, in all love and devotion, "yours, "blandamer." he did not even read it through before he sealed it up, for he was in a hurry to get back to eugenid and to the "aristeia" of the heathens martyred under honorius. two days later, miss joliffe put on her sunday mantle and bonnet in the middle of the week, and went down to the market place to call on her cousin the pork-butcher. her attire at once attracted attention. the only justification for such extravagance would be some parish function or festivity, and nothing of that sort could be going on without the knowledge of the churchwarden's family. nor was it only the things which she wore, but the manner in which she wore them, that was so remarkable. as she entered the parlour at the back of the shop, where the pork-butcher's lady and daughters were sitting, they thought that they had never seen their cousin look so well dressed. she had lost the pinched, perplexed, down-trodden air which had overcast her later years; there was in her face a serenity and content which communicated itself in some mysterious way even to her apparel. "cousin euphemia looks quite respectable this morning," whispered the younger to the elder daughter; and they had to examine her closely before they convinced themselves that only a piece of mauve ribbon in her bonnet was new, and that the coat and dress were just the same as they had seen every sunday for two years past. with "nods and becks and wreathed smiles" miss euphemia seated herself. "i have just popped in," she began, and the very phrase had something in it so light and flippant that her listeners started--"i have just popped in for a minute to tell you some news. you have always been particular, my dears, that no one except your branch had a right to the name of joliffe in this town. you can't deny, maria," she said deprecatingly to the churchwarden's wife, "that you have always held out that you were the real joliffes, and been a little sore with me and anstice for calling ourselves by what we thought we had a right to. well, now there will be one less outside your family to use the name of joliffe, for anstice is going to give it up. somebody has offered to find another name for her." the real joliffes exchanged glances, and thought of the junior partner in the drapery shop, who had affirmed with an oath that anastasia joliffe did as much justice to his goods as any girl in cullerne; and thought again of the young farmer who was known for certain to let miss euphemia have eggs at a penny cheaper than anyone else. "yes, anstice is going to change her name, so that will be one grievance the less. and another thing that will make matters straighter between us, maria: i can promise the little bit of silver shall never go out of the family. you know what i mean--the teapot and the spoons marked with `j' that you've always claimed for yours by right. i shall leave them all back to you when my time comes; anstice will never want such odds and ends in the station to which she's called now." the real joliffes looked at each other again, and thought of young bulteel, who had helped anastasia with the gas-standards when the minster was decorated at christmas. or was it possible that her affected voice and fine lady airs had after all caught mr westray, that rather good-looking and interesting young man, on whom both the churchwarden's daughters were not without hopes of making an impression? miss joliffe enjoyed their curiosity; she was in a teasing and mischievous mood, to which she had been a stranger for thirty years. "yes," she said, "i am one that like to own up to it when i make a mistake, and i will state i _have_ made a mistake. i suppose i must take to spectacles; it seems i cannot see things that are going on under my very eyes--no, not even when they are pointed out to me. i've come round to tell you, maria, one and all, that i was completely mistaken when i told the churchwarden that it was not on anstice's account that lord blandamer has been visiting at bellevue lodge. it seems it was just for that he came, and the proof of it is he's going to marry her. in three weeks' time she will be lady blandamer, and if you want to say goodbye to her you'd better come back and have tea with me now, for she's packed her box, and is off to london to-morrow. mrs howard, who keeps the school in carisbury where anstice went in dear martin's lifetime, will meet her and take charge of her, and get her trousseau. lord blandamer has arranged it all, and he is going to marry anstice and take her for a long tour on the continent, and i'm sure i don't know where else." it was all true. lord blandamer made no secret of the matter, and his engagement to anastasia, only child of the late martin joliffe, esquire, of cullerne, was duly announced in the london papers. it was natural that westray should have known vacillation and misgiving before he made up his mind to offer marriage. it is with a man whose family or position are not strong enough to bear any extra strain, that public opinion plays so large a part in such circumstances. if he marries beneath him he falls to the wife's level, because he has no margin of resource to raise her to his own. with lord blandamer it was different: his reliance upon himself was so great, that he seemed to enjoy rather than not, the flinging down of a gauntlet to the public in this marriage. bellevue lodge became a centre of attraction. the ladies who had contemned a lodging-house keeper's daughter courted the betrothed of a peer. from themselves they did not disguise the motive for this change, they did not even attempt to find an excuse in public. they simply executed their _volte face_ simultaneously and with most commendable regularity, and felt no more reluctance or shame in the process than a cat feels in following the man who carries its meat. if they were disappointed in not seeing anastasia herself (for she left for london almost immediately after the engagement was made public), they were in some measure compensated by the extreme readiness of miss euphemia to discuss the matter in all its bearings. each and every detail was conscientiously considered and enlarged upon, from the buttons on lord blandamer's boots to the engagement-ring on anastasia's finger; and miss joliffe was never tired of explaining that this last had an emerald--"a very large emerald, my dear, surrounded by diamonds, green and white being the colours of his lordship's shield, what they call the nebuly coat, you know." a variety of wedding gifts found their way to bellevue lodge. "great events, such as marriages and deaths, certainly do call forth the sympathy of our neighbours in a wonderful way," miss joliffe said, with all the seriousness of an innocent belief in the general goodness of mankind. "till anstice was engaged, i never knew, i am sure, how many friends i had in cullerne." she showed "the presents" to successive callers, who examined them with the more interest because they had already seen most of them in the shop-windows of cullerne, and so were able to appreciate the exact monetary outlay with which their acquaintances thought it prudent to conciliate the fording interest. every form of useless ugliness was amply represented among them-- vulgarity masqueraded as taste, niggardliness figured as generosity--and if miss joliffe was proud of them as she forwarded them from cullerne, anastasia was heartily ashamed of them when they reached her in london. "we must let bygones be bygones," said mrs parkyn to her husband with truly christian forbearance, "and if this young man's choice has not fallen exactly where we could have wished, we must remember, after all, that he _is_ lord blandamer, and make the best of the lady for his sake. we must give her a present; in your position as rector you could not afford to be left out. everyone, i hear, is giving something." "well, don't let it be anything extravagant," he said, laying down his paper, for his interest was aroused by any question of expense. "a too costly gift would be quite out of place under the circumstances. it should be rather an expression of goodwill to lord blandamer than anything of much intrinsic value." "of course, of course. you may trust me not to do anything foolish. i have my eye on just the thing. there is a beautiful set of four salt-cellars with their spoons at laverick's, in a case lined with puffed satin. they only cost thirty-three shillings, and look worth at least three pounds." chapter nineteen. the wedding was quiet, and there being no newspapers at that time to take such matters for their province, cullerne curiosity had to be contented with the bare announcement: "at saint agatha's-at-bow, horatio sebastian fynes, lord blandamer, to anastasia, only child of the late michael joliffe, of cullerne wharfe." mrs bulteel had been heard to say that she could not allow dear lord blandamer to be married without her being there. canon parkyn and mrs parkyn felt that their presence also was required _ex-officio_, and clerk janaway averred with some redundancies of expletive that he, too, "must see 'em turned off." he hadn't been to london for twenty year. if 'twere to cost a sovereign, why, 'twas a poor heart that never made merry, and he would never live to see another lord blandamer married. yet none of them went, for time and place were not revealed. but miss joliffe was there, and on her return to cullerne she held several receptions at bellevue lodge, at which only the wedding and the events connected with it were discussed. she was vested for these functions in a new dress of coffee-coloured silk, and what with a tea-urn hissing in mr sharnall's room, and muffins, toast, and sweet-cakes, there were such goings-on in the house, as had not been seen since the last coach rolled away from the old hand of god thirty years before. the company were very gracious and even affectionate, and miss joliffe, in the exhilaration of the occasion, forgot all those cold-shoulderings and askance looks which had grieved her at a certain dorcas meeting only a few weeks before. at these reunions many important particulars transpired. the wedding had been celebrated early in the morning at the special instance of the bride; only mrs howard and miss euphemia herself were present. anstice had worn a travelling dress of dark-green cloth, so that she might go straight from the church to the station. "and, my dears," she said, with a glance of all-embracing benevolence, "she looked a perfect young peeress." the kind and appreciative audience, who had all been expecting and hoping for the past six weeks, that some bolt might fall from the blue to rob anastasia of her triumph, were so astonished at the wedding having finally taken place that they could not muster a sneer among them. only lying-and-mischief-making mrs flint found courage for a sniff, and muttered something to her next neighbour about there being such things as mock marriages. the honeymoon was much extended. lord and lady blandamer went first to the italian lakes, and thence, working their way home by munich, nuremburg, and the rhine, travelled by such easy stages that autumn had set in when they reached paris. there they wintered, and there in the spring was born a son and heir to all the blandamer estates. the news caused much rejoicing in the domain; and when it was announced that the family were returning to cullerne, it was decided to celebrate the event by ringing a peal from the tower of saint sepulchre's. the proposal originated with canon parkyn. "it is a graceful compliment," he said, "to the nobleman to whose munificence the restoration is so largely due. we must show him how much stronger we have made our old tower, eh, mr westray? we must get the carisbury ringers over to teach cullerne people how such things should be done. sir george will have to stand out of his fees longer than ever, if he is to wait till the tower tumbles down now. eh, eh?" "ah, i do so dote on these old customs," assented his wife. "it is so delightful, a merry peal. i do think these good old customs should always be kept up." it was the cheapness of the entertainment that particularly appealed to her. "but is it necessary, my dear," she demurred, "to bring the ringers over from carisbury? they are a sad drunken lot. i am sure there must be plenty of young men in cullerne, who would delight to help ring the bells on such an occasion." but westray would have none of it. it was true, he said, that the tie-rods were fixed, and the tower that much the stronger; but he could countenance no ringing till the great south-east pier had been properly under-pinned. his remonstrances found little favour. lord blandamer would think it so ungracious. lady blandamer, to be sure, counted for very little; it was ridiculous, in fact, to think of ringing the minster bells for a landlady's niece, but lord blandamer would certainly be offended. "i call that clerk of the works a vain young upstart," mrs parkyn said to her husband. "i cannot think how you keep your temper with such a popinjay. i hope you will not allow yourself to be put upon again. you are so sweet-tempered and forbearing, that _everyone_ takes advantage of you." so she stirred him up till he assured her with considerable boldness that he was _not_ a man to be dictated to; the bells _should_ be rung, and he would get sir george's views to fortify his own. then sir george wrote one of those cheery little notes for which he was famous, with a proper admixture of indifferent puns and a classic conceit: that when gratitude was climbing the temple steps to lay an offering on hymen's altar, prudence must wait silent at the base till she came down. sir george should have been a doctor, his friends said; his manner was always so genial and reassuring. so having turned these happy phrases, and being overwhelmed with the grinding pressure of a great practice, he dismissed the tower of saint sepulchre from his mind, and left rector and ringers to their own devices. thus on an autumn afternoon there was a sound in cullerne that few of the inhabitants had ever heard, and the little town stopped its business to listen to the sweetest peal in all the west country. how they swung and rung and sung together, the little bells and the great bells, from beata maria, the sweet, silver-voiced treble, to taylor john, the deep-voiced tenor, that the guild of merchant taylors had given three hundred years ago. there was a charm in the air like the singing of innumerable birds; people flung up their windows to listen, people stood in the shop-doors to listen, and the melody went floating away over the salt-marshes, till the fishermen taking up their lobster-pots paused in sheer wonder at a music that they had never heard before. it seemed as if the very bells were glad to break their long repose; they sang together like the morning stars, they shouted together like the sons of god for joy. they remembered the times that were gone, and how they had rung when abbot harpingdon was given his red hat, and rung again when henry defended the faith by suppressing the abbey, and again when mary defended the faith by restoring the mass, and again when queen bess was given a pair of embroidered gloves as she passed through the market place on her way to fording. they remembered the long counter-change of life and death that had passed under the red roofs at their feet, they remembered innumerable births and marriages and funerals of old time; they sang together like the morning stars, they shouted together like the sons of god for joy, they shouted for joy. the carisbury ringers came over after all; and mrs parkyn bore their advent with less misgiving, in the hope that directly lord blandamer heard of the honour that was done him, he would send a handsome donation for the ringers as he had already sent to the workhouse, and the old folk, and the school-children of cullerne. the ropes and the cage, and the pins and the wheels, had all been carefully overhauled; and when the day came, the ringers stood to their work like men, and rang a full peal of grandsire triples in two hours and fifty-nine minutes. there was a little cask of bulteel's brightest tenpenny that some magician's arm had conjured up through the well-hole in the belfry floor: and clerk janaway, for all he was teetotaler, eyed the foaming pots wistfully as he passed them round after the work was done. "well," he said, "there weren't no int'rupted peal this time, were there? these here old bells never had a finer set of ringing-men under them, and i lay you never had a finer set of bells above your heads, my lads; now did 'ee? i've heard the bells swung many a time in carisbury tower, and heard 'em when the queen was set upon her throne, but, lor'! they arn't so deep-like nor yet so sweet as this here old ring. perhaps they've grow'd the sweeter for lying by a bit, like port in the cellars of the blandamer arms, though i've heard dr ennefer say some of it was turned so like sherry, that no man living couldn't tell the difference." westray had bowed like loyal subaltern to the verdict of his chief. sir george's decision that the bells might safely be rung lifted the responsibility from the young man's shoulders, but not the anxiety from his mind. he never left the church while the peal was ringing. first he was in the bell-chamber steadying himself by the beams of the cage, while he marked the wide-mouthed bells now open heavenwards, now turn back with a rush into the darkness below. then he crept deafened with the clangour down the stairs into the belfry, and sat on the sill of a window watching the ringers rise and fall at their work. he felt the tower sway restlessly under the stress of the swinging metal, but there was nothing unusual in the motion; there was no falling of mortar, nothing to attract any special attention. then he went down into the church, and up again into the organ-loft, whence he could see the wide bow of that late norman arch which spanned the south transept. above the arch ran up into the lantern the old fissure, zigzag like a baleful lightning-flash, that had given him so much anxiety. the day was overcast, and heavy masses of cloud drifting across the sky darkened the church. but where the shadows hung heaviest, under a stone gallery passage that ran round the inside of the lantern, could be traced one of those heavy tie-rods with which the tower had recently been strengthened. westray was glad to think that the ties were there; he hoped that they might indeed support the strain which this bell-ringing was bringing on the tower; he hoped that sir george was right, and that he, westray, was wrong. yet he had pasted a strip of paper across the crack, so that by tearing it might give warning if any serious movement were taking place. as he leant over the screen of the organ-loft, he thought of that afternoon when he had first seen signs of the arch moving, of that afternoon when the organist was playing "sharnall in d flat." how much had happened since then! he thought of that scene which had happened in this very loft, of sharnall's end, of the strange accident that had terminated a sad life on that wild night. what a strange accident it was, what a strange thing that sharnall should have been haunted by that wandering fancy of a man following him with a hammer, and then have been found in this very loft, with the desperate wound on him that the pedal-note had dealt! how much had happened--his own proposal to anastasia, his refusal, and now that event for which the bells were ringing! how quickly the scenes changed! what a creature of an hour was he, was every man, in face of these grim walls that had stood enduring, immutable, for generation after generation, for age after age! and then he smiled as he thought that these eternal realities of stone were all created by ephemeral man; that he, ephemeral man, was even now busied with schemes for their support, with anxieties lest they should fall and grind to powder all below. the bells sounded fainter and far off inside the church. as they reached his ears through the heavy stone roof they were more harmonious, all harshness was softened; the _sordino_ of the vaulting produced the effect of a muffled peal. he could hear deep-voiced taylor john go striding through his singing comrades in the intricacies of the treble bob triples, and yet there was another voice in westray's ears that made itself heard even above the booming of the tenor bell. it was the cry of the tower arches, the small still voice that had haunted him ever since he had been at cullerne. "the arch never sleeps," they said--"the arch never sleeps;" and again, "they have bound on us a burden too heavy to be borne; but we are shifting it. the arch never sleeps." the ringers were approaching the end; they had been at their work for near three hours, the , changes were almost finished. westray went down from the organ-loft, and as he walked through the church the very last change was rung. before the hum and mutter had died out of the air, and while the red-faced ringers in the belfry were quaffing their tankards, the architect had made his way to the scaffolding, and stood face to face with the zigzag crack. he looked at it carefully, as a doctor might examine a wound; he thrust his hand like thomas into the dark fissure. no, there was no change; the paper strip was unbroken, the tie-rods had done their work nobly. sir george had been quite right after all. and as he looked there was the very faintest noise heard--a whisper, a mutter, a noise so slight that it might have passed a hundred times unnoticed. but to the architect's ear it spoke as loudly as a thunderclap. he knew exactly what it was and whence it came; and looking at the crack, saw that the broad paper strip was torn half-way across. it was a small affair; the paper strip was not quite parted, it was only torn half-way through. though westray watched for an hour, no further change took place. the ringers had left the tower, the little town had resumed its business. clerk janaway was walking across the church, when he saw the architect leaning against a cross-pole of the scaffolding, on the platform high up under the arch of the south transept. "i'm just a-locking up," he called out. "you've got your own key, sir, no doubt?" westray gave an almost imperceptible nod. "well, we haven't brought the tower down this time," the clerk went on. but westray made no answer; his eyes were fixed on the little half-torn strip of paper, and he had no thought for anything else. a minute later the old man stood beside him on the platform, puffing after the ladders that he had climbed. "no int'rupted peal this time," he said; "we've fair beat the neb'ly coat at last. lord blandamer back, and an heir to keep the family going. looks as if the neb'ly coat was losing a bit of his sting, don't it?" but westray was moody, and said nothing. "why what's the matter? you bain't took bad, be you?" "don't bother me now," the architect said sharply. "i wish to heaven the peal _had_ been interrupted. i wish your bells had never been rung. look there"--and he pointed at the strip of paper. the clerk went closer to the crack, and looked hard at the silent witness. "lor' bless you! that ain't nothing," he said; "'tis only just the jarring of the bells done that. you don't expect a mushet of paper to stand as firm as an anvil-stone, when taylor john's a-swinging up aloft." "look you," westray said; "you were in church this morning. do you remember the lesson about the prophet sending his servant up to the top of a hill, to look at the sea? the man went up ever so many times and saw nothing. last he saw a little cloud like a man's hand rising out of the sea, and after that the heaven grew black, and the storm broke. i'm not sure that bit of torn paper isn't the man's hand for this tower." "don't bother yourself," rejoined the clerk; "the man's hand showed the rain was a-coming, and the rain was just what they wanted. i never can make out why folks twist the scripture round and make the man's hand into something bad. 'twas a _good_ thing, so take heart and get home to your victuals; you can't mend that bit of paper for all your staring at it." westray paid no attention to his remarks, and the old man wished him good-night rather stiffly. "well," he said, as he turned down the ladder, "i'm off. i've got to be in my garden afore dark, for they're going to seal the leek leaves to-night against the leek-show next week. my grandson took first prize last year, and his old grandad had to put up with eleventh; but i've got half a dozen leeks this season as'll beat any plant that's growed in cullerne." by the next morning the paper strip was entirely parted. westray wrote to sir george, but history only repeated itself; for his chief again made light of the matter, and gave the young man a strong hint that he was making mountains of molehills, that he was unduly nervous, that his place was to diligently carry out the instructions he had received. another strip of paper was pasted across the crack, and remained intact. it seemed as if the tower had come to rest again, but westray's scruples were not so easily allayed this time, and he took measures for pushing forward the under-pinning of the south-east pier with all possible despatch. chapter twenty. that inclination or predilection of westray's for anastasia, which he had been able to persuade himself was love, had passed away. his peace of mind was now completely restored, and he discounted the humiliation of refusal, by reflecting that the girl's affections must have been already engaged at the time of his proposal. he was ready to admit that lord blandamer would in any case have been a formidable competitor, but if they had started for the race at the same time he would have been quite prepared to back his own chances. against his rival's position and wealth, might surely have been set his own youth, regularity of life, and professional skill; but it was a mere tilting against windmills to try to win a heart that was already another's. thus disturbing influences were gradually composed, and he was able to devote an undivided attention to his professional work. as the winter evenings set in, he found congenial occupation in an attempt to elucidate the heraldry of the great window at the end of the south transept. he made sketches of the various shields blazoned in it, and with the aid of a county history, and a manual which dr ennefer had lent him, succeeded in tracing most of the alliances represented by the various quarterings. these all related to marriages of the blandamer family, for van linge had filled the window with glass to the order of the third lord blandamer, and the sea-green and silver of the nebuly coat was many times repeated, beside figuring in chief at the head of the window. in these studies westray was glad to have martin joliffe's papers by him. there was in them a mass of information which bore on the subject of the architect's inquiries, for martin had taken the published genealogy of the blandamer family, and elaborated and corrected it by all kinds of investigation as to marriages and collaterals. the story of martin's delusion, the idea of the doited grey-beard whom the boys called "old nebuly," had been so firmly impressed on westray's mind, that when he first turned over the papers he expected to find in them little more than the hallucinations of a madman. but by degrees he became aware that however disconnected many of martin's notes might appear, they possessed a good deal of interest, and the coherence which results from a particular object being kept more or less continuously in view. besides endless genealogies and bits of family history extracted from books, there were recorded all kinds of personal impressions and experiences, which martin had met with in his journeyings. but in all his researches and expeditions he professed to have but one object--the discovery of his father's name; though what record he hoped to find, or where or how he hoped to find it, whether in document or register or inscription, was nowhere set out. it was evident that the old fancy that he was the rightful owner of fording, which had been suggested to him in his oxford days, had taken such hold of his mind that no subsequent experience had been able to dislodge it. of half his parentage there was no doubt. his mother was that sophia flannery who had married yeoman joliffe, had painted the famous picture of the flowers and caterpillar, and done many other things less reputable; but over his father hung a veil of obscurity which martin had tried all his life to lift. westray had heard those early stories from clerk janaway a dozen times, how that when yeoman joliffe took sophia to church she brought him a four-year-old son by a former marriage. by a former _marriage_ martin had always stoutly maintained, as in duty bound, for any other theory would have dishonoured himself. with his mother's honour he had little concern, for where was the use of defending the memory of a mother who had made shipwreck of her own reputation with soldiers and horse-copers? it was this previous marriage that martin had tried so hard to establish, tried all the harder because other folk had wagged their heads and said there was no marriage to discover, that sophia was neither wife nor widow. towards the end of his notes it seemed as if he had found some clue--had found some clue, or thought that he had found it. in this game of hunt the slipper he had imagined that he was growing "hotter" and "hotter" till death balked him at the finish. westray recollected mr sharnall saying more than once that martin had been on the brink of solving the riddle when the end overtook him. and sharnall, too, had he not almost grasped the will-of-the-wisp when fate tripped _him_ on that windy night? many thoughts came to westray's mind as he turned these papers, many memories of others who had turned them before him. he thought of clever, worthless martin, who had wasted his days on their writing, who had neglected home and family for their sake; he thought of the little organist who had held them in his feverish hands, who had hoped by some dramatic discovery to illumine the dark setting of his own life. and as westray read, the interest grew with him too, till it absorbed the heraldry of the blandamer window from which the whole matter had started. he began to comprehend the vision that had possessed martin, that had so stirred the organist's feelings; he began to think that it was reserved for himself to make the long-sought discovery, and that he had in his own hand the clue to the strangest of romances. one evening as he sat by the fire, with a plan in his hands and a litter of martin's papers lying on a table at his side, there was a tap at the door, and miss joliffe entered. they were still close friends in spite of his leaving bellevue lodge. however sorry she had been at the time to lose her lodger, she recognised that the course he had taken was correct, and, indeed, obligatory. she was glad that he had seen his duty in this matter; it would have been quite impossible for any man of ordinary human feelings, to continue to live on in the same house under such circumstances. to have made a bid for anstice's hand, and to have been refused, was a blow that moved her deepest pity, and she endeavoured in many ways to show her consideration for the victim. providence had no doubt overruled everything for the best in ordaining that anstice should refuse mr westray, but miss joliffe had favoured his suit, and had been sorry at the time that it was not successful. so there existed between them that curious sympathy, which generally exists between a rejected lover and a woman who has done her best to further his proposal. they had since met not unfrequently, and the year which had elapsed had sufficiently blunted the edge of westray's disappointment, to enable him to talk of the matter with equanimity. he took a sad pleasure in discussing with miss joliffe the motives which might have conduced to so inexplicable a refusal, and in considering whether his offer would have been accepted if it had been made a little sooner or in another manner. nor was the subject in any way distasteful to her, for she felt a reflected glory in the fact of her niece having first refused a thoroughly eligible proposal, and having afterwards accepted one transcendently better. "forgive me, sir--forgive me, mr westray," she corrected herself, remembering that their relation was no longer one of landlady and lodger. "i am sorry to intrude on you so late, but it is difficult to find you in during the day. there is a matter that has been weighing lately on my mind. you have never taken away the picture of the flowers, which you and dear mr sharnall purchased of me. i have not hurried in the matter, feeling i should like to see you nicely settled in before it was moved, but now it is time all was set right, so i have brought it over to-night." if her dress was no longer threadbare, it was still of the neatest black, and if she had taken to wearing every day the moss-agate brooch which had formerly been reserved for sundays, she was still the very same old sweet-tempered, spontaneous, miss joliffe as in time past. westray looked at her with something like affection. "sit down," he said, offering her a chair; "did you say you had brought the picture with you?" and he scanned her as if he expected to see it produced from her pocket. "yes," she said; "my maid is bringing it upstairs"--and there was just a suspicion of hesitation on the word "maid," that showed that she was still unaccustomed to the luxury of being waited on. it was with great difficulty that she had been persuaded to accept such an allowance at anastasia's hands, as would enable her to live on at bellevue lodge and keep a single servant; and if it brought her infinite relief to find that lord blandamer had paid all martin's bills within a week of his engagement, such generosity filled her at the same time with a multitude of scruples. lord blandamer had wished her to live with them at fording, but he was far too considerate and appreciative of the situation to insist on this proposal when he saw that such a change would be uncongenial to her. so she remained at cullerne, and spent her time in receiving with dignity visits from the innumerable friends that she found she now possessed, and in the fullest enjoyment of church services, meetings, parish work, and other privileges. "it is very good of you, miss joliffe," westray said; "it is very kind of you to think of the picture. but," he went on, with a too vivid recollection of the painting, "i know how much you have always prized it, and i could not bear to take it away from bellevue lodge. you see, mr sharnall, who was part owner with me, is dead; i am only making you a present of half of it, so you must accept that from me as a little token of gratitude for all the kindness you have shown me. you _have_ been very kind to me, you know," he said with a sigh, which was meant to recall miss joliffe's friendliness, and his own grief, in the affair of the proposal. miss joliffe was quick to take the cue, and her voice was full of sympathy. "dear mr westray, you know how glad i should have been if all could have happened as you wished. yet we should try to recognise the ordering of providence in these things, and bear sorrow with meekness. but about the picture, you must let me have my own way this once. there may come a time, and that before very long, when i shall be able to buy it back from you just as we arranged, and then i am sure you will let me have it. but for the present it must be with you, and if anything should happen to me i should wish you to keep it altogether." westray had meant to insist on her retaining the picture; he would not for a second time submit to be haunted with the gaudy flowers and the green caterpillar. but while she spoke, there fell upon him one of those gusty changes of purpose to which he was peculiarly liable. there came into his mind that strange insistence with which sharnall had begged him at all hazards to retain possession of the picture. it seemed as if there might be some mysterious influence which had brought miss joliffe with it just now, and that he might be playing false to his trust with sharnall if he sent it back again. so he did not remain obdurate, but said: "well, if you really wish it, i will keep the picture for a time, and whenever you want it you can take it back again." while he was speaking there was a sound of stumbling on the stairs outside, and a bang as if something heavy had been let drop. "it is that stupid girl again," miss joliffe said; "she is always tumbling about. i am sure she has broken more china in the six months she has been with me than was broken before in six years." they went to the door, and as westray opened it great red-faced and smiling anne janaway walked in, bearing the glorious picture of the flowers and caterpillar. "what have you been doing now?" her mistress asked sharply. "very sorry, mum," said the maid, mingling some indignation with her apology, "this here gurt paint tripped i up. i'm sure i hope i haven't hurt un"--and she planted the picture on the floor against the table. miss joliffe scanned the picture with an eye which was trained to detect the very flakiest chip on a saucer, the very faintest scratch upon a teapot. "dear me, dear me!" she said, "the beautiful frame is ruined; the bottom piece is broken almost clean off." "oh, come," westray said in a pacifying tone, while he lifted the picture and laid it flat on the table, "things are not so bad as all that." he saw that the piece which formed the bottom of the frame was indeed detached at both corners and ready to fall away, but he pushed it back into position with his hand till it stuck in its place, and left little damage apparent to a casual observer. "see," he said, "it looks nearly all right. a little glue will quite repair the mischief to-morrow i am sure i wonder how your servant managed to get it up here at all--it is such a weight and size." as a matter of fact, miss joliffe herself had helped ann to carry the picture as far as the grands mulets of the last landing. the final ascent she thought could be accomplished in safety by the girl alone, while it would have been derogatory to her new position of an independent lady to appear before westray carrying the picture herself. "do not vex yourself," westray begged; "look, there is a nail in the wall here under the ceiling which will do capitally for hanging it till i can find a better place; the old cord is just the right length." he climbed on a chair and adjusted the picture, standing back as if to admire it, till miss joliffe's complacency was fairly restored. westray was busied that night long after miss joliffe had left him, and the hands of the loud-ticking clock on the mantelpiece showed that midnight was near before he had finished his work. then he sat a little while before the dying fire, thinking much of mr sharnall, whom the picture had recalled to his mind, until the blackening embers warned him that it was time to go to bed. he was rising from his chair, when he heard behind him a noise as of something falling, and looking round, saw that the bottom of the picture-frame, which he had temporarily pushed into position, had broken away again of its own weight, and was fallen on the floor. the frame was handsomely wrought with a peculiar interlacing fillet, as he had noticed many times before. it was curious that so poor a picture should have obtained a rich setting, and sometimes he thought that sophia flannery must have bought the frame at a sale, and had afterwards daubed the flower-piece to fill it. the room had grown suddenly cold with the chill which dogs the heels of a dying fire on an early winter's night. an icy breath blew in under the door, and made something flutter that lay on the floor close to the broken frame. westray stooped to pick it up, and found that he had in his hand a piece of folded paper. he felt a curious reluctance in handling it. those fantastic scruples to which he was so often a prey assailed him. he asked himself had he any right to examine this piece of paper? it might be a letter; he did not know whence it had come, nor whose it was, and he certainly did not wish to be guilty of opening someone else's letter. he even went so far as to put it solemnly on the table, like a skipper on whose deck the phantom whale-boat of the _flying dutchman_ has deposited a packet of mails. after a few minutes, however, he appreciated the absurdity of the situation, and with an effort unfolded the mysterious missive. it was a long narrow piece of paper, yellowed with years, and lined with the creases of a generation; and had on it both printed and written characters. he recognised it instantly for a certificate of marriage-- those "marriage lines" on which so often hang both the law and the prophets. there it was with all the little pigeon-holes duly filled in, and set forth how that on "march , , at the church of saint medard within, one horatio sebastian fynes, bachelor, aged twenty-one, son of horatio sebastian fynes, gentleman, was married to one sophia flannery, spinster, aged twenty-one, daughter of james flannery, merchant," with witnesses duly attesting. and underneath an ill-formed straggling hand had added a superscription in ink that was now brown and wasted: "martin born january , , at ten minutes past twelve, night." he laid it on the table and folded it out flat, and knew that he had under his eyes that certificate of the first marriage (of the only true marriage) of martin's mother, which martin had longed all his life to see, and had not seen; that patent of legitimacy which martin thought he had within his grasp when death overtook him, that clue which sharnall thought that he had within his grasp when death overtook him also. on march , , sophia flannery was married by special licence to horatio sebastian fynes, gentleman, and on january , , at ten minutes past twelve, night, martin was born. horatio sebastian--the names were familiar enough to westray. who was this horatio sebastian fynes, son of horatio sebastian fynes, gentleman? it was only a formal question that he asked himself, for he knew the answer very well. this document that he had before him might be no legal proof, but not all the lawyers in christendom could change his conviction, his intuition, that the "gentleman" sophia flannery had married was none other than the octogenarian lord blandamer deceased three years ago. there was to his eyes an air of authenticity about that yellowed strip of paper that nothing could upset, and the date of martin's birth given in the straggling hand at the bottom coincided exactly with his own information. he sat down again in the cold with his elbows on the table and his head between his hands while he took in some of the corollaries of the position. if the old lord blandamer had married sophia flannery on march , , then his second marriage was no marriage at all, for sophia was living long after that, and there had been no divorce. but if his second marriage was no marriage, then his son, lord blandamer, who was drowned in cullerne bay, had been illegitimate, and his grandson, lord blandamer, who now sat on the throne of fording, was illegitimate too. and martin's dream had been true. selfish, thriftless, idle martin, whom the boys called "old nebuly," had not been mad after all, but had been lord blandamer. it all hung on this strip of paper, this bolt fallen from the blue, this message that had come from no one knew where. whence _had_ it come? could miss joliffe have dropped it? no, that was impossible; she would certainly have told him if she had any information of this kind, for she knew that he had been trying for months to unravel the tangle of martin's papers. it must have been hidden behind the picture, and have fallen out when the bottom piece of the frame fell. he went to the picture. there was the vase of flaunting, ill-drawn flowers, there was the green caterpillar wriggling on the table-top, but at the bottom was something that he had never seen before. a long narrow margin of another painting was now visible where the frame was broken away; it seemed as if the flower-piece had been painted over some other subject, as if sophia flannery had not even been at the pains to take the canvas out, and had only carried her daub up to the edge of the frame. there was no question that the flowers masked some better painting, some portrait, no doubt, for enough was shown at the bottom to enable him to make out a strip of a brown velvet coat, and even one mother-of-pearl button of a brown velvet waistcoat. he stared at the flowers, he held a candle close to them in the hope of being able to trace some outline, to discover something of what lay behind. but the colour had been laid on with no sparing hand, the veil was impenetrable. even the green caterpillar seemed to mock him, for as he looked at it closely, he saw that sophia in her wantonness had put some minute touches of colour, which gave its head two eyes and a grinning mouth. he sat down again at the table where the certificate still lay open before him. that entry of martin's birth must be in the handwriting of sophia flannery, of faithless, irresponsible sophia flannery, flaunting as her own flowers, mocking as the face of her own caterpillar. there was a dead silence over all, the utter blank silence that falls upon a country town in the early morning hours. only the loud-ticking clock on the mantelpiece kept telling of time's passage till the carillon of saint sepulchre's woke the silence with new sabbath. it was three o'clock, and the room was deadly cold, but that chill was nothing to the chill that was rising to his own heart. he knew it all now, he said to himself--he knew the secret of anastasia's marriage, and of sharnall's death, and of martin's death. chapter twenty one. the foreman of the masons at work in the under-pinning of the south-east pier came to see westray at nine o'clock the next morning. he was anxious that the architect should go down to the church at once, for the workmen, on reaching the tower shortly after daybreak, found traces of a fresh movement which had taken place during the night. but westray was from home, having left cullerne for london by the first train. about ten of the same forenoon, the architect was in the shop of a small picture-dealer in westminster. the canvas of the flowers and caterpillar picture lay on the counter, for the man had just taken it out of the frame. "no," said the dealer, "there is no paper or any kind of lining in the frame--just a simple wood backing, you see. it is unusual to back at all, but it _is_ done now and again"--and he tapped the loose frame all round. "it is an expensive frame, well made, and with good gilding. i shouldn't be surprised if the painting underneath this daub turned out to be quite respectable; they would never put a frame like this on anything that wasn't pretty good." "do you think you can clean off the top part without damaging the painting underneath?" "oh dear, yes," the man said; "i've had many harder jobs. you leave it with me for a couple of days, and we'll see what we can make of it." "couldn't it be done quicker than that?" westray said. "i'm in rather a hurry. it is difficult for me to get up to london, and i should rather like to be by, when you begin to clean it." "don't make yourself anxious," the other said; "you can leave it in my hands with perfect confidence. we're quite used to this business." westray still looked unsatisfied. the dealer gave a glance round the shop. "well," he said, "things don't seem very busy this morning; if you're in such a hurry, i don't mind just trying a little bit of it now. we'll put it on the table in the back-room. i can see if anyone comes into the shop." "begin where the face ought to be," westray said; "let us see whose portrait it is." "no, no," said the dealer; "we won't risk the face yet. let us try something that doesn't matter much. we shall see how this stuff peels off; that'll give us a guide for the more important part. here, i'll start with the table-top and caterpillar. there's something queer about that caterpillar, beside the face some joker's fitted it up with. i'm rather shy about the caterpillar. looks to me as if it was a bit of the real picture left showing through, though i don't very well see how a caterpillar would fit in with a portrait." the dealer passed the nail of his forefinger lightly over the surface of the picture. "it seems as if 'twas sunk. you can feel the edges of this heavy daubing rough all round it." it was as he pointed out; the green caterpillar certainly appeared to form some part of the underlying picture. the man took out a bottle, and with a brush laid some solution on the painting. "you must wait for it to dry. it will blister and frizzle up the surface, then we can rub off the top gently with a cloth, and you'll see what you will see." "the fellow who painted this table-top didn't spare his colours," said the dealer half an hour later, "and that's all the better for us. see, it comes off like a skin"--and he worked away tenderly with a soft flannel. "well, i'm jiggered," he went on, "if here isn't another caterpillar higher up! no, it ain't a caterpillar; but if it ain't a caterpillar, what is it?" there was indeed another wavy green line, but westray knew what it was directly he saw it. "be careful," he said; "they aren't caterpillars at all, but just part of a coat of arms--a kind of bars in an heraldic shield, you know. there will be another shorter green line lower down." it was as he said, and in a minute more there shone out the silver field and the three sea-green bars of the nebuly coat, and below it the motto _aut fynes aut finis_, just as it shone in the top light of the blandamer window. it was the middle bar that sophia had turned into a caterpillar, and in pure wantonness left showing through, when for her own purposes she had painted out the rest of the picture. westray's excitement was getting the better of him--he could not keep still; he stood first on one leg and then on another, and drummed on the table with his fingers. the dealer put his hand on the architect's arm. "for god's sake keep quiet!" he said; "don't excite yourself. you needn't think you have found a gold mine. it ain't a ten thousand-guinea vandyke. we can't see enough yet to say what it is, but i'll bet my life you never get a twenty-pound note for it." but for all westray's impatience, the afternoon was well advanced before the head of the portrait was approached. there had been so few interruptions, that the dealer felt called upon to extenuate the absence of custom by explaining more than once that it was a very dull season. he was evidently interested in his task, for he worked with a will till the light began to fail. "never mind," he said; "i will get a lamp; now we have got so far we may as well go a bit further." it was a full-face picture, as they saw a few minutes afterwards. westray held the lamp, and felt a strange thrill go through him, as he began to make out the youthful and unwrinkled brow. surely he knew that high forehead--it was anastasia's, and there was anastasia's dark wavy hair above it. "why, it's a woman after all," the dealer said. "no, it isn't; of course, how could it be with a brown velvet coat and waistcoat? it's a young man with curly hair." westray said nothing; he was too much excited, too much interested to say a word, for two eyes were peering at him through the mist. then the mist lifted under the dealer's cloth, and the eyes gleamed with a startling brightness. they were light-grey eyes, clear and piercing, that transfixed him and read the very thoughts that he was thinking. anastasia had vanished. it was lord blandamer that looked at him out of the picture. they were lord blandamer's eyes, impenetrable and observant as to-day, but with the brightness of youth still in them; and the face, untarnished by middle age, showed that the picture had been painted some years ago. westray put his elbows on the table and his head between his hands, while he gazed at the face which had thus come back to life. the eyes pursued him, he could not escape from them, he could scarcely spare a glance even for the nebuly coat that was blazoned in the corner. there were questions revolving in his mind for which he found as yet no answer. there was some mystery to which this portrait might be the clue. he was on the eve of some terrible explanation; he remembered all kinds of incidents that seemed connected with this picture, and yet could find no thread on which to string them. of course, this head must have been painted when lord blandamer was young, but how could sophia flannery have ever seen it? the picture had only been the flowers and the table-top and caterpillar all through miss euphemia's memory, and that covered sixty years. but lord blandamer was not more than forty; and as westray looked at the face he found little differences for which no change from youth to middle age could altogether account. then he guessed that this was not the lord blandamer whom he knew, but an older one--that octogenarian who had died three years ago, that horatio sebastian fynes, gentleman, who had married sophia flannery. "it ain't a real first-rater," the dealer said, "but it ain't bad. i shouldn't be surprised if 'twas a lawrence, and, anyway, it's a sight better than the flowers. beats me to know how anyone ever came to paint such stuff as them on top of this respectable young man." westray was back in cullerne the next evening. in the press of many thoughts he had forgotten to tell his landlady that he was coming, and he stood charing while a maid-of-all-work tried to light the recalcitrant fire. the sticks were few and damp, the newspaper below them was damp, and the damp coal weighed heavily down on top of all, till the thick yellow smoke shied at the chimney, and came curling out under the worsted fringe of the mantelpiece into the chilly room. westray took this discomfort the more impatiently, in that it was due to his own forgetfulness in having sent no word of his return. "why in the world isn't the fire lit?" he said sharply. "you must have known i couldn't sit without a fire on a cold evening like this;" and the wind sang dismally in the joints of the windows to emphasise the dreariness of the situation. "it ain't nothing to do with me," answered the red-armed, coal-besmeared hoyden, looking up from her knees; "it's the missus. `he was put out with the coal bill last time,' she says, `and i ain't going to risk lighting up his fire with coal at sixpence a scuttle, and me not knowing whether he's coming back to-night.'" "well, you might see at any rate that the fire was properly laid," the architect said, as the lighting process gave evident indications of failing for the third time. "i do my best," she said in a larmoyant tone, "but i can't do everything, what with having to cook, and clean, and run up and down stairs with notes, and answer the bell every other minute to lords." "has lord blandamer been here?" asked westray. "yes, he came yesterday and twice to-day to see you," she said, "and then he left a note. there 'tis"--and she pointed to the end of the mantelpiece. westray looked round, and saw an envelope edged in black. he knew the strong, bold hand of the superscription well enough, and in his present mood it sent something like a thrill of horror through him. "you needn't wait," he said quickly to the servant; "it isn't your fault at all about the fire. i'm sure it's going to burn now." the girl rose quickly to her feet, gave an astonished glance at the grate, which was once more enveloped in impotent blackness, and left the room. an hour later, when the light outside was failing, westray sat in the cold and darkening room. on the table lay open before him lord blandamer's letter: "dear mr westray, "i called to see you yesterday, but was unfortunate in finding you absent from home, and so write these lines. there used to hang in your sitting-room at bellevue lodge an old picture of flowers which has some interest for my wife. her affection for it is based on early associations, and not, of course, on any merits of the painting itself. i thought that it belonged to miss joliffe, but i find on inquiry from her that she sold it to you some little time ago, and that it is with you now. i do not suppose that you can attach any great value to it, and, indeed, i suspect that you bought it of miss joliffe as an act of charity. if this is so, i should be obliged if you would let me know if you are disposed to part with it again, as my wife would like to have it here. "i am sorry to hear of fresh movement in the tower. it would be a bitter thought to me, if the peal that welcomed us back were found to have caused damage to the structure, but i am sure you will know that no expense should be spared to make all really secure as soon as possible. "very faithfully yours, "blandamer." westray was eager, impressionable, still subject to all the exaltations and depressions of youth. thoughts crowded into his mind with bewildering rapidity; they trod so close upon each other's heels that there was no time to marshal them in order; excitement had dizzied him. was he called to be the minister of justice? was he chosen for the scourge of god? was his the hand that must launch the bolt against the guilty? discovery had come directly to him. what a piece of circumstantial evidence were these very lines that lay open on the table, dim and illegible in the darkness that filled the room! yet clear and damning to one who had the clue. this man that ruled at fording was a pretender, enjoying goods that belonged to others, a shameless evil-doer, who had not stuck at marrying innocent anastasia joliffe, if by so stooping he might cover up the traces of his imposture. there was no lord blandamer, there was no title; with a breath he could sweep it all away like a house of cards. and was that all? was there nothing else? night had fallen. westray sat alone in the dark, his elbows on the table, his head still between his hands. there was no fire, there was no light, only the faint shimmer of a far-off street lamp brought a perception of the darkness. it was that pale uncertain luminosity that recalled to his mind another night, when the misty moon shone through the clerestory windows of saint sepulchre's. he seemed once more to be making his way up the ghostly nave, on past the pillars that stood like gigantic figures in white winding-sheets, on under the great tower arches. once more he was groping in the utter darkness of the newel stair, once more he came out into the organ-loft, and saw the baleful silver and sea-green of the nebuly coat gleaming in the transept window. and in the corners of the room lurked presences of evil, and a thin pale shadow of sharnall wrung its hands, and cried to be saved from the man with the hammer. then the horrible suspicion that had haunted him these last days stared out of the darkness as a fact, and he sprung to his feet in a shiver of cold and lit a candle. an hour, two hours, three hours passed before he had written an answer to the letter that lay before him, and in the interval a fresh vicissitude of mind had befallen him. he, westray, had been singled out as the instrument of vengeance; the clue was in his hands; his was the mouth that must condemn. yet he would do nothing underhand, he would take no man unawares; he would tell lord blandamer of his discovery, and give him warning before he took any further steps. so he wrote: "my lord," and of the many sheets that were begun and flung away before the letter was finished, two were spoiled because the familiar address "dear lord blandamer" came as it were automatically from westray's pen. he could no longer bring himself to use those words now, even as a formality, and so he began: "my lord, "i have just received your note about the picture bought by me of miss joliffe. i cannot say whether i should have been willing to part with it under ordinary circumstances. it had no apparent intrinsic value, but for me it was associated with my friend the late mr sharnall, organist of saint sepulchre's. we shared in its purchase, and it was only on his death that i came into sole possession of it. you will not have forgotten the strange circumstances of his end, and i have not forgotten them either. my friend mr sharnall was well-known among his acquaintances to be much interested in this picture. he believed it to be of more importance than appeared, and he expressed himself strongly to that effect in my presence, and once also, i remember, in yours. "but for his untimely death i think he would have long ago made the discovery to which chance has now led me. the flowers prove to be a mere surface painting which concealed what is undoubtedly a portrait of the late lord blandamer, and at the back of the canvas were found copies of certain entries in parish registers relating to him. i most earnestly wish that i could end here by making over these things to you, but they seem to me to throw so strange a light on certain past events that i must hold myself responsible for them, and can give them up to no private person. at the same time, i do not feel justified in refusing to let you see picture and papers, if you should wish to do so, and to judge yourself of their importance. i am at the above address, and shall be ready to make an appointment at any time before monday next, after which date i shall feel compelled to take further steps in this matter." westray's letter reached lord blandamer the next morning. it lay at the bottom of a little heap of correspondence on the breakfast-table, like the last evil lot to leap out of the shaken urn, an ephedrus, like that adulterer who at the finish tripped the conqueror of troy. he read it at a glance, catching its import rather by intuition than by any slavish following of the written characters. if earth was darkness at the core, and dust and ashes all that is, there was no trace of it in his face. he talked gaily, he fulfilled the duties of a host with all his charm of manner, he sped two guests who were leaving that morning with all his usual courtesy. after that he ordered his horse, and telling lady blandamer that he might not be back to lunch, he set out for one of those slow solitary rides on the estate that often seemed congenial to his mood. he rode along by narrow lanes and bridle-paths, not forgetting a kindly greeting to men who touched their hats, or women who dropped a curtsey, but all the while he thought. the letter had sent his memory back to another black day, more than twenty years before, when he had quarrelled with his grandfather. it was in his second year at oxford, when as an undergraduate he first felt it his duty to set the whole world in order. he held strong views as to the mismanagement of the fording estates; and as a scholar and man of the world, had thought it weakness to shirk the expression of them. the timber was being neglected, there was no thinning and no planting. the old-fashioned farmhouses were being let fall into disrepair, and then replaced by parsimonious eaveless buildings; the very grazing in the park was let, and fallow-deer and red-deer were jostled by sheep and common mongrel cows. the question of the cows had galled him till he was driven to remonstrate strongly with his grandfather. there had never been much love lost between the pair, and on this occasion the young man found the old man strangely out of sympathy with suggestions of reform. "thank you," old lord blandamer had said; "i have heard all you have to say. you have eased your mind, and now you can go back to oxford in peace. i have managed fording for forty years, and feel myself perfectly competent to manage it for forty years more. i don't quite see what concern you have in the matter. what business is it of yours?" "you don't see what concern i have in it," said the reformer impetuously; "you don't know what business it is of mine? why, damage is being done here that will take a lifetime to repair." a man must be on good terms with his heir not to dislike the idea of making way for him, and the old lord flew into one of those paroxysms of rage which fell upon him more frequently in his later years. "now, look you," he said; "you need not trouble yourself any more about fording, nor think you will be so great a sufferer by my mismanagement. it is by no means certain that i shall ever burden you with the place at all." then the young man was angry in his turn. "don't threaten me, sir," he said sharply; "i am not a boy any longer to be cowed by rough words, so keep your threats for others. you would disgrace the family and disgrace yourself, if you left the property away from the title." "make your mind easy," said the other; "the property shall follow the title. get away, and let me hear no more, or you may find both left away from you." the words were lightly spoken, perhaps in mere petulance at being taken to task by a boy, perhaps in the exasperating pangs of gout; but they had a bitter sound, and sank deep into the heart of youth. the threat of the other possible heirs was new, and yet was not new to him. it seemed as if he had heard something of this before, though he could not remember where; it seemed as if there had always been some ill-defined, intangible suspicion in the air of fording to make him doubt, since he came to thinking years, whether the title ever really would be his. lord blandamer remembered these things well, as he walked his horse through the beech-leaves with westray's letter in his breast-pocket. he remembered how his grandfather's words had sent him about with a sad face, and how his grandmother had guessed the reason. he wondered how she had guessed it; but she too, perhaps, had heard these threats before, and so came at the cause more easily. yet when she had forced his confidence she had little comfort to give. he could see her now, a stately woman with cold blue eyes, still handsome, though she was near sixty. "since we are speaking of this matter," she said with chilling composure, "let us speak openly. i will tell you everything i know, which is nothing. your grandfather threatened me once, many years ago, as he has threatened you now, and we have never forgotten nor forgiven." she moved herself in her chair, and there came a little flush of red to her cheek. "it was about the time of your father's birth; we had quarrelled before, but this was our first serious quarrel, and the last. your father was different from me, you know, and from you; he never quarrelled, and he never knew this story. so far as i was concerned i took the responsibility of silence, and it was wisest so." she looked sterner than ever as she went on. "i have never heard or discovered anything more. i am not afraid of your grandfather's intentions. he has a regard for the name, and he means to leave all to you, who have every right, unless, indeed, it may be, a legal right. there is one more thing about which i was anxious long ago. you have heard about a portrait of your grandfather that was stolen from the gallery soon after your father's birth? suspicion fell upon no one in particular. of course, the stable door was locked after the horse was gone, and we had a night-watchman at fording for some time; but little stir was made, and i do not believe your grandfather ever put the matter in the hands of the police. it was a spiteful trick, he said; he would not pay whoever had done it the compliment of taking any trouble to recover the portrait. the picture was of himself; he could have another painted any day. "by whatever means that picture was removed, i have little doubt that your grandfather guessed what had become of it. does it still exist? was it stolen? or did he have it taken away to prevent its being stolen? we must remember that, though we are quite in the dark about these people, there is nothing to prevent their being shown over the house like any other strangers." then she drew herself up, and folded her hands in her lap, and he saw the great rings flashing on her white fingers. "that is all i know," she finished, "and now let us agree not to mention the subject again, unless one of us should discover anything more. the claim may have lapsed, or may have been compounded, or may never have existed; i think, anyhow, we may feel sure now that no move will be made in your grandfather's lifetime. my advice to you is not to quarrel with him; you had better spend your long vacations away from fording, and when you leave oxford you can travel." so the young man went out from fording, for a wandering that was to prove half as long as that of israel in the wilderness. he came home for a flying visit at wide intervals, but he kept up a steady correspondence with his grandmother as long as she lived. only once, and that in the last letter which he ever received from her, did she allude to the old distasteful discussion. "up to this very day," she wrote, "i have found out nothing; we may still hope that there is nothing to find out." in all those long years he consoled himself by the thought that he was bearing expatriation for the honour of the family, that he was absenting himself so that his grandfather might find the less temptation to drag the nebuly coat in the mire. to make a fetish of family was a tradition with blandamers, and the heir as he set out on his travels, with the romance of early youth about him, dedicated himself to the nebuly coat, with a vow to "serve and preserve" as faithfully as any ever taken by templar. last of all the old lord passed away. he never carried out his threat of disinheritance, but died intestate, and thus the grandson came to his own. the new lord blandamer was no longer young when he returned; years of wild travel had hardened his face, and made his heart self-reliant, but he came back as romantic as he went away. for nature, if she once endows man or woman with romance, gives them so rich a store of it as shall last them, life through, unto the end. in sickness or health, in poverty or riches, through middle age and old age, through loss of hair and loss of teeth, under wrinkled face and gouty limbs, under crow's-feet and double chins, under all the least romantic and most sordid malaisances of life, romance endures to the end. its price is altogether above rubies; it can never be taken away from those that have it, and those that have it not, can never acquire it for money, nor by the most utter toil--no, nor ever arrive at the very faintest comprehension of it. the new lord had come back to fording full of splendid purpose. he was tired of wandering; he would marry; he would settle down and enjoy his own; he would seek the good of the people, and make his great estates an example among landowners. and then within three weeks he had learned that there was a pretender to the throne, that in cullerne there was a visionary who claimed to be the very lord blandamer. he had had this wretched man pointed out to him once in the street--a broken-down fellow who was trailing the cognisance of all the blandamers in the mud, till the very boys called him old nebuly. was he to fight for land, and house, and title, to fight for everything, with a man like that? and yet it might come to fighting, for within a little time he knew that this was the heir who had been the intangible shadow of his grandmother's life and of his own; and that martin might stumble any day upon the proof that was lacking. and then death set a term to martin's hopes, and lord blandamer was free again. but not for long, for in a little while he heard of an old organist who had taken up martin's role--a meddlesome busybody who fished in troubled waters, for the trouble's sake. what had such a mean man as this to do with lands, and titles, and coats of arms? and yet this man was talking under his breath in cullerne of crimes, and clues, and retribution near at hand. and then death put a term to sharnall's talk, and lord blandamer was free again. free for a longer space, free this time finally for ever; and he married, and marriage set the seal on his security, and the heir was born, and the nebuly coat was safe. but now a new confuter had risen to balk him. was he fighting with dragon's spawn? were fresh enemies to spring up from the--the simile did not suit his mood, and he truncated it. was this young architect, whose very food and wages in cullerne were being paid for by the money that he, lord blandamer, saw fit to spend upon the church, indeed to be the avenger? was his own creature to turn and rend him? he smiled at the very irony of the thing, and then he brushed aside reflections on the past, and stifled even the beginnings of regret, if, indeed, any existed. he would look at the present, he would understand exactly how matters stood. lord blandamer came back to fording at nightfall, and spent the hour before dinner in his library. he wrote some business letters which could not be postponed, but after dinner read aloud to his wife. he had a pleasant and well-trained voice, and amused lady blandamer by reading from the "ingoldsby legends," a new series of which had recently appeared. whilst he read anastasia worked at some hangings, which had been left unfinished by the last lady blandamer. the old lord's wife had gone out very little, but passed her time for the most part with her gardens, and with curious needlework. for years she had been copying some moth-eaten fragments of stuart tapestry, and at her death left the work still uncompleted. the housekeeper had shown these half-finished things and explained what they were, and anastasia had asked lord blandamer whether it would be agreeable to him that she should go on with them. the idea pleased him, and so she plodded away evening by evening, very carefully and slowly, thinking often of the lonely old lady whose hands had last been busied with the same task. this grandmother of her husband seemed to have been the only relation with whom he had ever been on intimate terms, and anastasia's interest was quickened by an excellent portrait of her as a young girl by lawrence, which hung in the long gallery. could the old lady have revisited for once the scene of her labours, she would have had no reason to be dissatisfied with her successor. anastasia looked distinguished enough as she sat at her work-frame, with the skeins of coloured silks in her lap and the dark-brown hair waved on her high forehead; and a dress of a rich yellow velvet might have supported the illusion that a portrait of some bygone lady of the blandamers had stepped down out of its frame. that evening her instinct told her that something was amiss, in spite of all her husband's self-command. something very annoying must have happened among the grooms, gardeners, gamekeepers, or other dependents; he had been riding about to set the matter straight, and it was no doubt of a nature that he did not care to mention to her. chapter twenty two. westray passed a day of painful restlessness. he had laid his hand to a repugnant business, and the burden of it was too heavy for him to bear. he felt the same gnawing anxiety, that is experienced by one whom doctors have sentenced to a lethal operation. one man may bear himself more bravely in such circumstances than another, but by nature every man is a coward; and the knowledge that the hour is approaching, when the surgeon's knife shall introduce him to a final struggle of life and death cannot be done away. so it was with westray; he had undertaken a task for which he was not strong enough, and only high principle, and a sense of moral responsibility, kept him from panic and flight. he went to the church in the morning, and endeavoured to concentrate attention on his work, but the consciousness of what was before him would not be thrust aside. the foreman-mason saw that his master's thoughts were wandering, and noticed the drawn expression on his face. in the afternoon his restlessness increased, and he wandered listlessly through the streets and narrow entries of the town, till he found himself near nightfall at that place by the banks of the cull, where the organist had halted on the last evening of his life. he stood leaning over the iron railing, and looked at the soiled river, just as mr sharnall had looked. there were the dark-green tresses of duck-weed swaying to and fro in the shallow eddies, there was the sordid collection of broken and worthless objects that lay on the bottom, and he stared at them till the darkness covered them one by one, and only the whiteness of a broken dish still flickered under the water. then he crept back to his room as if he were a felon, and though he went early to bed, sleep refused to visit him till the day began to break. with daylight he fell into a troubled doze, and dreamt that he was in a witness-box before a crowded court. in the dock stood lord blandamer dressed in full peer's robes, and with a coronet on his head. the eyes of all were turned upon him, westray, with fierce enmity and contempt, and it was he, westray, that a stern-faced judge was sentencing, as a traducer and lying informer. then the people in the galleries stamped with their feet and howled against him in their rage; and waking with a start, he knew that it was the postman's sharp knock on the street-door, that had broken his slumber. the letter which he dreaded lay on the table when he came down. he felt an intense reluctance in opening it. he almost wondered that the handwriting was still the same; it was as if he had expected that the characters should be tremulous, or the ink itself blood-red. lord blandamer acknowledged mr westray's letter with thanks. he should certainly like to see the picture and the family papers of which mr westray spoke; would mr westray do him the favour of bringing the picture to fording? he apologised for putting him to so much trouble, but there was another picture in the gallery at fording, with which it might be interesting to compare the one recently discovered. he would send a carriage to meet any train; mr westray would no doubt find it more convenient to spend the night at fording. there was no expression of surprise, curiosity, indignation or alarm; nothing, in fact, except the utmost courtesy, a little more distant perhaps than usual, but not markedly so. westray had been unable to conjecture what would be the nature of lord blandamer's answer. he had thought of many possibilities, of the impostor's flight, of lavish offers of hush-money, of passionate appeals for mercy, of scornful and indignant denial. but in all his imaginings he had never imagined this. ever since he had sent his own letter, he had been doubtful of its wisdom, and yet he had not been able to think of any other course that he would have preferred. he knew that the step he had taken in warning the criminal was quixotic, and yet it seemed to him that lord blandamer had a certain right to see his own family portrait and papers, before they were used against him. he could not feel sorry that he had given the opportunity, though he had certainly hoped that lord blandamer would not avail himself of it. but go to fording he would not. that, at any rate, no fantastic refinement of fair play could demand of him. he knew his mind at least on this point; he would answer at once, and he got out a sheet of paper for his refusal. it was easy to write the number of his house, and the street, and cullerne, and the formal "my lord," which he used again for the address. but what then? what reason was he to give for his refusal? he could allege no business appointment or other serious engagement as an obstacle, for he himself had said that he was free for a week, and had offered lord blandamer to make an appointment on any day. he himself had offered an interview; to draw back now would be mean and paltry in the extreme. it was true that the more he thought of this meeting the more he shrank from it. but it could not be evaded now. it was, after all, only the easiest part of the task that he had set before him, only a prolusion to the tragedy that he would have to play to a finish. lord blandamer deserved, no doubt, all the evil that was to fall on him; but in the meanwhile he, westray, was incapable of refusing this small favour, asked by a man who was entirely at his mercy. then he wrote with a shrinking heart, but with yet another fixed purpose, that he would bring the picture to fording the next day. he preferred not to be met at the station; he would arrive some time during the afternoon, but could only stay an hour at the most, as he had business which would take him on to london the same evening. it was a fine autumn day on the morrow, and when the morning mists had cleared away, the sun came out with surprising warmth, and dried the dew on the lawns of many-gardened cullerne. towards mid-day westray set forth from his lodgings to go to the station, carrying under his arm the picture, lightly packed in lath, and having in his pocket those papers which had fallen out from the frame. he chose a route through back-streets, and walked quickly, but as he passed quandrill's, the local maker of guns and fishing-rods, a thought struck him. he stopped and entered the shop. "good-morning," he said to the gunsmith, who stood behind the counter; "have you any pistols? i want one small enough to carry in the pocket, but yet something more powerful than a toy." mr quandrill took off his spectacles. "ah," he said, tapping the counter with them meditatively. "let me see. mr westray, is it not, the architect at the minster?" "yes," westray answered. "i require a pistol for some experiments. it should carry a fairly heavy bullet." "oh, just so," the man said, with an air of some relief, as westray's coolness convinced him that he was not contemplating suicide. "just so, i see; some experiments. well, in that case, i suppose, you would not require any special facilities for loading again quickly, otherwise i should have recommended one of these," and he took up a weapon from the counter. "they are new-fangled things from america, revolving pistols they call them. you can fire them four times running, you see, as quick as you like," and he snapped the piece to show how well it worked. westray handled the pistol, and looked at the barrels. "yes," he said, "that will suit my purpose very well, though it is rather large to carry in the pocket." "oh, you want it for the pocket," the gunmaker said with renewed surprise in his tone. "yes; i told you that already. i may have to carry it about with me. still, i think this will do. could you kindly load it for me now?" "you are sure it's quite safe," said the gunmaker. "i ought to ask _you_ that," westray rejoined with a smile. "do you mean it may go off accidentally in my pocket?" "oh no, it's safe enough that way," said the gunmaker. "it won't go off unless you pull the trigger." and he loaded the four barrels, measuring out the powder and shot carefully, and ramming in the wads. "you'll be wanting more powder and shot than this, i suppose," he said. "very likely," rejoined the architect, "but i can call for that later." he found a heavy country fly waiting for him at lytchett, the little wayside station which was sometimes used by people going to fording. it is a seven-mile drive from the station to the house, but he was so occupied in his own reflections, that he was conscious of nothing till the carriage pulled up at the entrance of the park. here he stopped for a moment while the lodge-keeper was unfastening the bolt, and remembered afterwards that he had noticed the elaborate iron-work, and the nebuly coat which was set over the great gates. he was in the long avenue now, and he wished it had been longer, he wished that it might never end; and then the fly stopped again, and lord blandamer on horseback was speaking to him through the carriage window. there was a second's pause, while the two men looked each other directly in the eyes, and in that look all doubt on either side was ended. westray felt as if he had received a staggering blow as he came face to face with naked truth, and lord blandamer read westray's thoughts, and knew the extent of his discovery. lord blandamer was the first to speak. "i am glad to see you again," he said with perfect courtesy, "and am very much obliged to you for taking this trouble in bringing the picture." and he glanced at the crate that westray was steadying with his hand on the opposite seat. "i only regret that you would not let me send a carriage to lytchett." "thank you," said the architect; "on the present occasion i preferred to be entirely independent." his words were cold, and were meant to be cold, and yet as he looked at the other's gentle bearing, and the grave face in which sadness was a charm; he felt constrained to abate in part the effect of his own remark, and added somewhat awkwardly: "you see, i was uncertain about the trains." "i am riding back across the grass," lord blandamer said, "but shall be at the house before you;" and as he galloped off, westray knew that he rode exceedingly well. this meeting, he guessed, had been contrived to avoid the embarrassment of a more formal beginning. it was obvious that their terms of former friendship could no longer be maintained. nothing would have induced him to have shaken hands, and this lord blandamer must have known. as westray stepped into the hall through inigo jones' ionic portico, lord blandamer entered from a side-door. "you must be cold after your long drive. will you not take a biscuit and a glass of wine?" westray motioned away the refreshment which a footman offered him. "no, thank you," he said; "i will not take anything." it was impossible for him to eat or drink in this house, and yet again he softened his words by adding: "i had something to eat on the way." the architect's refusal was not lost upon lord blandamer. he had known before he spoke that his offer would not be accepted. "i am afraid it is useless to ask you to stop the night with us," he said; and westray had his rejoinder ready: "no; i must leave lytchett by the seven five train. i have ordered the fly to wait." he had named the last train available for london, and lord blandamer saw that his visitor had so arranged matters, that the interview could not be prolonged for more than an hour. "of course, you _could_ catch the night-mail at cullerne road," he said. "it is a very long drive, but i sometimes go that way to london myself." his words called suddenly to westray's recollection that night walk when the station lights of cullerne road were seen dimly through the fog, and the station-master's story that lord blandamer had travelled by the mail on the night of poor sharnall's death. he said nothing, but felt his resolution strengthened. "the gallery will be the most convenient place, perhaps, to unpack the picture," lord blandamer said; and westray at once assented, gathering from the other's manner that this would be a spot where no interruption need be feared. they went up some wide and shallow stairs, preceded by a footman, who carried the picture. "you need not wait," lord blandamer said to the man; "we can unpack it ourselves." when the wrappings were taken off, they stood the painting on the narrow shelf formed by the top of the wainscot which lined the gallery, and from the canvas the old lord surveyed them with penetrating light-grey eyes, exactly like the eyes of the grandson who stood before him. lord blandamer stepped back a little, and took a long look at the face of this man, who had been the terror of his childhood, who had darkened his middle life, who seemed now to have returned from the grave to ruin him. he knew himself to be in a desperate pass. here he must make the last stand, for the issue lay between him and westray. no one else had learned the secret. he understood and relied implicitly on westray's fantastic sense of honour. westray had written that he would "take no steps" till the ensuing monday, and lord blandamer was sure that no one would be told before that day, and that no one had been told yet. if westray could be silenced all was saved; if westray spoke, all was lost. if it had been a question of weapons, or of bodily strength, there was no doubt which way the struggle would have ended. westray knew this well now, and felt heartily ashamed of the pistol that was bulging the breast-pocket on the inside of his coat. if it had been a question of physical attack, he knew now that he would have never been given time, or opportunity for making use of his weapon. lord blandamer had travelled north and south, east and west; he had seen and done strange things; he had stood for his life in struggles whence only one could come out alive; but here was no question of flesh and blood--he had to face principles, those very principles on which he relied for respite; he had to face that integrity of westray which made persuasion or bribery alike impossible. he had never seen this picture before, and he looked at it intently for some minutes; but his attention was all the while concentrated on the man who stood beside him. this was his last chance--he could afford to make no mistake; and his soul, or whatever that thing may be called which is certainly not the body, was closing with westray's soul in a desperate struggle for mastery. westray was not seeing the picture for the first time, and after one glance he stood aloof. the interview was becoming even more painful than he had expected. he avoided looking lord blandamer in the face, yet presently, at a slight movement, turned and met his eye. "yes, it is my grandfather," said the other. there was nothing in the words, and yet it seemed to westray as if some terrible confidence was being thrust upon him against his will; as if lord blandamer had abandoned any attempt to mislead, and was tacitly avowing all that might be charged against him. the architect began to feel that he was now regarded as a personal enemy, though he had never so considered himself. it was true that picture and papers had fallen into his hands, but he knew that a sense of duty was the only motive of any action that he might be taking. "you promised, i think, to show me some papers," lord blandamer said. most painfully westray handed them over; his knowledge of their contents made it seem that he was offering a deliberate insult. he wished fervently that he never had made any proposal for this meeting; he ought to have given everything to the proper authorities, and have let the blow fall as it would. such an interview could only end in bitterness: its present result was that here in lord blandamer's own house, he, westray, was presenting him with proofs of his father's illegitimacy, with proofs that he had no right to this house--no, nor to anything else. it was a bitter moment for lord blandamer to find such information in the possession of a younger man; but, if there was more colour in his face than usual, his self-command stood the test, and he thrust resentment aside. there was no time to say or do useless things, there was no time for feeling; all his attention must be concentrated on the man before him. he stood still, seeming to examine the papers closely, and, as a matter of fact, he did take note of the name, the place, and the date, that so many careful searchings had failed ever to find. but all the while he was resolutely considering the next move, and giving westray time to think and feel. when he looked up, their eyes met again, and this time it was westray that coloured. "i suppose you have verified these certificates?" lord blandamer asked very quietly. "yes," westray said, and lord blandamer gave them back to him without a word, and walked slowly away down the gallery. westray crushed the papers into his pocket where most of the room was taken up by the pistol; he was glad to get them out of his sight; he could not bear to hold them. it was as if a beaten fighter had given up his sword. with these papers lord blandamer seemed to resign into his adversary's hands everything of which he stood possessed, his lands, his life, the honour of his house. he made no defence, no denial, no resistance, least of all any appeal. westray was left master of the situation, and must do whatever he thought fit. this fact was clearer to him now than it had ever been before, the secret was his alone; with him rested the responsibility of making it public. he stood dumb before the picture, from which the old lord looked at him with penetrating eyes. he had nothing to say; he could not go after lord blandamer; he wondered whether this was indeed to be the end of the interview, and turned sick at the thought of the next step that must be taken. at the distance of a few yards lord blandamer paused, and looked round, and westray understood that he was being invited, or commanded, to follow. they stopped opposite the portrait of a lady, but it was the frame to which lord blandamer called attention by laying his hand on it. "this was my grandmother," he said; "they were companion pictures. they are the same size, the moulding on the frame is the same, an interlacing fillet, and the coat of arms is in the same place. you see?" he added, finding westray still silent. westray was obliged to meet his look once more. "i see," he said, most reluctantly. he knew now, that the unusual moulding and the size of the picture that hung in miss joliffe's house, must have revealed its identity long ago to the man who stood before him; that during all those visits in which plans for the church had been examined and discussed, lord blandamer must have known what lay hid under the flowers, must have known that the green wriggling caterpillar was but a bar of the nebuly coat. confidences were being forced upon westray that he could not forget, and could not reveal. he longed to cry out, "for god's sake, do not tell me these things; do not give me this evidence against yourself!" there was another short pause, and then lord blandamer turned. he seemed to expect westray to turn with him, and they walked back over the soft carpet down the gallery in a silence that might be heard. the air was thick with doom; westray felt as if he were stifling. he had lost mental control, his thoughts were swallowed up in a terrible chaos. only one reflection stood out, the sense of undivided responsibility. it was not as if he were adding a link, as in duty bound, to a long chain of other evidence: the whole matter was at rest; to set it in motion again would be his sole act, his act alone. there was a refrain ringing in his ears, a verse that he had heard read a few sundays before in cullerne church, "am i god, to kill and make alive? am i god, to kill and make alive?" yet duty commanded him to go forward, and go forward he must, though the result was certain: he would be playing the part of executioner. the man whose fate he must seal was keeping pace with him quietly, step by step. if he could only have a few moments to himself, he might clear his distracted thoughts. he paused before some other picture, feigning to examine it, but lord blandamer paused also, and looked at him. he knew lord blandamer's eye was upon him, though he refused to return the look. it seemed a mere act of courtesy on lord blandamer's part to stop. mr westray might be specially interested in some of the pictures, and, if any information was required, it was the part of the host to see that it was forthcoming. westray stopped again once or twice, but always with the same result. he did not know whether he was looking at portraits or landscapes, though he was vaguely aware that half-way down the gallery, there stood on the floor what seemed to be an unfinished picture, with its face turned to the wall. except when westray stopped, lord blandamer looked neither to the right nor to the left; he walked with his hands folded lightly behind him, and with his eyes upon the ground, yet did not feign to have his thoughts disengaged. his companion shrank from any attempt to understand or fathom what those thoughts could be, but admired, against his will, the contained and resolute bearing. westray felt as a child beside a giant, yet had no doubt as to his own duty, or that he was going to do it. but how hard it was! why had he been so foolish as to meddle with the picture? why had he read papers that did not belong to him? why, above all, had he come down to fording to have his suspicions confirmed? what business was it of his to ferret out these things? he felt all the unutterable aversion of an upright mind for playing the part of a detective; all the sovereign contempt even for such petty meanness as allows one person to examine the handwriting or postmark of letters addressed to another. yet he knew this thing, and he alone; he could not do away with this horrible knowledge. the end of the gallery was reached; they turned with one accord and paced slowly, silently back, and the time was slipping away fast. it was impossible for westray to consider anything _now_, but he had taken his decision before he came to fording; he must go through with it; there was no escape for _him_ any more than for lord blandamer. he would keep his word. on monday, the day he had mentioned, he would speak, and once begun, the matter would pass out of his hands. but how was he to tell this to the man who was walking beside him, and silently waiting for his sentence? he could not leave him in suspense; to do so would be cowardice and cruelty. he must make his intention clear, but how? in what form of words? there was no time to think; already they were repassing that canvas which stood with its face to the wall. the suspense, the impenetrable silence, was telling upon westray; he tried again to rearrange his thoughts, but they were centred only on lord blandamer. how calm he seemed, with his hands folded behind him, and never a finger twitching! what did _he_ mean to do--to fly, or kill himself, or stand his ground and take his trial on a last chance? it would be a celebrated trial. hateful and inevitable details occurred to westray's imagination: the crowded, curious court as he saw it in his dream, with lord blandamer in the dock, and this last thought sickened him. his own place would be in the witness-box. incidents that he wished to forget would be recalled, discussed, dwelt on; he would have to search his memory for them, narrate them, swear to them. but this was not all. he would have to give an account of this very afternoon's work. it could not be hushed up. every servant in the house would know how he had come to fording with a picture. he heard himself cross-examined as to "this very remarkable interview." what account was he to give of it? what a betrayal of confidence it would be to give _any_ account. yet he must, and his evidence would be given under the eyes of lord blandamer in the dock. lord blandamer would be in the dock watching him. it was unbearable, impossible; rather than this he would fly himself, he would use the pistol that bulged his pocket against his own life. lord blandamer had noted westray's nervous movements, his glances to right and left, as though seeking some way of escape; he saw the clenched hands, and the look of distress as they paced to and fro. he knew that each pause before a picture was an attempt to shake him off, but he would not be shaken off; westray was feeling the grip, and must not have a moment's breathing space. he could tell exactly how the minutes were passing, he knew what to listen for, and could catch the distant sound of the stable clock striking the quarters. they were back at the end of the gallery. there was no time to pace it again; westray must go now if he was to catch his train. they stopped opposite the old lord's portrait; the silence wrapped westray round, as the white fog had wrapped him round that night on his way to cullerne road. he wanted to speak, but his brain was confused, his throat was dry; he dreaded the sound of his own voice. lord blandamer took out his watch. "i have no wish to hurry you, mr westray," he said, "but your train leaves lytchett in little over an hour. it will take you nearly that time to drive to the station. may i help you to repack this picture?" his voice was clear, level, and courteous, as on the day when westray had first met him at bellevue lodge. the silence was broken, and westray found himself speaking quickly in answer: "you invited me to stay here for the night. i have changed my mind, and will accept your offer, if i may." he hesitated for a moment, and then went on: "i shall be thankful if you will keep the picture and these documents. i see now that i have no business with them." he took the crumpled papers from his pocket, and held them out without looking up. then silence fell on them again, and westray's heart stood still; till after a second that seemed an eternity lord blandamer took the papers with a short "i thank you," and walked a little way further, to the end of the gallery. the architect leant against the side of a window opposite which he found himself, and, looking out without seeing anything, presently heard lord blandamer tell a servant that mr westray would stop the night, and that wine was to be brought them in the gallery. in a few minutes the man came back with a decanter on a salver, and lord blandamer filled glasses for westray, and himself. he felt probably that both needed something of the kind, but to the other more was implied. westray remembered that an hour ago he had refused to eat or drink under this roof. an hour ago--how his mood had changed in that short time! how he had flung duty and principle to the winds! surely this glass of red wine was a very sacrament of the devil, which made him a partner of iniquity. as he raised the glass to his lips a slanting sunbeam shot through the window, and made the wine glow red as blood. the drinkers paused glass in hand, and glancing up saw the red sun setting behind the trees in the park. then the old lord's picture caught the evening light, the green bars of the nebuly coat danced before westray's eyes, till they seemed to live, to be again three wriggling caterpillars, and the penetrating grey eyes looked out from the canvas as if they were watching the enactment of this final scene. lord blandamer pledged him in a bumper, and westray answered without hesitation, for he had given his allegiance, and would have drunk poison in token that there was to be no turning back now. an engagement kept lady blandamer from home that evening. lord blandamer had intended to accompany her, but afterwards told her that mr westray was coming on important business, and so she went alone. only lord blandamer and westray sat down to dinner, and some subtle change of manner made the architect conscious that for the first time since their acquaintance, his host was treating him as a real equal. lord blandamer maintained a flow of easy and interesting conversation, yet never approached the subject of architecture even near enough to seem to be avoiding it. after dinner he took westray to the library, where he showed him some old books, and used all his art to entertain him and set him at his ease. westray was soothed for a moment by the other's manner, and did his best to respond to the courtesy shown him; but everything had lost its savour, and he knew that black care was only waiting for him to be alone, to make herself once more mistress of his being. a wind which had risen after sunset began to blow near bed-time with unusual violence. the sudden gusts struck the library windows till they rattled again, and puffs of smoke came out from the fireplace into the room. "i shall sit up for lady blandamer," said the host, "but i dare say you will not be sorry to turn in;" and westray, looking at his watch, saw that it wanted but ten minutes of midnight. in the hall, and on the staircase, as they went up, the wind blowing with cold rushes made itself felt still more strongly. "it is a wild night," lord blandamer said, as he stopped for a moment before a barometer, "but i suspect that there is yet worse to come; the glass has fallen in an extraordinary way. i hope you have left all snug with the tower at cullerne; this wind will not spare any weak places." "i don't think it should do any mischief at saint sepulchre's," westray answered, half unconsciously. it seemed as though he could not concentrate his thought even upon his work. his bedroom was large, and chilly in spite of a bright fire. he locked the door, and drawing an easy-chair before the hearth, sat a long while in thought. it was the first time in his life that he had with deliberation acted against his convictions, and there followed the reaction and remorse inseparable from such conditions. is there any depression so deep as this? is there any night so dark as this first eclipse of the soul, this _first_ conscious stilling of the instinct for right? he had conspired to obscure truth, he had made himself partaker in another man's wrong-doing, and, as the result, he had lost his moral foothold, his self-respect, his self-reliance. it was true that, even if he could, he would not have changed his decision now, yet the weight of a guilty secret, that he must keep all his life long, pressed heavily upon him. something must be done to lighten this weight; he must take some action that would ease the galling of his thoughts. he was in that broken mood for which the middle ages offered the cloister as a remedy; he felt the urgent need of sacrifice and abnegation to purge him. and then he knew the sacrifice that he must make: he must give up his work at cullerne. he was thankful to find that there was still enough of conscience left to him to tell him this. he could not any longer be occupied on work for which the money was being found by this man. he would give up his post at cullerne, even if it meant giving up his connection with his employers, even if it meant the giving up of his livelihood. he felt as if england itself were not large enough to hold him and lord blandamer. he must never more see the associate of his guilt; he dreaded meeting his eyes again, lest the other's will should constrain his will to further wrong. he would write to resign his work the very next day; that would be an active sacrifice, a definite mark from which he might begin a painful retracing of the way, a turning-point from which he might hope in time to recover some measure of self-respect and peace of mind. he would resign his work at cullerne the very next day; and then a wilder gust of wind buffeted the windows of his room, and he thought of the scaffolding on saint sepulchre's tower. what a terrible night it was! would the thin bows of the tower arches live through such a night, with the weight of the great tower rocking over them? no, he could not resign to-morrow. it would be deserting his post. he must stand by till the tower was safe, _that_ was his first duty. after that he would give up his post at once. later on he went to bed, and in those dark watches of the night, that are not kept by reason, there swept over him thoughts wilder than the wind outside. he had made himself sponsor for lord blandamer, he had assumed the burden of the other's crime. it was he that was branded with the mark of cain, and he must hide it in silence from the eyes of all men. he must fly from cullerne, and walk alone with his burden for the rest of his life, a scapegoat in the isolation of the wilderness. in sleep the terror that walketh in darkness brooded heavily on him. he was in the church of saint sepulchre, and blood dripped on him from the organ-loft. then as he looked up to find out whence it came he saw the four tower arches falling to grind him to powder, and leapt up in his bed, and struck a light to make sure that there were no red patches on him. with daylight he grew calmer. the wild visions vanished, but the cold facts remained: he was sunk in his own esteem, he had forced himself into an evil secret which was no concern of his, and now he must keep it for ever. westray found lady blandamer in the breakfast-room. lord blandamer had met her in the hall on her return the night before, and though he was pale, she knew before he had spoken half a dozen words, that the cloud of anxiety which had hung heavily on him for the last few days was past. he told her that mr westray had come over on business, and, in view of the storm that was raging, had been persuaded to remain for the night. the architect had brought with him a picture which he had accidentally come across, a portrait of the old lord blandamer which had been missing for many years from fording. it was very satisfactory that it had been recovered; they were under a great obligation to mr westray for the trouble which he had taken in the matter. in the events of the preceding days westray had almost forgotten lady blandamer's existence, and since the discovery of the picture, if her image presented itself to his mind, it had been as that of a deeply wronged and suffering woman. but this morning she appeared with a look of radiant content that amazed him, and made him shudder as he thought how near he had been only a day before to plunging her into the abyss. the more careful nurture of the year that had passed since her marriage, had added softness to her face and figure, without detracting from the refinement of expression that had always marked her. he knew that she was in her own place, and wondered now that the distinction of her manner had not led him sooner to the truth of her birth. she looked pleased to meet him, and shook hands with a frank smile that acknowledged their former relations, without any trace of embarrassment. it seemed incredible that she should ever have brought him up his meals and letters. she made a polite reference to his having restored to them an interesting family picture, and finding him unexpectedly embarrassed, changed the subject by asking him what he thought of her own portrait. "i think you must have seen it yesterday," she went on, as he appeared not to understand. "it has only just come home, and is standing on the floor in the long gallery." lord blandamer glanced at the architect, and answered for him that mr westray had not seen it. then he explained with a composure that shed a calm through the room: "it was turned to the wall. it is a pity to show it unhung, and without a frame. we must get it framed at once, and decide on a position for it. i think we shall have to shift several paintings in the gallery." he talked of snyders and wouverman, and westray made some show of attention, but could only think of the unframed picture standing on the ground, which had helped to measure the passing of time in the terrible interview of yesterday. he guessed now that lord blandamer had himself turned the picture with its face to the wall, and in doing so had deliberately abandoned a weapon that might have served him well in the struggle. lord blandamer must have deliberately foregone the aid of recollections such as anastasia's portrait would have called up in his antagonist's mind. "non tali auxilio nec defensoribus istis." westray's haggard air had not escaped his host's notice. the architect looked as if he had spent the night in a haunted room, and lord blandamer was not surprised, knowing that the other's scruples had died hard, and were not likely to lie quiet in their graves. he thought it better that the short time which remained before westray's departure should be spent out of the house, and proposed a stroll in the grounds. the gardener reported, he said, that last night's gale had done considerable damage to the trees. the top of the cedar on the south lawn had been broken short off. lady blandamer begged that she might accompany them, and as they walked down the terrace steps into the garden a nurse brought to her the baby heir. "the gale must have been a cyclone," lord blandamer said. "it has passed away as suddenly as it arose." the morning was indeed still and sunshiny, and seemed more beautiful by contrast with the turmoil of the previous night. the air was clear and cold after the rain, but paths and lawns were strewn with broken sticks and boughs, and carpeted with prematurely fallen leaves. lord blandamer described the improvements that he was making or projecting, and pointed out the old fishponds which were to be restocked, the bowling-green and the ladies' garden arranged on an old-world plan by his grandmother, and maintained unchanged since her death. he had received an immense service from westray, and he would not accept it ungraciously or make little of it. in taking the architect round the place, in showing this place that his ancestors had possessed for so many generations, in talking of his plans for a future that had only so recently become assured, he was in a manner conveying his thanks, and westray knew it. lady blandamer was concerned for westray. she saw that he was downcast, and ill at ease, and in her happiness that the cloud had passed from her husband, she wanted everyone to be happy with her. so, as they were returning to the house, she began, in the kindness of her heart, to talk of cullerne minster. she had a great longing, she said, to see the old church again. she should so much enjoy it if mr westray would some day show her over it. would he take much longer in the restorations? they were in an alley too narrow for three to walk abreast. lord blandamer had fallen behind, but was within earshot. westray answered quickly, without knowing what he was going to say. he was not sure about the restorations--that was, they certainly were not finished; in fact, they would take some time longer, but he would not be there, he believed, to superintend them. that was to say, he was giving up his present appointment. he broke off, and lady blandamer knew that she had again selected an unfortunate subject. she dropped it, and hoped he would let them know when he was next at leisure, and come for a longer visit. "i am afraid it will not be in my power to do so," westray said; and then, feeling that he had given a curt and ungracious answer to a kindly-meant invitation, turned to her and explained with unmistakable sincerity that he was giving up his connection with farquhar and farquhar. this subject also was not to be pursued, so she only said that she was sorry, and her eyes confirmed her words. lord blandamer was pained at what he had heard. he knew farquhar and farquhar, and knew something of westray's position and prospects--that he had a reasonable income, and a promising future with the firm. this resolve must be quite sudden, a result of yesterday's interview. westray was being driven out into the wilderness like a scapegoat with another man's guilt on his head. the architect was young and inexperienced. lord blandamer wished he could talk with him quietly. he understood that westray might find it impossible to go on with the restoration at cullerne, where all was being done at lord blandamer's expense. but why sever his connection with a leading firm? why not plead ill-health, nervous breakdown, those doctor's orders which have opened a way of escape from impasses of the mind as well as of the body? an archaeologic tour in spain, a yachting cruise in the mediterranean, a winter in egypt--all these things would be to westray's taste; the blameless herb nepenthe might anywhere be found growing by the wayside. he must amuse himself, and forget. he wished he could _assure_ westray that he would forget, or grow used to remembering; that time heals wounds of conscience as surely as it heals heart-wounds and flesh-wounds; that remorse is the least permanent of sentiments. but then westray might not yet wish to forget. he had run full counter to his principles. it might be that he was resolved to take the consequences, and wear them like a hair-shirt, as the only means of recovering his self-esteem. no; whatever penance, voluntary or involuntary, westray might undergo, lord blandamer could only look on in silence. his object had been gained. if westray felt it necessary to pay the price, he must be let pay it. lord blandamer could neither inquire nor remonstrate. he could offer no compensation, because no compensation would be accepted. the little party were nearing the house when a servant met them. "there is a man come over from cullerne, my lord," he said. "he is anxious to see mr westray at once on important business." "show him into my sitting-room, and say that mr westray will be with him immediately." westray met lord blandamer in the hall a few minutes later. "i am sorry to say there is bad news from cullerne," the architect said hurriedly. "last night's gale has strained and shaken the tower severely. a very serious movement is taking place. i must get back at once." "do, by all means. a carriage is at the door. you can catch the train at lytchett, and be in cullerne by mid-day." the episode was a relief to lord blandamer. the architect's attention was evidently absorbed in the tower. it might be that he had already found the blameless herb growing by the wayside. the nebuly coat shone on the panel of the carriage-door. lady blandamer had noticed that her husband had been paying westray special attention. he was invariably courteous, but he had treated this guest as he treated few others. yet now, at the last moment, he had fallen silent; he was standing, she fancied, aloof. he held his hands behind him, and the attitude seemed to her to have some significance. but on lord blandamer's part it was a mark of consideration. there had been no shaking of hands up to the present; he was anxious not to force westray to take his hand by offering it before his wife and the servants. lady blandamer felt that there was something going on which she did not understand, but she took leave of westray with special kindness. she did not directly mention the picture, but said how much they were obliged to him, and glanced for confirmation at lord blandamer. he looked at westray, and said with deliberation: "i trust mr westray knows how fully i appreciate his generosity and courtesy." there was a moment's pause, and then westray offered his hand. lord blandamer shook it cordially, and their eyes met for the last time. chapter twenty three. on the afternoon of the same day lord blandamer was himself in cullerne. he went to the office of mr martelet, solicitor by prescriptive right to the family at fording, and spent an hour closeted with the principal. the house which the solicitor used for offices, was a derelict residence at the bottom of the town. it still had in front of it an extinguisher for links, and a lamp-bracket over the door of wasted iron scroll-work. it was a dingy place, but mr martelet had a famous county connection, and rumour said that more important family business was done here even than in carisbury itself. lord blandamer sat behind the dusty windows. "i think i quite understand the nature of the codicil," the solicitor said. "i will have a draft forwarded to your lordship to-morrow." "no, no; it is short enough. let us finish with it now," said his client. "there is no time like the present. it can be witnessed here. your head clerk is discreet, is he not?" "mr simpkin has been with me thirty years," the solicitor said deprecatingly, "and i have had no reason to doubt his discretion hitherto." the sun was low when lord blandamer left mr martelet's office. he walked down the winding street that led to the market-place, with his long shadow going before him on the pavement. above the houses in the near distance stood up the great tower of saint sepulchre's, pink-red in the sunset rays. what a dying place was cullerne! how empty were the streets! the streets were certainly strangely empty. he had never seen them so deserted. there was a silence of the grave over all. he took out his watch. the little place is gone to tea, he thought, and walked on with a light heart, and more at his ease than he had ever felt before in his life. he came round a bend in the street, and suddenly saw a great crowd before him, between him and the market-place over which the minster church watched, and knew that something must be happening, that had drawn the people from the other parts of the town. as he came nearer it seemed as if the whole population was there collected. conspicuous was pompous canon parkyn, and by him stood mrs parkyn, and tall and sloping-shouldered mr noot. the sleek dissenting minister was there, and the jovial, round-faced catholic priest. there stood joliffe, the pork-butcher, in shirt-sleeves and white apron in the middle of the road; and there stood joliffe's wife and daughters, piled up on the steps of the shop, and craning their necks towards the market-place. the postmaster and his clerk and two letter-carriers had come out from the post-office. all the young ladies and young gentlemen from rose and storey's establishment were herded in front of their great glittering shop-window, and among them shone the fair curls of mr storey, the junior partner, himself. a little lower down was a group of masons and men employed on the restorations, and near them clerk janaway leant on his stick. many of these people lord blandamer knew well by sight, and there was beside a great throng of common folk, but none took any notice of him. there was something very strange about the crowd. everyone was looking towards the market-place, and everyone's face was upturned as if they were watching a flight of birds. the square was empty, and no one attempted to advance further into it; nay, most stood in an alert attitude, as if prepared to run the other way. yet all remained spellbound, looking up, with their heads turned towards the market-place, over which watched the minster church. there was no shouting, nor laughter, nor chatter; only the agitated murmur of a multitude of people speaking under their breath. the single person that moved was a waggoner. he was trying to get his team and cart up the street, away from the market-place, but made slow progress, for the crowd was too absorbed to give him room. lord blandamer spoke to the man, and asked him what was happening. the waggoner stared for a moment as if dazed; then recognised his questioner, and said quickly: "don't go on, my lord! for god's sake, don't go on; the tower's coming down." then the spell that bound all the others fell on lord blandamer too. his eyes were drawn by an awful attraction to the great tower that watched over the market-place. the buttresses with their broad set-offs, the double belfry windows with their pierced screens and stately perpendicular tracery, the open battlemented parapet, and clustered groups of soaring pinnacles, shone pink and mellow in the evening sun. they were as fair and wonderful as on that day when abbot vinnicomb first looked upon his finished work, and praised god that it was good. but on this still autumn evening there was something terribly amiss with the tower, in spite of all brave appearances. the jackdaws knew it, and whirled in a mad chattering cloud round their old home, with wings flashing and changing in the low sunlight. and on the west side, the side nearest the market-place, there oozed out from a hundred joints a thin white dust that fell down into the churchyard like the spray of some lofty swiss cascade. it was the very death-sweat of a giant in his agony, the mortar that was being ground out in powder from the courses of collapsing masonry. to lord blandamer it seemed like the sand running through an hour-glass. then the crowd gave a groan like a single man. one of the gargoyles at the corner, under the parapet, a demon figure that had jutted grinning over the churchyard for three centuries, broke loose and fell crashing on to the gravestones below. there was silence for a minute, and then the murmurings of the onlookers began again. everyone spoke in short, breathless sentences, as though they feared the final crash might come before they could finish. churchwarden joliffe, with pauses of expectation, muttered about a "judgment in our midst." the rector, in joliffe's pauses, seemed trying to confute him by some reference to "those thirteen upon whom the tower of siloam fell and slew them." an old charwoman whom miss joliffe sometimes employed wrung her hands with an "ah! poor dear--poor dear!" the catholic priest was reciting something in a low tone, and crossing himself at intervals. lord blandamer, who stood near, caught a word or two of the commendatory prayer for the dying, the "_proficiscere_," and "_liliata rutilantium_," that showed how abbot vinnicomb's tower lived in the hearts of those that abode under its shadow. and all the while the white dust kept pouring out of the side of the wounded fabric; the sands of the hour-glass were running down apace. the foreman of the masons saw lord blandamer, and made his way to him. "last night's gale did it, my lord," he said; "we knew 'twas touch and go when we came this morning. mr westray's been up the tower since mid-day to see if there was anything that could be done, but twenty minutes ago he came sharp into the belfry and called to us, `get out of it, lads--get out quick for your lives; it's all over now.' it's widening out at bottom; you can see how the base wall's moved and forced up the graves on the north side." and he pointed to a shapeless heap of turf and gravestones and churchyard mould against the base of the tower. "where is mr westray?" lord blandamer said. "ask him to speak to me for a minute." he looked round about for the architect; he wondered now that he had not seen him among the crowd. the people standing near had listened to lord blandamer's words. they of cullerne looked on the master of fording as being almost omnipotent. if he could not command the tower, like joshua's sun in ajalon, to stand still forthwith and not fall down, yet he had no doubt some sage scheme to suggest to the architect whereby the great disaster might be averted. where was the architect? they questioned impatiently. why was he not at hand when lord blandamer wanted him? where was he? and in a moment westray's name was on all lips. and just then was heard a voice from the tower, calling out through the louvres of the belfry windows, very clear and distinct for all it was so high up, and for all the chatter of the jackdaws. it was westray's voice: "i am shut up in the belfry," it called; "the door is jammed. for god's sake! someone bring a crowbar, and break in the door!" there was despair in the words, that sent a thrill of horror through those that heard them. the crowd stared at one another. the foreman-mason wiped the sweat off his brow; he was thinking of his wife and children. then the catholic priest stepped out. "i will go," he said; "i have no one depending on me." lord blandamer's thoughts had been elsewhere; he woke from his reverie at the priest's words. "nonsense!" said he; "i am younger than you, and know the staircase. give me a lever." one of the builder's men handed him a lever with a sheepish air. lord blandamer took it, and ran quickly towards the minster. the foreman-mason called after him: "there is only one door open, my lord--a little door by the organ." "yes, i know the door," lord blandamer shouted, as he disappeared round the church. a few minutes later he had forced open the belfry door. he pulled it back towards him, and stood behind it on the steps higher up, leaving the staircase below clear for westray's escape. the eyes of the two men did not meet, for lord blandamer was hidden by the door; but westray was much overcome as he thanked the other for rescuing him. "run for your life!" was all lord blandamer said; "you are not saved yet." the younger man dashed headlong down the steps, and then lord blandamer pushed the door to, and followed with as little haste or excitement as if he had been coming down from one of his many inspections of the restoration work. as westray ran through the great church, he had to make his way through a heap of mortar and debris that lay upon the pavement. the face of the wall over the south transept arch had come away, and in its fall had broken through the floor into the vaults below. above his head that baleful old crack, like a black lightning-flash, had widened into a cavernous fissure. the church was full of dread voices, of strange moanings and groanings, as if the spirits of all the monks departed were wailing for the destruction of abbot vinnicomb's tower. there was a dull rumbling of rending stone and crashing timbers, but over all the architect heard the cry of the crossing-arches: "the arch never sleeps, never sleeps. they have bound upon us a burden too heavy to be borne; we are shifting it. the arch never sleeps." outside, the people in the market-place held their breath, and the stream of white dust still poured out of the side of the wounded tower. it was six o'clock; the four quarters sounded, and the hour struck. before the last stroke had died away westray ran out across the square, but the people waited to cheer until lord blandamer should be safe too. the chimes began "bermondsey" as clearly and cheerfully as on a thousand other bright and sunny evenings. and then the melody was broken. there was a jangle of sound, a deep groan from taylor john, and a shrill cry from beata maria, a roar as of cannon, a shock as of an earthquake, and a cloud of white dust hid from the spectators the ruin of the fallen tower: epilogue. on the same evening lieutenant ennefer, r.n., sailed down channel in the corvette _solebay_, bound for the china station. he was engaged to the second miss bulteel, and turned his glass on the old town where his lady dwelt as he passed by. it was then he logged that cullerne tower was not to be seen, though the air was clear and the ship but six miles from shore. he rubbed his glass, and called some other officers to verify the absence of the ancient seamark, but all they could make out was a white cloud, that might be smoke or dust or mist hanging over the town. it must be mist, they said; some unusual atmospheric condition must have rendered the tower invisible. it was not for many months afterwards that lieutenant ennefer heard of the catastrophe, and when he came up channel again on his return four years later, there was the old seamark clear once more, whiter a little, but still the same old tower. it had been rebuilt at the sole charge of lady blandamer, and in the basement of it was a brass plate to the memory of horatio sebastian fynes, lord blandamer, who had lost his own life in that place whilst engaged in the rescue of others. the rebuilding was entrusted to mr edward westray, whom lord blandamer, by codicil dictated only a few hours before his death, had left co-trustee with lady blandamer, and guardian of the infant heir. the spinners by eden phillpotts author of "old delabole," "brunel's tower," etc. contents book i i the funeral ii at 'the tiger' iii the hackler iv chains for raymond v in the mill vi 'the seven stars' vii a walk viii the lecture ix the party x work xi the old store-house xii credit xiii in the foreman's garden xiv the concert xv a visit to miss ironsyde xvi at chilcombe xvii confusion xviii the lovers' grove xix job legg's ambition xx a conference xxi the warping mill xxii the telegram xxiii a letter for sabina xxiv mrs. northover decides xxv the woman's darkness xxvi of human nature xxvii the master of the mill xxviii clash of opinions xxix the bunch of grapes xxx a triumph of reason xxxi the offer declined book ii i the flying years ii the sea garden iii a twist frame iv the red hand v an accident vi the gathering problem vii the walk home viii epitaph ix the future of abel x the advertisement xi the hemp breaker xii the picnic xiii the runaway xiv the motor car xv criticism xvi the offer of marriage xvii sabina and abel xviii swan song xix new work for abel xx ideals xxi atropos xxii the hiding-place book i sabina chapter i the funeral the people were coming to church and one had thought it sunday, but for two circumstances. the ring of bells at st. mary's did not peal, and the women were dressed in black as the men. through the winding lanes of bridetown a throng converged, drawn to the grey tower by a tolling bell; and while the sun shone and a riot of many flowers made hedgerows and cottage gardens gay; while the spirit of the hour was inspired by june and a sun at the zenith unclouded, the folk of the hamlet drew their faces to sadness and mothers chid the children, who could not pretend, but echoed the noontide hour in their hearts. all were not attired for a funeral. a small crowd of women, with one or two men among them, stood together where a sycamore threw a patch of shade on a triangular space of grass near the church. there were fifty of these people--ancient women, others in their prime, and many young maidens. some communion linked them and the few men who stood with them. all wore a black band upon their left arms. drab or grey was their attire, but sun-bonnets nodded bright as butterflies among them, and even their dull raiment was more cheerful than the gathering company in black who now began to mass their numbers and crane their heads along the highway. bridetown lies near the sea in a valley under a range of grassy downs. it is the centre of a network of little lanes with cottages dotted upon them, or set back behind small gardens. the dwellings stood under thatch, or weathered tile, and their faces at this season were radiant with roses and honeysuckles, jasmine and clematis. pinks, lilies, columbines made the garden patches gay, and, as though so many flowers were not enough, the windows, too, shone with geraniums and the scarlet tassels of great cactus, that lifted their exotic, thorny bodies behind the window panes. not a wall but flaunted red valerian and snapdragon. indeed bridetown was decked with blooms. here and there in the midst stood better houses, with some expanse of lawn before them and flat shrubs that throve in that snug vale. good walnut trees and mulberries threw their shadows on grass plat and house front, while the murmur of bees came from many bright borders. south the land rose again to the sea cliffs, for the spirits of ocean and the west wind have left their mark upon bride vale. the white gulls float aloft; the village elms are moulded by zephyr with sure and steady breath. of forestal size and unstunted, yet they turn their backs, as it were, upon the west and, yielding to that unsleeping pressure, incline landward. the trees stray not far. they congregate in an oasis about bridetown, then wend away through valley meadows, but leave the green hills bare. the high ground rolls upward to a gentle skyline and the hillsides, denuded by water springs, or scratched by man, reveal the silver whiteness of the chalk where they are wounded. bride river winds in the midst, and her bright waters throw a loop round the eastern frontier of the hamlet, pass under the highway, bring life to the cottage gardens and turn more wheels than one. bloom of apple and pear are mirrored on her face and fruit falls into her lap at autumn time. then westward she flows through the water meadows, and so slips uneventfully away to sea, where the cliffs break and there stretches a little strand. to the last she is crowned with flowers, and the meadowsweets and violets that decked her cradle give place to sea poppies, sea hollies, and stones encrusted with lichens of red gold, where bride flows to one great pool, sinks into the sand and glides unseen to her lover. "they're coming!" said one of the crowd; but it was a false alarm. a flock of breeding lambs of the dorset horned sheep pattered through the village on their way to pasture. the young, healthy creatures, with amber-coloured horns and yellow eyes, trotted contentedly along together and left an ovine reek in the air. behind them came the shepherd--a high-coloured, middle-aged man with a sharp nose and mild, grey eyes. he could give news of the funeral, which was on the way behind him. an iron seat stood under the sycamore on the triangular patch of grass, and a big woman sat upon it. she was of vast dimensions, broad and beamy as a dutch sloop. her bulk was clad in dun colour, and on her black bonnet appeared a layer of yellow dust. she spoke to others of the little crowd who surrounded her. they came from bridetown spinning mill, for work was suspended because henry ironsyde, the mill owner, had died and now approached his grave. "the ironsydes bury here, but they don't live here," said sally groves. "they lived here once, at north hill house; but that's when i first came to the mill as a bit of a girl." the big woman fanned herself with a handkerchief, then spoke a grey man with a full beard, small head, and discontented eyes. he was levi baggs, the hackler. "we shall have those two blessed boys over us now, no doubt," he said. "but what know they? things will be as they were, and time and wages the same as before." "they'll be sure to do what their father wished, and there was a murmur of changes before he died," said sally groves; but levi shook his head. "daniel ironsyde is built like his father, to let well alone. raymond ironsyde don't count. he'll only want his money." "have you ever seen mr. raymond?" asked a girl. she was nancy buckler, a spinner--hard-featured, sharp-voiced, and wiry. nancy might have been any age between twenty-five and forty. she owned to thirty. "he don't come to bridetown, and if you want to see him, you must go to 'the tiger,' at bridport," declared another girl. her name was sarah northover. "my aunt nelly keeps 'the seven stars,' in barrack street," she explained, "and that's just alongside 'the tiger,' and my aunt nelly's very friendly with mr. gurd, of 'the tiger,' and he's told her that mr. raymond is there half his time. he's all for sport and such like, and 'the tiger's' a very sporting house." "he won't be no good to the mills if he's that sort," prophesied sally groves. "i saw him once, with another young fellow called motyer," answered sarah northover. "he's very good-looking--fair and curly--quite different from mr. daniel." "light or dark, they're henry ironsyde's sons and be brought up in his pattern no doubt," declared mr. baggs. people continued to appear, and among them walked an elderly man, a woman and a girl. they were mr. ernest churchouse, of 'the magnolias,' with his widowed housekeeper, mary dinnett, and her daughter, sabina. the girl was nineteen, dark and handsome, and very skilled in her labour. none disputed her right to be called first spinner at the mills. she was an impulsive, ambitious maiden, and mr. best, foreman at the works, claimed for her that she brought genius as well as understanding to her task. sabina joined her friend, nancy buckler; mrs. dinnett, who had been a mill hand in her youth, took a seat beside sally groves, and mr. churchouse paced alone. he was a round-faced, clean-shaven man with mild, grey eyes and iron grey hair. he looked gentle and genial. his shoulders were high, and his legs short. walking irked him, for a sedentary life and hearty appetite had made him stout. the fall of henry ironsyde served somewhat to waken ernest churchouse from the placid dream in which he lived, shake him from his normal quietude, and remind him of the flight of time. he and the dead man were of an age and had been boys together. their fathers founded the bridetown spinning mill, and when the elder men passed away, it was henry ironsyde who took over the enterprise and gradually bought out ernest churchouse. but while ironsyde left bridetown and lived henceforth at bridport, that he might develop further interests in the spinning trade, ernest had been well content to remain there, enjoy his regular income and live at 'the magnolias,' his father's old-world house, beside the river. his tastes were antiquarian and literary. he wrote when in the mood, and sometimes read papers at the mechanics' institute of bridport. but he was constitutionally averse from real work of any sort, lacked ambition, and found all the fame he needed in the village community with which his life had been passed. he was a childless widower. mr. churchouse strolled now into the churchyard to look at the grave. it opened beside that of henry ironsyde's parents and his wife. she had been dead for fifteen years. a little crowd peered down into the green-clad pit, for the sides, under the direction of john best, had been lined with cypress and bay. the grass was rank, but it had been mown down for this occasion round the tombs of the ironsydes, though elsewhere darnel rose knee deep and many venerable stones slanted out of it. immediately south of the churchyard wall stood the mill, and benny cogle, engineman at the works, who now greeted mr. churchouse, dwelt on the fact. "morning, sir," he said, "a brave day for the funeral, sure enough." "good morning, benny," answered the other. his voice was weak and gentle. "when i think how near the church and mill do lie together, i have thoughts," continued benny. he was a florid man of thirty, with tow-coloured hair and blue eyes. "naturally. you work and pray here all inside a space of fifty yards. but for my part, benny cogle, i am inclined to think that working is the best form of praying." mr. churchouse always praised work for others and, indeed, was under the impression that he did his share. "same here," replied the engineman, "especially while you're young. anyway, if i had to choose between 'em, i'd sooner work. 'tis better for the mind and appetite. and i lay if mr. ironsyde, when he lies down there, could tell the truth, he'd rather be hearing the mill going six days a week and feeling his grave throbbing to my engines, than list to the sound of the church organ on the seventh." "not so," reproved mr. churchouse. "we must not go so far as that. henry ironsyde was a god-fearing man and respected the sabbath as we all should, and most of us do." "the weaker vessels come to church, i grant," said benny, "but the men be after more manly things than church-going of a sunday nowadays." "so much the worse for them," declared mr. churchouse. "here," he continued, "there are naturally more women than men. since my father and henry ironsyde's father established these mills, which are now justly famous in the county, the natural result has happened and women have come here in considerable numbers. women preponderate in spinning places, because the work of spinning yarn has always been in their hands from time immemorial. and they tend our modern machinery as deftly as of old they twirled the distaff and worked the spinning-wheel; and as steadily as they used to trudge the rope walks and spin, like spiders, from the masses of flax or hemp at their waists." "the females want religion without a doubt," said benny. "i'm tokened to mercy gale, for instance; she looks after the warping wheels, and if that girl didn't say her prayers some fine morning, she'd be as useless as if she hadn't eat her breakfast. 'tis the feminine nature that craves for support." a very old man stood and peered into the grave. he was the father of levi baggs, the hackler, and people said he was never seen except on the occasion of a funeral. the ancient had been reduced to a mere wisp by the attrition of time. he put his hand on the arm of mr. churchouse and regarded the grave with a nodding head. "ah, my dear soul," he said. "life, how short--eternity, how long!" "true, most true, william." "and i ask myself, as each corpse goes in, how many more pits will open afore mine." "'tis hid with your maker, william." "thank god i'm a good old man and ripe and ready," said mr. baggs. "not," he added, "that there's any credit to me; for you can't be anything much but good at ninety-two." "while the brain is spared we can think evil, william." "not a brain like mine, i do assure 'e." a little girl ran into the churchyard--a pretty, fair child, whose bright hair contrasted with the black she wore. "they have come and father sent me to tell you, mr. churchouse," she said. "thank you, estelle," he answered, and they returned to the open space together. the child then joined her father, and mr. churchouse, saluting the dead, walked to the first mourning coach and opened the door. it was a heavy and solid funeral of victorian fashion proper to the time. the hearse had been drawn by four black horses with black trappings, and over the invisible coffin nodded a gloomy harvest of black ostrich plumes. there were no flowers, and some children, who crept forward with a little wreath of wild roses, were pushed back. the men from the mill helped to carry their master into the church; but there were not enough of them to support the massive oak that held a massive man, and john best, levi baggs, benny cogle and nicholas roberts were assisted by the undertakers. from the first coach descended an elderly woman and a youth. the lady was miss jenny ironsyde, sister of the dead, and with her came her nephew daniel, the new mill-owner. he was five-and-twenty--a sallow, strong-faced young fellow, broad in the shoulder and straight in the back. his eyes were brown and steady, his mouth and nose indicated decision; the funeral had not changed his cast of countenance, which was always solemn; for, as his father before him, he lacked a sense of humour. mr. churchouse shook hands and peered into the coach. "where's raymond?" he asked. "not come," answered miss ironsyde. she was a sturdy woman of five-and-fifty, with a pleasant face and kindly eyes. but they were clouded now and she showed agitation. "not come!" exclaimed ernest with very genuine consternation. daniel ironsyde answered. his voice was slow, but he had a natural instinct for clarity and spoke more to the point than is customary with youth. "my brother has not come because my father has left him out of his will, mr. churchouse." "altogether?" "absolutely. will you take my aunt's arm and follow next after me, please?" two clergymen met the coffin at the lich-gate, and behind the chief mourners came certain servants and dependents, followed by the women of the mill. then a dozen business men walked together. a few of his co-workers had sent their carriages; but most came themselves, to do the last honour to one greatly respected. mr. churchouse paid little attention to the obsequies. "not at his father's funeral!" he kept thinking to himself. his simple mind was thrown into a large confusion by such an incident. the fact persisted rather than the reason for it. he longed to learn more, but could not until the funeral was ended. when the coffin came to the grave, mary dinnett stole home to look after the midday dinner. it had weighed on her mind since she awoke, for miss ironsyde and daniel were coming to 'the magnolias' to partake of a meal before returning home. there were no relations from afar to be considered, and no need for funeral baked meats in the dead man's house. when all was ended and only old william baggs stood by the grave and watched the sextons fill it, a small company walked together up the hill north of bridetown. daniel went first with mr. churchouse, and behind them followed miss jenny ironsyde with a man and a child. the man rented north hill house. arthur waldron was a widower, who lived now for two things: his little daughter, estelle, and sport. no other considerations challenged his mind. he was rich and good-hearted. he knew that his little girl had brains, and he dealt fairly with her in the matter of education. of the ironsyde brothers, raymond was his personal friend, and mr. waldron now permitted himself some vague expression of regret that the young man should have been absent on such an occasion. "yes," said miss ironsyde, to whom he spoke, "if there's any excuse for convention it's at a funeral. no doubt people will magnify the incident into a scandal--for their own amusement and the amusement of their friends. if raymond had enjoyed time to reflect, i feel sure he would have come; but there was no time. his father has made no provision for him, and he is rather upset. it is not unnatural that he should be, for dear henry, while always very impatient of raymond's sporting tastes and so on, never threatened anything like this." "no doubt mr. ironsyde would have made a difference if he had not died so suddenly." "i think so too," she answered. then waldron and his daughter went homewards; while the others, turning down a lane to the right, reached 'the magnolias'--a small, ancient house whose face was covered with green things and whose lawn spread to the river bank. mrs. dinnett had prepared a special meal of a sort associated with the mournful business of the day; for a funeral feast has its own character; the dishes should be cold and the wine should be white or brown. mr. churchouse was concerned to know what daniel meant to do for raymond; but he found the heir by no means inclined to emotional generosity. daniel spoke in a steady voice, though he showed a spark of feeling presently. the fire, however, was for his dead father, not his living brother. "i'm very sorry that raymond could have been so small as to keep away from the funeral," he said. "it was petty. but, as aunt jenny says, he's built like that, and no doubt the shock of being ignored knocked him off his balance." "he has the defects of his qualities, my dear. the same people can often rise to great heights and sink to great depths. they can do worse things--and better things--than we humdrum folk, who jog along the middle of the road. we must forgive such people for doing things we wouldn't do, and remember their power to do things we couldn't do." the young man was frankly puzzled by this speech, which came from his aunt. he shrugged his shoulders. "i've got to think of father first and raymond afterwards," he said. "i owe my first duty to my father, who trusted me and honoured me, and knew very well that i should obey his wishes and carry on with my life as he would have liked to see me. he has made a very definite and clear statement, and i should be disloyal to him--dishonest to him--if i did anything contrary to the spirit of it." "who would wish you to?" asked ernest churchouse. "but a brother is a brother," he continued, "and since there is nothing definite about raymond in the will, you should, i think, argue like this. you should say to yourself, 'my father was disappointed with my brother and did not know what to do about him; but, having a high opinion of me and my good sense and honesty, he left my brother to my care. he regarded me, in fact, as my brother's keeper, and hoped that i would help raymond to justify his existence.' don't you feel like that?" "i feel that my father was very long-suffering with raymond, and his will tells me that he had a great deal more to put up with from raymond than anybody ever knew, except my brother himself." "you needn't take up the cudgels for your father, dan," interposed miss ironsyde. "be sure that your dear father, from the peace which now he enjoys, would not like to see you make his quarrel with raymond your quarrel. i'm not extenuating raymond's selfish and unthinking conduct as a son. his own conscience will exact the payment for wrong done beyond repair. he'll come to that some day. he won't escape it. he's not built to escape it. but he's your brother, not your son; and you must ask yourself, whether as a brother, you've fairly got any quarrel with him." daniel considered a moment, then he spoke. "i have not," he said--"except the general quarrel that he's a waster and not justifying his existence. we have had practically nothing to do with each other since we left school." "well," declared mr. churchouse, "now you must have something to do with each other. it is an admirable thought of your aunt jenny's that your father has honoured your judgment by leaving the destiny of raymond more or less in your hands." "i didn't say that; you said it," interrupted the lady. "raymond's destiny is in his own hands. but i do feel, of course, that daniel can't ignore him. the moment has come when a strong effort must be made to turn raymond into a useful member of society." "what allowance did dear henry make him?" asked mr. churchouse. "father gave him two hundred a year, and father paid all his debts before his twenty-first birthday; but he didn't pay them again. raymond has told aunt jenny that he's owing two hundred pounds at this moment." "and nothing to show for it--we may be sure of that. well, it might have been worse. is the allowance to be continued?" "no," said miss ironsyde. "that's the point. it is to cease. henry expressly directs that it is to cease; and to me that is very significant." "of course, for it shows that he leaves raymond in his brother's hands." "i have heard henry say that raymond beat him," continued miss ironsyde. "he was a good father and a forgiving father, but temperamentally he was not built to understand raymond. some people develop slowly and remain children much longer than other people. raymond is one of those. daniel, like my dear brother before him, has developed quickly and come to man's estate and understanding." "his father could trust his eldest son," declared mr. churchouse, "and, as i happen to know, daniel, you always spoke with patience and reason about raymond--your father has told me so. it was natural and wise, therefore, that my late dear friend should have left raymond to you." "i only want to do my duty," said the young man. "by stopping away to-day raymond hasn't made me feel any kinder to him, and if he were not so stupid in some ways, he must have known it would be so; but i am not going to let that weigh against him. how do you read the fact that my father directs raymond's allowance to cease, uncle ernest?" mr. churchouse bore no real connection to the ironsydes; but his relations had always been close and cordial after he relinquished his share in the business of the mills, and the younger generation was brought up to call him 'uncle.' "i read it like this," answered the elder. "it means that raymond is to look to you in future, and that henceforth you may justly demand that he should not live in idleness. there is nothing more demoralising for youth than to live upon money it doesn't earn. i should say--subject to your aunt's opinion, to which i attach the greatest importance--that it is your place to give your brother an interest in life and to show him, what you know already, the value and dignity of work." "i entirely agree," said jenny ironsyde. "i can go further and declare from personal knowledge that my brother had shadowed the idea in his mind." they both regarded daniel. "then leave it there," he bade them, "leave it there and i'll think it out. my father was the fairest man i ever met, and i'll try and be as fair. it's up to raymond more than me." "you can bring a horse to the water, though you can't make him drink," admitted mr. churchouse. "but if you bring your horse to the water, you've done all that reason and sense may ask you to do." miss ironsyde, from larger knowledge of the circumstances, felt disposed to carry the question another step. she opened her mouth and drew in her breath to speak--making that little preliminary sound only audible when nothing follows it. but she did not speak. "come into the garden and see magnolia grandiflora," said mr. churchouse. "there are twelve magnificent blossoms open this morning, and i should have picked every one of them for my dear friend's grave, only the direction was clear, that there were to be no flowers." "henry disliked any attempt to soften the edges at such a time," explained the dead man's sister. "he held that death was the skeleton at the feast of life--a wholesome and stark reminder to the thoughtless living that the grave is the end of our mortal days. he liked a funeral to be a funeral--black--black. he did not want the skeleton at the feast to be decked in roses and lilies." "an opinion worthy of all respect," declared mr. churchouse. then he asked after the health of his guest and expressed sympathy for her sorrow and great loss. "he'd been so much better lately that it was a shock," she said, "but he died as he wanted to die--as all ironsydes do die--without an illness. it is a tradition that never seems to fail. that reconciled us in a way. and you--how are you? you seldom come to bridport nowadays." mr. churchouse rarely talked about himself. "true. i have been immersed in literary work and getting on with my _magnum opus_: 'the church bells of dorset.' you see one does not obtain much help here--no encouragement. not that i expect it. we men of letters have to choose between being hermits, or humbugs." "i always thought a hermit was a humbug," said jenny, smiling for the first time. "not always. when i say 'hermit,' i mean 'recluse.' with all the will to be a social success and identify myself with the welfare of the place in which i dwell, my powers are circumscribed. do not think i put myself above the people, or pretend any intellectual superiority, or any nonsense of that sort. no, it is merely a question of time and energy. my antiquarian work demands both, and so i am deprived by duty from mixing in the social life as much as i wish. this is not, perhaps, understood, and so i get a character for aloofness, which is not wholly deserved." "don't worry," said miss ironsyde. "everybody cares for you. people don't think about us and our doings half as much as we are prone to fancy. i liked your last article in the _bridport gazette_. only i seemed to have read most of it before." "probably you have. the facts, of course, were common property. my task is to collect data and retail them in a luminous and illuminating way." "so you do--so you do." he looked away, where daniel stood by himself with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the river. "a great responsibility for one so young; but he will rise to it." "d'you mean his brother, or the mill?" "both," answered ernest churchouse. "both." mrs. dinnett came down the garden. "the mourning coach is at the door," she said. "daniel insisted that we went home in a mourning coach," explained miss ironsyde. "he felt the funeral was not ended until we returned home. that shows imagination, so you can't say he hasn't got any." "you can never say anybody hasn't got anything," declared mr. churchouse. "human nature defeats all calculations. the wisest only generalise about it." chapter ii at 'the tiger' the municipal borough of bridport stretches itself luxuriously from east to west beneath a wooded hill. southward the land slopes to broad water-meadows where rivers meet and brit and asker wind to the sea. evidences of the great local industry are not immediately apparent; but streamers and wisps of steam scattered above the red-tiled roofs tell of work, and westward, where the land falls, there stand shoulder to shoulder the busy mills. from single yarn that a child could break, to hawsers strong enough to hold a battleship, bridport meets every need. her twines and cords and nets are famous the world over; her ropes, cables, cablets and canvas rigged the fleet that scattered the spanish armada. the broad streets with deep, unusual side-walks are a sign of bridport's past, for they tell of the days when men and women span yarn before their doors, and rope-walks ran their amber and silver threads of hemp and flax along the pavements. but steel and steam have taken the place of the hand-spinners, though their industry has left its sign-manual upon the township. for the great, open side-walks make for distinction and spaciousness, and there shall be found in all dorset, no brighter, cheerfuller place than this. bridport's very workhouse, south-facing and bowered in green, blinks half a hundred windows amiably at the noonday sun and helps to soften the life-failure of those who dwell therein. off barrack street it stands, and at the time of the terror, when napoleon threatened, soldiers hived here and gave the way its name. not far from the workhouse two inns face each other in barrack street--'the tiger' upon one side of the way, 'the seven stars' upon the other; and at the moment when henry ironsyde's dust was reaching the bottom of his grave at bridetown, a young man of somewhat inane countenance, clad in garments that displayed devotion to sport and indifference to taste, entered 'the tiger's' private bar. behind the counter stood richard gurd, a middle-aged, broad-shouldered publican with a large and clean-shaven face, heavy-jaw, rather sulky eyes and mighty hands. "the usual," said the visitor. "ray been here?" mr. gurd shook his head. "no, mr. ned--nor likely to. they're burying his father this morning." the publican poured out a glass of cherry brandy as he spoke and mr. neddy motyer rolled a cigarette. "ray ain't going," said the customer. "not going to his father's funeral!" "for a very good reason, too; he's cut off with a shilling." "dear, dear," said mr. gurd. "that's bad news, though perhaps not much of a surprise to mr. raymond." "it's a devil of a lesson to the rising generation," declared the youth. "to think our own fathers can do such blackguard things, just because they don't happen to like our way of life. what would become of england if every man was made in the pattern of his father? don't education and all that count? if my father was to do such a thing--but he won't; he's too fond of the open air and sport and that." "young men don't study their fathers enough in this generation, however," argued the innkeeper, "nor yet do young women study their mothers enough." "we've got to go out in the world and play our parts," declared neddy. "'tis for them to study us--not us them. you must have progress. the thing for parents to do is to know they're back numbers and act according." "they do--most of them," answered mr. gurd. "a back number is a back number and behaves as such. i speak impartial being a bachelor, and i forgive the young men their nonsense and pardon their opinions, because i know i was young myself once, and as big a fool as anybody, and put just the same strain on my parents, no doubt, though they lived to see me a responsible man and done with childish things. the point for parents is not to forget what it feels like to be young. that i never have, and you young gentlemen would very soon remind me if i did. but the late mr. henry ironsyde found no time for all-round wisdom. he poured his brains into hemp and jute and such like. why, he didn't even make a minute to court and wed till he was forty-five year old. and the result of that was that when his brace of boys was over twenty, he stood in sight of seventy and could only see life at that angle. and what made it worse was, that his eldest, mister daniel, was cut just in his own pattern. so the late gentleman never could forgive mr. raymond for being cut in another pattern. but if what you say is right and mister raymond has been left out in the cold, then i think he's been badly used." "so he has--it's a damned shame," said mr. motyer, "and i hope ray will do something about it." "there's very little we can do against the writing of the dead," answered mr. gurd. then he saluted a man who bustled into the bar. "morning, job. what's the trouble?" job legg was very tall and thin. he dropped at the middle, but showed vitality and energy in his small face and rodent features. his hair was black, and his thin mouth and chin clean-shaven. his eyes were small and very shrewd; his manner was humble. he had a monotonous inflection and rather chanted in a minor key than spoke. "mrs. northover's compliments and might we have the big fish kettle till to-morrow? a party have been sprung on us, and five-and-twenty sit down to lunch in the pleasure gardens at two o'clock." "and welcome, job. go round to the kitchen, will 'e?" job disappeared and mr. gurd explained. "my good neighbour at 'the seven stars'--her with the fine pleasure gardens and swings and so on. and job legg's her potman. her husband's right hand while he lived, and now hers. i have the use of their stable-yard market days, for their custom is different from mine. a woman's house and famous for her meat teas and luncheons. she does very well and deserves to." "that old lady with the yellow wig?" mr. gurd pursed his lips. "to you she might seem old, i suppose. that's the spirit that puts a bit of a strain on the middle-aged and makes such men as me bring home to ourselves what we said and thought when we were young. 'tis just the natural, thoughtless insolence of youth to say nelly northover's an old woman--her being perhaps eight-and-forty. and to call her hair a wig, because she's fortified it with home-grown what's fallen out over a period of twenty years, is again only the insolence of youth. one can only say 'forgive 'em, for they know not what they do.'" "well, get me another brandy anyway." then entered raymond ironsyde, and mr. gurd for once felt genuinely sorry to see his customer. the young man was handsome with large, luminous, grey eyes, curly, brown hair and a beautiful mouth, clean cut, full, firm and finely modelled in the lips. his nose was straight, high in the nostril and sensitive. he resembled his brother, daniel, but stood three inches taller, and his brow was fuller and loftier. his expression in repose appeared frank and receptive; but to-day his face wore a look half anxious, half ferocious. he was clad in tweed knickerbockers and a norfolk jacket, of different pattern but similar material. his tie was light blue and fastened with a gold pin modelled in the shape of a hunting-horn. he bore no mark of mourning whatever. "whiskey and soda, gurd. morning, neddy." he spoke defiantly, as though knowing his entrance was a challenge. then he flung himself down on a cushioned seat in the bow window of the bar-room and took a pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket. mr. gurd brought the drink round to raymond. he spoke upon some general subject and pretended to no astonishment that the young man should be here on this day. but the customer cut him short. there was only one subject for discussion in his mind. "i suppose you thought i should go to my father's funeral? no doubt, you'll say, with everybody else, that it's a disgrace i haven't." "i shall mind my own business and say nothing, mister raymond. it's your affair, not ours." "i'd have done the same, ray, if i'd been treated the same," said neddy motyer. "it's a protest," explained raymond ironsyde. "to have gone, after being publicly outraged like this in my father's will, was impossible to anybody but a cur. he ignored me as his son, and so i ignore him as my father; and who wouldn't?" "i suppose daniel will come up to the scratch all right?" hazarded motyer. "he'll make some stuffy suggestion, no doubt. he can't see me in the gutter very well." "you must get to work, mr. raymond; and i can tell you, as one who knows, that work's only dreaded by them who have never done any. you'll soon find that there's nothing better for the nerves and temper than steady work." neddy chaffed mr. gurd's sentiments and raymond said nothing. he was looking in front of him, his mind occupied with personal problems. neddy motyer made another encouraging suggestion. "there's your aunt, miss ironsyde," he said. "she's got plenty of cash, i've heard people say, and she gives tons away in charity. how do you stand with her?" "mind your own business, ned." "sorry," answered the other promptly. "only wanted to buck you up." "i'm not in need of any bucking up, thanks. if i've got to work, i'm quite equal to it. i've got more brains than daniel, anyway. i'm quite conscious of that." "you've got tons more mind than him," declared neddy. "and if that's the case, i could do more good, if i chose, than ever daniel will." "or more harm," warned mr. gurd. "always remember that, mister raymond. the bigger the intellects, the more power for wrong as well as right." "he'll ask me to go into the works, i expect. and i may, or i may not." "i should," advised neddy. "bridetown is a very sporting place and you'd be alongside your pal, arthur waldron." "don't go to bridetown with an idea of sport, however--don't do that, mister raymond," warned richard gurd. "if you go, you put your back into the work and master the business of the mill." the young men wasted an hour in futile talk and needless drinking while gurd attended to other customers. then raymond ironsyde accepted an invitation to return home with motyer, who lived at eype, a mile away. "i'm going to give my people a rest to-day," said raymond as he departed. "i shall come in here for dinner, dick." "very good, sir," answered mr. gurd; but he shook his head when the young men had gone. others in the bar hummed on the subject of young ironsyde after his back was turned. a few stood up for him and held that he had been too severely dealt with; but the majority and those who knew most about him thought that his ill-fortune was deserved. "for look at it," said a tradesman, who knew the facts. "if he'd been left money, he'd have only wasted the lot in sporting and been worse off after than before; but now he's up against work, and work may be the saving of him. and if he won't work, let him die the death and get off the earth and make room for a better man." none denied the honourable obligation to work for every responsible human being. chapter iii the hackler the warehouse of bridetown mill adjoined the churchyard wall and its northern windows looked down upon the burying ground. the store came first and then the foreman's home, a thatched dwelling bowered in red and white roses, with the mill yard in front and a garden behind. from these the works were separated by the river. bride came by a mill race to do her share, and a water wheel, conserving her strength, took it to the machinery. for benny cogle's engine was reinforced by the river. then, speeding forward, bride returned to her native bed, which wound through the valley south of the works. a bridge crossed the river from the yard and communicated with the mills--a heterogeneous pile of dim, dun colours and irregular roofs huddled together with silver-bright excrescences of corrugated iron. a steady hum and drone as of some gigantic beehive ascended from the mills, and their combined steam and water power produced a tremor of earth and a steady roar in the air; while a faint dust storm often flickered about the entrance ways. the store-house reeked with that fat, heavy odour peculiar to hemp and flax. it was a lofty building of wide doors and few windows. here in the gloom lay bales and stacks of raw material. italy, russia, india, had sent their scutched hemp and tow to bridetown. some was in the rough; the dressed line had already been hackled and waited in bundles of long hemp composed of wisps, or 'stricks' like horses' tails. the silver and amber of the material made flashes of brightness in the dark storerooms and drew the light to their shining surfaces. tall, brown posts supported the rafters, and in the twilight that reigned here, a man moved among the bales piled roof-high around him. he was gathering rough tow from a broken bale of russian hemp and had stripped the archangel matting from the mass. levi baggs, the hackler, proceeded presently to weigh his material and was taking it over the bridge to the hackling shop when he met john best, the foreman. they stopped to speak, and levi set down the barrow that bore his load. "i see you with him, yesterday. did you get any ideas out of the man?" baggs referred to the new master and john best understood. "in a manner of speaking, yes," he said. "nothing definite, of course. it's too soon to talk of changes, even if mister daniel means them. he'll carry on as before for the present, and think twice and again before he does anything different from his father." "'tis just bridetown luck if he's the sort to keep at a dead parent's apron-strings," grumbled the other. "nowadays, what with education and so on, the rising generation is generally ahead of the last and moves according." "you can move two ways--backward as well as forward," answered best. "better he should go on as we've been going, than go back." "he daren't go back--the times won't let him. the welfare of the workers is the first demand on capital nowadays. if it weren't, labour would very soon know the reason why." mr. best regarded levi without admiration. "you are a grumbler born," he said, "and so fond of it that you squeal before you're hurt, just for the pleasure of squealing. one thing i can tell you, for mister daniel said it in so many words: he's the same in politics as his father; and that's liberal; and since the liberals of yesterday are the radicals of to-morrow, we have every reason to suppose he'll move with the times." "we all know what that means," answered mr. baggs. "it means getting new machinery and increasing the output of the works for the benefit of the owners, not them that run the show. i don't set no store on a man being a radical nowadays. you can't trust nobody under a socialist." mr. best laughed. "you wait till they've got the power, and you'll find that the whip will fall just as heavy from their hands as the masters of to-day. better to get small money and be free, than get more and go a slave in state clothes, on state food, in a state house, with a state slave-driver to see you earn your state keep and take your state holidays when the state wills, and work as much or as little as the state pleases. what you chaps call 'liberty' you'll find is something quite different, baggs, for it means good-bye to privacy in the home and independence outside it." "that's a false and wicked idea of progress, john best, and well you know it," answered levi. "you're one of the sort content to work on a chain and bring up your children likewise; but you can't stand between the human race and freedom--no more can daniel ironsyde, or any other man." "well, meantime, till the world's put right by your friends, you get on with your hackling, my old bird, else you'll have the spreaders grumbling," answered mr. best. then he went into his home and levi trundled the wheelbarrow to a building with a tar-pitched, penthouse roof, which stuck out from the side of the mill, like a fungus on a tree stem. within, before a long, low window, stood the hand dresser's tools--two upturned boards set with a mass of steel pins. the larger board had tall teeth disposed openly; upon the smaller, the teeth were shorter and as dense as a hair brush. in front of them opened a grating and above ran an endless band. behind this grille was an exhaust, which sucked away the dust and countless atoms of vegetable matter scattered by levi's activities, and the running band from above worked it. for the authorities, he despised, considered the operations of mr. baggs and ordained that they should be conducted under healthy conditions. he took his seat now before the rougher's hackle, turned up his shirt sleeves over a pair of sinewy arms and powerful wrists and set to work. from the mass of hemp tow he drew hanks and beat the pins with them industriously, wrenched the mass through the steel teeth again and again and separated the short fibre from the long. presently in his hand emerged a wisp of bright fibre, and now flogging the finer hackling board, he extracted still more short stalks and rubbish till the finished strick came clean and shining as a lock of woman's hair. from the hanks of long tow he seemed to bring out the tresses like magic. in his swift hand each strick flashed out from the rough hank with great rapidity, and every crafty, final touch on the teeth made it brighter. giving a last flick or two over the small pins, mr. baggs set down his strick and soon a pile of these shining locks grew beside him, while the exhaust sucked away the rubbish and fragments, and the mass of short fibre which he had combed out, also accumulated for future treatment. he worked with the swiftness and surety of a master craftsman, scourged his tow and snorted sometimes as he struggled with it. he was exerting a tremendous pressure, regulated and applied with skill, and he always exulted in the thought that he, at least, of all the workers performed hand labour far more perfectly than any machine. but still it was not the least of his many grievances that government showed too little concern for his comfort. he was always demanding increased precautions for purifying the air he breathed. from first to last, indeed, the hemp and tow are shedding superfluities, and a layman is astonished to see how the broad strips and ribbons running through the machines and torn by innumerable systems of sharp teeth in transit, emerge at the last gasp of attenuation to trickle down the spindles and turn into the glory of yarn. from mr. baggs, the long fibre and the short which he had combed out of it, proceeded to the spinning mill; and now a girl came for the stricks he had just created. their future under the new master was still on every tongue at bridetown mill, and the women turned to the few men who worked among them for information on this paramount subject. "no, i ain't heard no more, sarah," answered the hackler to miss northover's question. "you may be sure that those it concerns most will be the last to hear of any changes; and you may also be sure that the changes, when made, will not favour us." "you can't tell that," answered sarah, gathering the stricks. "old mrs. chick, our spreader minder, says the young have always got bigger hearts than the old, and she'd sooner trust them than--" mr. baggs tore a hank through the comb with such vigour that its steel teeth trembled and the dust flew. "tell granny chick not to be a bigger fool than god made her," he said. "the young have got harder hearts than the old, and education, though it may make the head bigger for all i know, makes the heart smaller. he'll be hard--hard--and i lay a week's wages that he'll get out of his responsibilities by shovelling 'em on his dead father." "how can he?" asked sarah. "by letting things be as they are. by saying his father knew best." "young men never think that," answered she. "'tis well known that no young man ever thought his father knew better than himself." "then he'll pretend to for his own convenience." "what about all that talk of changes for the better before mister ironsyde died then?" "talk of dead men won't go far. we'll hear no more of that." sarah frowned and went her way. at the door, however, she turned. "i might get to hear something about it next sunday very like," she said. "i'm going into bridport to my aunt nelly at 'the seven stars'; and she's a great friend of richard gurd at 'the tiger'; and 'tis there mister raymond spends half his time, they say. so mr. gurd may have learned a bit about it." "no doubt he'll hear a lot of words, and as for raymond ironsyde, his father knew him for a man with a bit of a heart in him and didn't trust him accordingly. but you can take it from me--" a bell rang and its note struck mr. baggs dumb. he ceased both to speak and work, dropped his hank, turned down his shirt sleeves and put on his coat. sarah at the stroke of the bell also manifested no further interest in levi's forebodings but left him abruptly. for it was noon and the dinner-hour had come. chapter iv chains for raymond raymond ironsyde had spent his life thus far in a healthy and selfish manner. he owned no objection to hard work of a physical nature, for as a sportsman and athlete he had achieved fame and was jealous to increase it. he preserved the perspective of a boy into manhood; while his father waited, not without exasperation, for him to reach adult estate in mind as well as body. henry ironsyde was still waiting when he died and left raymond to the mercy of daniel. now the brothers had met to thresh out the situation; and a day came when raymond lunched with his friend and fellow sportsman, arthur waldron, of north hill house, and furnished him with particulars. in time past, raymond's grandfather had bought a thousand acres of land on the side of north hill. here he destroyed one old farmhouse and converted another into the country-seat of his family. he lived and died there; but his son, henry, cared not for it, and the place had been let to successive tenants for many years. waldron was the last of these, and raymond's ambition had always been some day to return to north hill house and dwell in his grandfather's home. at luncheon the party of three sat at a round table on a polished floor of oak. estelle played hostess and gazed with frank admiration at the chattering visitor. he brought a proposition that made her feel very excited to learn what her father would think of it. mr. waldron was tall and thin. he lived out of doors and appeared to be made of iron, for nothing wearied him as yet. he had high cheek-bones, and a clean-shaved, agreeable face. he took sport most seriously, was jealous for its rights and observant of its rituals even in the smallest matters. upon the etiquette of all field sports he regarded himself, and was regarded, as an arbiter. "tell me how it went," he said. "i hope your brother was sporting?" mr. waldron used this adjective in the widest possible sense. it embraced all reputable action and covered virtue. if conduct were 'sporting,' he demanded no more from any man; while, conversely, 'unsporting' deeds condemned the doer in all relations of life and rendered him untrustworthy from every standpoint. "depends what you call 'sporting,'" answered raymond, whose estimate of the word was not so comprehensive. "you'd think it would have been rather a case for generosity, but dan didn't seem to see that. it's unlucky for me in a way he's not larger-minded. he's content with justice--what he calls justice. but justice depends on the mind that's got to do it. there's no finality about it, and what daniel calls justice, i call beastly peddling, if not actual bullying." "and what did he call justice?" "well, his first idea was to be just to my father, who was wickedly unjust to me. that wasn't too good for a start, for if you are going to punish the living, because the dead wanted them to be punished, what price your justice anyway? but daniel had a sort of beastly fairness too, for he recognised that my father's very sudden death must be taken into account. my aunt jenny supported me there; and she was sure he would have altered his will if he had had time. daniel granted that, and i began to hope i was going to come well out of it; but i counted my chickens before they were hatched. some people have a sort of diseased idea of the value of work and seem to think if you don't put ten hours a day into an office, you're not justifying your existence. unfortunately for me daniel is one of those people. if you don't work, you oughtn't to eat--he actually thinks that." "the fallacy is that what seems to be play to a mind like daniel's, is really seen to be work by a larger mind," explained arthur waldron. "sport, for instance, which is the backbone of british character, is a thousand times more important to the nation than spinning yarn; and we, who keep up the great tradition of british sport on the highest possible plane, are doing a great deal more valuable work--unpaid, mark you--than mere merchants and people of that kind who toil after money." "of course; but i never yet met a merchant who would see it--certainly not daniel. in fact i've got to work--in his way." "d'you mean he's stopping the allowance?" "yes. at least he's not renewing it. he's offering me a salary if i'll work. a jolly good salary, i grant. i can be just to him, though he can't to me. but, if i'm going to draw the salary, i've got to learn the business and, in fact, go into it and become a spinner. then, at the end of five years, if i shine and really get keen about it and help the show, he'll take me into partnership. that's his offer; and first i told him to go to the devil, and then i changed my mind and, after my aunt had sounded daniel and found that was his ultimatum, i climbed down." "what are you to do? surely he won't chain an open-air man like you to a wretched desk all your time?" "so i thought; but he didn't worry about that. i wanted to go abroad, and combine business with pleasure, and buy the raw material in russia and india and italy and so on. that might have been good enough; but in his rather cold-blooded way, he pointed out that to buy raw material, you wanted to know something about raw material. he asked me if i knew hemp from flax, and of course i had to say i did not. so that put the lid on that. i've got to begin where daniel began ten years ago--at the beginning--with this difference, that i get three hundred quid a year. in fact there's such a mixture of fairness and unfairness in daniel's idea that you don't know where to have him." "what shall you do about it?" "i tell you i've agreed. i must live, obviously, and i'd always meant to do something some day. but naturally my ideas were open air, and i thought when i got things going and took a scheme to my father--for horse-breeding or some useful enterprise--he would have seen i meant business and come round and planked down. but daniel has got no use for horse-breeding, so i must be a spinner--for the time anyway." estelle ventured to speak. "but only girls spin," she said. "you'd never be able to spin, ray." raymond laughed. "everybody's got to spin, it seems," he answered. "except the lilies," declared estelle gravely. "'they toil not, neither do they spin,' you know." mr. waldron regarded his daughter with respect. "just imagine," he said, "at her age. they've made her a member of the field botanists' club. only eleven years old and invited to join a grown-up club!" raymond was somewhat impressed. "fancy a kid like you knowing anything about botany," he said. "i don't," answered the child. "i'm only just beginning. why, i haven't mastered the grasses yet. the flowers are easy, of course, but the grasses are ever so difficult." they returned to ironsyde's plans. "and when d'you weigh in?" queried his friend. "that's the point. that's why i invited myself to lunch. daniel doesn't want me in the office at bridport; he wants me here--at bridetown--so that i can mess about in the works and see a lot of john best, the foreman, and learn all the practical side of the business. it seems rather footling work for a man, but he did it; and he says the first thing is to get a personal understanding of the processes and all that. of course i've always been keen on machinery." "good, then we shall see something of each other." "that's what i want--more than you do, very likely. the idea was that i went to uncle ernest, who is willing to let me have a room at 'the magnolias' and live with him for a year, which is the time daniel wants me to be here; but i couldn't stick churchouse for a year." "naturally." "so what do you say? are you game for a paying guest? you've got tons of room and i shouldn't be in the way." "how lovely!" cried estelle. "do come!" arthur waldron was quietly gratified. "i'm sure i should be delighted to have a pal in the house--a kindred spirit, who understands sport. by all means come," he said. "you're sure? i should be out most of my time at the blessed works, you know. could i bring my horse?" "certainly bring your horse." "that reminds me of one reasonable thing dan's going to do," ran on the other. "he's going to clear me. i told aunt jenny it was no good beginning a new life with a millstone of debts round my neck--in fact we came down to that. i said it was a vital condition. aunt jenny had rather a lively time between us. she sympathises with me tremendously, however, and finally got daniel to promise he would pay off every penny i owed--a paltry two hundred or so." "a very sporting arrangement. make the coffee, estelle, then we'll take a walk on the downs." "i'm going to uncle ernest to tea," explained raymond. "i shall tell him then that i'm not coming to him, thanks to your great kindness." "he will be disappointed," declared estelle. "it seems rather hard of us to take you away from him, i'm afraid." "don't you worry, kiddy. he'll get over it. in fact he'll be jolly thankful, poor old bird. he only did it because he thought he ought to. it's the old, traditional attitude of the churchouses to the ironsydes." "he's very wise about church bells, but he's rather vague about flowers," replied estelle. "he's only interested in dead things, i think; and things that happened long, long ago." "in a weird sort of way, a hobby is a man's substitute for sport, i believe," said estelle's father. "many have no feeling for sport; it's left out of them and they seem to be able to live comfortably without it. instead they develop an instinct for something else. generally it's deadly from the sportsman's point of view; but it seems to take the place of sport to the sportless. how old ruins, or church bells, can supersede a vital, living thing, like the sport of a nation, of course you and i can't explain; but so it is with some minds." "it depends how they were brought up," suggested raymond. "no--take you; you weren't brought up to sport. but your own natural, good instinct took you to it. same with me. the moment i saw a ball, i'm told that i shrieked till they gave it to me--at the age of one that was. and from that time forward they had no trouble with me. a ball always calmed me. why? because a ball, you may say, is the emblem of england's greatness. i was thinking over it not long ago. there is not a single game of the first importance that does not depend on a ball. if one had brains, one could write a book on the inner meaning of that fact. i believe that the ball has a lot to do with the greatness of the empire." "a jolly good idea. i'll try it on uncle ernest," promised raymond. he was cheerful and depressed in turn. his company made him happy and the thought that he would come to live at north hill house also pleased him well; but from time to time the drastic change in his life swept his thoughts like a cloud. the picture of regular work--unloved work that would enable him to live--struck distastefully upon his mind. they strolled over north hill after luncheon and estelle ran hither and thither, busy with two quests. her sharp eyes were in the herbage for the flowers and grasses; but she also sought the feathers of the rooks and crows who assembled here in companies. "the wing feathers are the best for father's pipes," she explained; "but the tail feathers are also very good. sometimes i get splendid luck and find a dozen or two in a morning, and sometimes the birds don't seem to have parted with a single feather. the place to find them is round the furze clumps, because they catch there when the wind blows them." the great hogged ridge of north hill keeps bridetown snug in winter time, and bursts the snow clouds on its bosom. to-day the breezes blew and shadows raced above the rolling green expanses. the downs were broken by dry-built walls and spattered with thickets of furze and white-thorn, black-thorn and elder. blue milkwort, buttercups and daisies adorned them, with eye-bright and the lesser, quaking grass that danced over the green. rabbits twinkled into the furzes where waldron's three fox terriers ran before the party; and now and then a brave buck coney would stand upon the nibbled knoll above his burrow and drum danger before he darted in. it was a haunt of the cuckoo and peewit, the bunting and carrion crow. "here we killed on the seventeenth of january last," said raymond's host. "a fine finish to a grand run. we rolled him over on this very spot after forty-five minutes of the best. it is always good to remember great moments in the past." on the southern slope of north hill there stood a ruined lime-kiln whose walls were full of fern and coated with mother o' thyme. a bank of brier and nettles lay before the mouth. they hid the foot of the kiln and made a snug and secluded spot. bridetown clustered in its elms far below; then the land rose again to protect the hamlet from the south; and beyond stretched the blue line of the channel. the men sat here and smoked, while estelle hunted for flowers and feathers. she came back to them presently with a bee orchis. "for you," she said, and gave it to raymond. "what the dickens is it?" he asked, and she told him. "they're rather rare, but they live happily on the down in some places. i know where." he thanked her very much. "never seen one before," he said. "a funny little pink and black devil, isn't it?" "it isn't a devil," she assured him; "if anything, it's an angel. but really it's more like a small bumble-bee than anything. perhaps you've never seen a bumble-bee either?" "oh, yes, i have--they don't sting." estelle laughed. "i thought that once. a boy in the village told me that bumble-bees have 'got no spears.' and i believed him and tried to help one out of the window once. and i very soon found that he had got a spear." "that reminds me i must take a wasps' nest to-night," said her father. "i've not decided which way to take it yet. there are seven different ways to take a wasps' nest--all good." they strolled homeward presently and parted at the lodge of north hill house. "you must come down and choose your room soon," said estelle. "it must be one that gets the sun in it, and the moon. people always want the sun, but they never seem to want the moon." "don't they, estelle! i know lots of people who want the moon," declared raymond. "perhaps i do." "you can have your choice of four stalls for the horse," said arthur waldron. "i always ride before breakfast myself, wet or fine. only frost stops me. i hope you will too--before you go to the works." raymond was soon at 'the magnolias,' and found mr. churchouse expecting him in the garden. they had not met since henry ironsyde's death, but the elder, familiar with the situation, did not speak of raymond's father. he was anxious to learn the young man's decision, and proved too ingenuous to conceal his relief when the visitor explained his plans. "i felt it my duty to offer you a temporary home," he said, "and we should have done our best to make you comfortable, but one gets into one's routine and i won't disguise from you that i am glad you go to north hill house, raymond." "you couldn't disguise it if you tried, uncle ernest. you're thankful--naturally. you don't want youth in this dignified abode of wisdom. besides, you've got no place for a horse--you know you haven't." "i've no objection to youth, my dear boy, but i can't pretend that the manners and customs of youth are agreeable to me. tobacco, for example, causes me the most acute uneasiness. then the robustness and general exaggeration of the youthful mind and body! it rises beyond fatigue, above the middle-aged desire for calm and comfort. it kicks up its heels for sheer joy of living; it is ever in extremes; it lacks imagination, with the result that it is ruthless. all these characteristics may go with a delightful personality--as in your case, raymond--but let youth cleave to youth. youth understands youth. you will in fact be much happier with waldron." "and you will be happier without me." "it may be selfish to say so, but i certainly shall." "well, you've had the virtue of making the self-denial and i think it was awfully good of you to do so." "i am always here and always very happy and willing to befriend the grandson of my father's partner," declared mr. churchouse. "it is excellent news that you are going into the business." "remains to be seen." the dining room at 'the magnolias' was also the master's study. there were innocent little affectations in it and the room was arranged to create an atmosphere of philosophy and art. books thronged in lofty book-shelves with glass doors. these were surmounted by plaster busts of homer and minerva, toned to mellowness by time. in the window was the writing desk of mr. churchouse, upon which stood a photograph of goethe. tea was laid and a girl brought in the hot water when mr. churchouse rang for it. after she had gone raymond praised her enthusiastically. "by jove, what a pretty housemaid!" he exclaimed. "pretty, yes; a housemaid, no," explained mr. churchouse. "she is the daughter of my housekeeper, mrs. dinnett. mrs. dinnett has been called to chilcombe, to see her old mother who is, i fear, going to die, and so sabina, with her usual kindness, has spent her half-holiday at home to look after me. sabina lives here. she is mrs. dinnett's daughter and one of the spinners at the mill. in fact, mr. best tells me she is his most accomplished spinner and has genius for the work. in her leisure she does braiding at home, as many of the girls do." "she's jolly handsome," declared raymond. "she's chucked away in a place like this." "d'you mean 'the magnolias'?" asked the elder mildly. "no, not 'the magnolias' particularly, but bridetown in general." "and why should bridetown be denied the privilege of numbering a beautiful girl amongst its population?" "oh--why--she's lost, don't you see. working in a stuffy mill, she's lost. if she was on the stage, then thousands would see her. a beautiful thing oughtn't to be hidden away." "god almighty hides away a great many beautiful things," answered mr. churchouse. "there are many beautiful things in our literature and our flora and fauna that are never admired." "so much the worse. when our fauna blossoms out in the shape of a lovely girl, it ought to be seen and give pleasure to thousands." ernest smiled. "i don't think sabina has any ambition to give pleasure to thousands. she is a young woman of very fine temper, with a dignified sense of her own situation and an honest pride in her own dexterity." "engaged to be married, of course?" "i think not. she and her mother are my very good friends. had any betrothal taken place, i feel sure i should have heard of it." "do ring for her, mr. churchouse, and let me look at her again. does she know how good-looking she is?" "youth! youth! yes, not being a fool, she knows she is well-favoured--much as you do, no doubt. i mean that you cannot shave yourself every morning without being conscious that you are in the greek mould. i could show you the engraving of a statue by praxiteles which is absurdly like you. but this accident of nature has not made you vain." "me! good lord!" raymond laughed long. "do not be puffed up," continued mr. churchouse, "for, with charm, you combine to a certain extent the greek vacuity. there are no lines upon your brow. you don't think enough." "don't i, by jove! i've been thinking a great deal too much lately. i've had a headache once." "lack of practice, my dear boy. sabina, being a woman of observation and intelligence, is no doubt aware of the fact that she is unusually personable. but she has brains and knows exactly what importance to attach to such an accident. if you want to learn what spinning means, she will be able to teach you." "every cloud has a silver lining, apparently," said raymond, and when sabina returned, ernest introduced him. the girl was clad in black with a white apron. she wore no cap. "this is mr. raymond ironsyde, sabina, and he's coming to learn all about the mill before long." raymond began to rattle away and sabina, without self-consciousness, listened to him, laughed at his jests and answered his questions. mr. churchouse gazed at them benevolently through his glasses. he came unconsciously under the influence of their joy of life. their conversation also pleased him, for it struck a right note--the note which he considered was seemly between employer and employed. he did not know that youth always modifies its tone in the presence of age, and that those of ripe years never hear the real truth concerning the opinions of the younger generation. when raymond left for home and mr. churchouse walked out to the gate with him, sabina peeped out of the kitchen window which commanded the entrance, and her face was lighted with very genuine animation and interest. mrs. dinnett returned at midnight tearful, for the ancient woman at chilcombe had died in her arms--"at five after five," as she said. mary dinnett was an excitable and pessimistic person. she always leapt to meet trouble half way and invariably lost her nerve upon the least opportunity to do so. the peace of 'the magnolias' had long offered her a fitting sanctum, for here life moved with the utmost simplicity and regularity; but, though as old as he was, mary looked ahead to the time when mr. churchouse might fall, and could always win an ample misery from the reflection that she must then be at the mercy of an unfriendly world. sabina heard the full story of her grandmother's decease with every detail of the passing, but it was the face of a young man, not the countenance of an old woman, that flitted through her thoughts as she went to sleep that night. chapter v in the mill john best was taking raymond ironsyde round the spinning mill, but the foreman had his own theory and proposed to initiate the young man by easy stages. "you've seen the storehouses and the hacklers," he said. "now if you just look into the works and get a general idea of the scheme of things, that's enough for one day." in the great building two sounds deafened an unfamiliar ear: a steady roar, deep and persistent, and through it, like a staccato pulse, a louder, more painful, more penetrating din. the bass to this harsh treble arose from humming belts and running wheels; the crash that punctuated their deep-mouthed riot broke from the drawing heads of the machines. a lofty, open roof, full of large sky-lights, covered the operating room, and in its uplifted dome supports and struts leapt this way and that, while, at the height of the walls, ran rods supporting rows of silver-bright wheels from which the power descended, through endless bands, to the machinery beneath. the floor was of stone, and upon it were disposed the various machine systems--the card and spreader, the drawing frames, roving frames, gill spinners and spinning frames. the general blurred effect in raymond's mind was one of disagreeable sound, which made speech almost impossible. the din drove at him from above and below; and it was accompanied by a thousand unfamiliar movements of flying bands and wheels and squat masses of machinery that convulsed and heaved and palpitated round him. from nearly all the machines there streamed away continuous bright ribbons of hemp or flax, that caught the light and shone. this was the 'sliver,' the wrought, textile material passing through its many changes before it came to the spinners. the amber and lint-white coils of the winding sliver made a brightness among the duns and drabs around them and their colour was caught again aloft where whisps of material hung irregularly--lumps of waste from the ends of the bobbins--and there were also colour notes of warmth in the wooden wheels on many of the machines. these struck a genial tone into the chill greys and flash of polished steel on every side. after the mechanical activity, movement came from the irregular actions of the workers. forty women and girls laboured here, and while some old people only sat on stools by the spouting sliver and wound it away into the tall cans that received it, other younger folk were more intensively engaged. the massive figure of sally groves lumbered at her ministry, where she fed the carding machine. she was subdued to the colour of the hemp tow with which she plied it. elsewhere sarah northover flashed the tresses of long lines over her head and seemed to perform a rhythmic dance with her hands, as she tore each strick into three and laid the shining locks on her spread board. others tended the drawers and rovers, while sabina dinnett, nancy buckler and alice chick, whose high task it was to spin, seemed to twinkle here, there and everywhere in a corybantic measure as they served the shouting and insatiable monsters that turned hemp and flax to yarn. they, indeed, specially attracted raymond, by the activity of their work and the charm of their swift, supple figures, where, never still, they danced about, with a thousand, strenuous activities of hand and foot and eye. their work dazed him and he wanted to stop here and ask sabina many questions. she looked much more beautiful while spinning than in her black dress and white apron--so the young man thought. her work displayed her neat, slim shape as she twirled round, stooped, leapt up again, twisted and stood on tip-toe in a thousand fascinating attitudes. never a dancer in the limelight had revealed so much beauty. she was rayed in a brown gown with a short skirt, and on her head she wore a grey woollen cap. but mr. best forbade interest in the spinners. "you'll not get to them for a week yet," he said. "i'll ask you to just take in the general hang of it, mister raymond, please. power comes from the water-wheel and the steam engine and it's brought down to each machine. just throw your eyes round. you ain't here to look at the girls, if you'll excuse my saying so. you're here to learn." "you can learn more from the girls than all these noisy things put together," laughed raymond; while mr. best shook his head and proceeded with his instructions. "those exhausts above each system suck away the dust and small rubbish," he explained. "we shouldn't be able to breathe without them." the other looked up and saw great leaden-coloured tubes, like organ pipes, above him. mr. best droned on and strove to lay a foundation for future knowledge. he was skilled in every branch of the work, and a past master of all spinning mysteries. his lucid and simple exposition had very well served to introduce an attentive stranger to the complex operations going on around him, but raymond was not attentive. he failed to concentrate and missed fundamental essentials from the desire to examine more advanced and obviously interesting operations. he apologised to john best before the dinner-hour. "this is only a preliminary canter," he said. "it's all greek to me and it will take time to get the thing clear. it looks quite different to me from what it must to you. i'll get the general scheme into my head first and then work out the details. a man's mind can't make order out of this chaos in a minute." he stood and tried to appreciate the trend of events. he enjoyed the adventure, but at present made no effort to do more than enjoy it. he would start to work later. he began to like the din and the dusty light and the glitter and shine of polished metal and bright sliver eternally winding into the cans. round it hovered or sat the women like dull moths. they wound the stream of hemp or flax away and snapped it when a can was full. there was no pause or slackening, nothing but the whirl of living hands and arms and bodies, dead wheels and teeth and pulleys and pins operating on the inert tow. the mediators, animate and inanimate, laboured together for its manufacture; while the masses of mingled wood and steel, leather and brass and iron, moved in controlled obedience to the giant forces liberated from steam and water that drove all. the selfsame power, gleaned from sunshine and moisture and sublimated to human flesh and blood through bread, plied in the fingers and muscles and countless, complex mental directions of the men and women who controlled. from sun-light and air, earth and water had also sprung the fields of hemp and flax in far-off lands and yielded up their loveliness to foreign scutchers. the dried death of countless beautiful herbs now represented the textile fabric on which all this immense energy was applied. thus far, along an obvious line of thought, raymond's reflections took him, but there his slight mental effort ended, and even this much tired him. the time for dinner came; mr. best now turned certain hand-wheels and moved certain levers. they shut off the power and gradually the din lessened, the pulsing and throbbing slowed until the whole great complexity came to a stand-still. the drone of the overhead wheels ceased, the crash of the draw-heads stopped. a startling silence seemed to grow out of the noise and quell it, while a new activity manifested itself among the workers. as a bell rang they were changed in a twinkling and, amid chatter and laughter, like breaking chrysalids, they flung off their basset aprons and dun overalls, to emerge in brighter colours. blouses of pink and blue and red flashed out, straw hats and sun-bonnets appeared, and all streamed away like magic to their neighbouring houses. it was as though its soul had passed and left a dead mill behind it. raymond, released for a moment from the attentions of the foreman, strolled among the machines of the minders and spinners. then his eyes were held by an intimate and personal circumstance that linked these women to this place. he found that on the whitewashed walls beside their working corners, the girls had impressed themselves--their names, their interests, their hopes. with little picture galleries were the walls brightened, and with sentiments and ideas. the names of the workers were printed up in old stamps--green and pink--and beside them one might read, in verses, or photographs, or pictures taken from the journals, something of the history, taste and personal life of those who set them there. serious girls had written favourite hymns beside their working places; the flippant scribbled jokes and riddles; the sentimental copied love songs that ran to many verses. often the photograph of a maiden's lover accompanied them, and there were also portraits of mothers and sisters, babies and brothers. some of the girls had hung up fashion-plates and decorated their workshop with ugly and mean designs for clothing that they would never wear. raymond found that picture postcards were a great feature of these galleries, and they contained also, of course, many private jests and allusions lost upon the visitor. character was revealed in the collections; for the most part they showed desire for joy, and aspiration to deck the working-place with objects and words that should breed happy thoughts and draw the mind where its treasure harboured. each heart it seemed was holding, or seeking, a romance; each heart was settled about some stalwart figure presented in the picture gallery, or still finding temporary substance for dreams in love poetry, in representations of happy lovers at stiles, in partings of soldier and sailor lads from their sweethearts. beside some of the old workers the walls were blank. they had nothing left to set down, or hang up. raymond was arrested by a little rhyme round which a black border had been pasted. it was original: "i am coiling, coiling, coiling into the can, and thinking, thinking, thinking, of my dear man. "he is toiling, toiling, toiling out on the sea, and thinking, thinking, thinking only of me. "f.h." mr. best joined ironsyde. "these walls!" he said. "it's about time we had a coat of whitewash. mister daniel thinks so too." "why--good lord--this is the most interesting part of the whole show. this is alive! who's f.h.?" "the girls will keep that. they like it, though i tell them it would be better rubbed out. poor flossy hackett wrote that. she was going to marry a sailor-man, but he changed his mind, and she broke her heart and drowned herself--that's all there is to it." "the damned rascal. i hope he got what he deserved." mr. best allowed his mind to peep from the shell that usually concealed it. "if he did, he was one man in a thousand. he married a weymouth woman and flossy went into the river--in the deep pool beyond the works. a clever sort of girl, but a dreamer you might say." "i'd like to have had the handling of that devil!" "you never know. she may have had what's better than a wedding ring--in happy dreams. reality's not the best of life. people do change their minds. he was honest and all that. only he found somebody else he liked better." at this moment daniel ironsyde came into the works, and while john best hastened to him, raymond pursued his amusement and studied the wall by the spinning frame where sabina dinnett worked. he found a photograph of her mother and a quotation from shakespeare torn off a calendar for the date of august the third. he guessed that might be sabina's birthday. the quotation ran:-- "to thine own self be true; and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man." there was no male in sabina's picture gallery--indeed, no other picture but that of a girl--her fellow spinner, nancy buckler. his brother approached raymond. "you've made a start, ray?" "rather. it's jolly interesting. best is wonderful, but he can't fathom my ignorance yet." "it's all very simple and straightforward. do you like your office?" "yes," declared the younger. "couldn't beat it. when i want something to do, i can fling a line out of the window and fish in the river." "you have plenty to do besides fish out of the window i should hope. let us lunch. i'm stopping here this afternoon. aunt jenny wanted to know whether you'd come to bridport to dinner on sunday." daniel was entirely friendly now and he designed--if the future should justify the step--to take raymond into partnership. but only in the event of very material changes in his brother's life would he do so. their aunt felt sanguine that raymond must soon recognise his responsibilities, settle to the business of justifying his existence and put away childish things; daniel was less hopeful, but trusted that she might be right. her imagination worked for raymond and warned her nephew not to be too exacting at first. she pointed out that it was very improbable daniel's brother would become a model in a moment, or settle down to the business of fixed hours and clerical work without a few lapses from the narrow and arduous path. so the elder was prepared to see his brother kick against the pricks and even warned john best that it might be so. brief acquaintance with raymond had already convinced the foreman of this probability, and he found himself liking daniel's brother from the first. the dangers, however, were not hid from him; but while he perceived the youthful instability of the newcomer and his impatience of detail, he presently discovered an interest in mechanical contrivances, a spark of originality, and a feeling for new things that might lead to results, if only the necessary application were forthcoming and the vital interest aroused. mr. best had a simple formula. "the successful spinner," he often remarked, "is the man who can turn out the best yarn from a given sample of the raw. hand identical stuff to ten manufacturers and you'll soon see where the best yarn comes from." he knew of better yarns than came from the ironsyde mill, and regretted the fact. that a time might arrive when raymond would see with him seemed exceedingly improbable; yet he felt the dim possibility by occasional flashes in the young man, and it was a quality of mr. best's mind to be hopeful and credit other men with his own aspirations, if any excuse existed for so doing. chapter vi 'the seven stars' on a saturday in august, sarah northover, one of those who minded the 'spreader' at bridetown mill, came to see her aunt--the mistress of 'the seven stars,' in barrack street, bridport. she had walked three miles through the hot and dusty lanes and found the shady streets of bridport cool by comparison, but there was work for her at 'the seven stars,' and mrs. northover proved very busy. a holiday party of five-and-twenty guests was arriving at five o'clock for tea, and sarah, perceiving that her own tea would be a matter for the future, lent her aunt a hand. her tea gardens and pleasure grounds were the pride of nelly northover's heart. three quarters of an acre extended here behind the inn, and she had erected swings for the children and laid a croquet lawn for those who enjoyed that pastime. lawn tennis she would not permit, out of respect for her herbaceous border which surrounded the place of entertainment. at one corner was a large summer-house in which her famous teas were generally taken. the charge was one shilling, and being of generous disposition, mrs. northover provided for that figure a handsome meal. she was a large, high-bosomed woman, powerfully built, and inclined to stoutness. her complexion was sanguine, and her prominent eyes were very blue. of a fair-minded and honest spirit, she suffered from an excitable temper and rather sharp tongue. but her moods were understood by her staff, and if her emotional quality did injustice, an innate sense of what was reasonable ultimately righted the wrong. sarah helped job legg and others to prepare for the coming party, while mrs. northover roamed the herbaceous border and cut flowers to decorate the table. while she pursued this work there bustled in richard gurd from 'the tiger.' he was in his shirt-sleeves and evidently pushed for time. "wonders never cease," said nelly, smiling upon him. "it's a month of sundays since you was in my gardens. i'll lay you've come for some flowers for your dining table." reciprocity was practised between these best of friends, and while mr. gurd often sent customers to mrs. northover, since tea parties were not a branch of business he cared about, she returned his good service with gifts from the herbaceous border and free permission to use her spacious inn yard and stables. "i'm always coming to have a look round at your wonderful flower-bed," said richard, "and some sunday morning, during church hours, i will do so; but you know how busy we all are in august. and i don't want no flowers; but i want the run of your four-stall stable. there's a 'beano' coming over from lyme and i'm full up already." "never no need to ask," she answered. "i'll tell job to set a man on to it." he thanked her very heartily and she gave him a rose. then he admired the grass, knowing that she prided herself upon it. "never seen such grass anywhere else in bridport," he assured her. "there's lots try to grow grass like yours; but none can come near this." "'tis job's work," she told him. "he's a northerner and had the charge of a bowling-green at his uncle's public; and what he don't know about grass ain't worth knowing." "he's a sheet-anchor, that man," confessed richard; "a sheet-anchor and a tower of strength, as you might say." "i don't deny it," admitted nelly. "sometimes, in a calm moment, i run my mind over job legg, and i'm almost ashamed to think how much i owe him." "it ain't all one way, however. he's got a snug place, and no potman in dorset draws more money, though there's some who draws more beer." "there's no potman in dorset with his head," she answered. "he's got a brain and it's very seldom indeed you find such an honest chap with such a lot of intellects. the clever ones are mostly the downy ones; but job's single thought is the welfare of the house, and he pushes honesty to extremes." "if you can say that, he must be a wonder, certainly, for none knows what honesty means better than you," said mr. gurd. he had put nelly's rose into his coat. "he's more than a potman, chiefly along of being such a good friend to my late husband. almost the last sensible thing my poor dear said to me before he died was never to get rid of job. and no doubt i never shall. i'm going to put up his money at michaelmas." "well, don't make the man a god, and don't you spoil him. job's a very fine chap and can carry corn as well as most of 'em--in fact far better; but a man is terrible quick to trade on the good opinion of his fellow man, and if you let him imagine you can't do without him, you may put false and fantastic ideas into his head." "i'm not at all sure if i could do without him," she answered, "though, even if he knew it, he's far too fine a character to take advantage. a most modest creature and undervalued accordingly." then a boy ran in for richard and he hastened away, while nelly took a sheaf of flowers to the summer-house and made the table bright with them. she praised her niece's activities. "'tis a shame to ring you in on your half-holiday," she said. "but you're one of the sensible sort, and you won't regret being a good girl to me in the time to come." then she turned to job. "gurd's got a char-a-bank and a party on the way from lyme, and he's full up and wants the four-horse stable," she told him. it was part of job's genius never to be put about, or driven from placidity by anything. "then there's no time to lose," he said. "we're ready here, and now if sarah will lend a hand at the table over there in the shade for the party of six--" "lord! i'd forgotten them." "i hadn't," he answered. "they're cutting in the kitchen now and the party's due at four. so you'll have them very near off your hands before the big lot comes. i'll see to the stable and get in a bit of fresh straw and shake down some hay. then i'll take the bar and let miss denman come to help with the tea." he went his way and sarah sat down a moment while her aunt arranged the flowers. "there's no tea-tables like yours," she said. "i pride myself on 'em. a lot goes to a tea beside the good food, in my opinion. some human pigs don't notice my touches and only want to stuff; but the bettermost have an eye for everything sweet and clean about 'em. such nicer characters don't like poultry messing round and common things in sight while they eat and drink. i know what i feel myself about a clean cloth and a bunch of fine flowers on the table, and many people are quite as particular as me. i train the girls up to take a pride in such things, and now and again a visitor will thank me for it." "i could have brought a bunch of flowers from our little garden," said sarah. "it would be coals to newcastle, my dear. we make a feature of 'em. job legg understands the ways of 'em, and you see the result. you can pick all day from my herbaceous border and not miss what you take." "nobody grows sweet peas like yours." "job again. he's mastered the sweet pea in a manner given to few. he'll bring out four on a stalk, and think nothing of it." "mister best, our foreman, is wonderful in a garden, too," answered sarah. "and a great fruit grower also." "that reminds me. i've got a fine dish of greengages for this party. in the season i fling in a bit of fruit sometimes. it always comes as a pleasant surprise to tea people that they ain't called to pay extra for fruit." she went her way and sarah turned to a lesser entertainment under preparation in a shady corner of the garden. a girl of the house was already busy there, and the guests had arrived. they were hot and thirsty. some sat on the grass and fanned themselves. a young man did juggling feats with the croquet balls for the amusement of two young women. not until half-past six came any pause, but after that hour the tea drinkers thinned off; the big party had come and gone; the smaller groups were all attended to and tea was served in mrs. northover's private sitting-room behind the bar for herself, sarah and the barmaid. being refreshed and rested, mrs. northover turned to the affairs of her niece. at the same moment mr. legg came in. "sit down and have some tea," said mrs. northover. "i've took a hasty cup," he answered, "but could very well do with another." "and how's mister roberts, sarah?" asked her aunt. "fine. he's playing in a cricket match to-day--bridetown against chilcombe. they've asked him to play for bridport since mister raymond saw him bowl. he's very pleased about it." "teetotal, isn't he?" asked mr. job. "yes, mister legg. nick have never once touched a drop in all his life and never means to." "a pity there ain't more of the same way of thinking," said mrs. northover. "and i say that, though a publican and the wife of a publican; and so do you, don't you, job?" "most steadfast," he replied. "when i took on barman as a profession, i never lifted pot or glass again to my own lips, and have stood between many a young man and the last half pint. i tell you this to your face, missis northover. not an hour ago i was at 'the tiger,' to let richard gurd know the stable was ready, and in the private bar there were six young men, all drinking for the pleasure of drinking. if the younger generation only lapped when 'twas thirsty, half the drinking-places would shut, and there wouldn't be no more brewers in the peerage." he shook his head and drank his tea. mrs. northover changed the subject. "how's the works?" she asked. "do the people like the new master?" "just the same--same hours, same money--everything. and mister daniel's brother, mister raymond's, come to it to learn the business. he is a cure!" "he's over there now," said job, waving his hand in the direction of 'the tiger.' "drinking port wine he is with that young sport, motyer, and others like him. i don't like motyer's face. he's a shifty chap, and a thorn in his family's side by all accounts. but mister raymond have a very open countenance and ought to have a good heart." "what do you mean when you say he's a 'cure,' sarah?" asked her aunt. "he's that friendly with us girls," she answered. "he's supposed to be learning all there is to spinning, but he plays about half his time and you can't help laughing. he's so friendly as if he was one of us; but sabina dinnett is his pet. wants to make her smoke cigarettes! but there's no harm to him if you understand." "there's always harm to a chap that plays about and don't look after his own business," declared job. "i understand his brother's been very proper about him, and now it's up to him; and he ain't at the mill to offer the girls cigarettes." "he's got his own room and mister best wishes he'd bide in it," explained sarah, "but he says he must learn, and so he's always wandering around. but everybody likes him, except levi baggs. he don't like anybody. he'd like to draw us all over his hackling frames if he could." they chattered awhile, then worked again; but sarah stayed to supper, and it was not until half-past ten o'clock that she started for home. another bridetown girl--alice chick, the spinner--had been spending her half holiday in bridport. now she met sarah, by appointment, at the top of south street and the two returned together. chapter vii a walk the carding machine was a squat and noisy monster. mr. best confessed that it had put him in mind of a passage from holy writ, for it seemed to be all eyes, behind and before. the eyes were wheels, and beneath, the mass of the carder opened its mouth--a thin and hungry slit into which wound an endless band. spread upon this leathern roller was the hemp tow--that mass of short material which levi baggs, the hackler, pruned away from his long strides. as for the minder, sally groves, she seemed built and born to tend a carding machine. she moved with dignity despite her great size, and although covered in tow dust from head to foot and powdered with a layer of pale amber fluff, she stood as well as another for the solemnity of toil, laboured steadfastly, was neither elated, nor cast down, and presented to younger women a spectacle of skill, resolution and good sense. the great woman ennobled her work; through the dust and din, with placid and amiable features, she peered, and ceased not hour after hour, to spread the tow truly and evenly upon the rolling board. one of less experience might have needed to weigh her material, but sally never weighed; by long practice and good judgment, she produced sliver of even texture. the carder panted, crashed and shook with its energies. it glimmered all over with the bright, hairy gossamer of the tow, which wound thinly through systems of fast and slow wheels. between them the material was lashed and pricked, divided and sub-divided, torn and lacerated by thousands of pins, that separated strand from strand and shook the stuff to its integral fibres before building it up again. despite the thunder and the suggestion of immense forces exerted upon the frail material, utmost delicacy marked the operations of the card. any real strain must have torn to atoms the fine amber coils in which it ejected the strips of shining sliver. enormous waste marked the operation. beneath the machine rose mounds of dust and dirt, and fluff, light as thistledown; while as much was sucked away into the air by the exhaust above. in a lion-coloured overall and under a hat tied beneath her chin with a yellow handkerchief, sally groves pursued her task. then came to her sabina dinnett and, ceasing not to spread her tow the while, sally spoke serious words. "i asked nancy buckler to send you along when your machine stopped a minute. you won't be vexed with me if i say something, will you?" "vexed with you, sally? who ever was vexed with you?" "i'm old enough to be your mother, and 'tis her work if anybody's to speak to you," explained sally; "but she's not here, and she don't see what i can't help seeing." "what have you seen then?" "i've seen a very good-looking young man by the name of raymond ironsyde wasting a deuce of a lot of his time by your spinning frame; and wasting your time, too." sabina changed colour. "fancy you saying that!" she exclaimed. "he's got to learn the business--the practical side, sally. and he wants to master it carefully and grasp the whole thing." miss groves smiled. "ah. he didn't take long mastering the carder," she said. "just two minutes was all he gave me, and i don't think he was very long at the drawing heads neither; and i ain't heard sarah northover say he spent much of his time at the spreader. it all depends on the minder whether mister raymond wants to know much about the work!" "but the spinning is the hardest to understand, sally." "granted, but he don't ask many questions of alice chick or nancy buckler, do he? i'm not blaming him, lord knows, nor yet you, but for friendship i'm whispering to you to be sensible. he's a very kind-hearted young gentleman, and if he had a memory as big as his promises, he'd soon ruin himself. but, like a lot of other nice chaps full of generous ideas, he forgets 'em when the accident that woke 'em is out of his mind. and all i say, sabina, is to be careful. he may be as good as gold, and i dare say he is, but he's gone on you--head over heels--he can't hide it. he don't even try to. and he's a gentleman and you're a spinner. so don't you be silly, and don't think the worse of me for speaking." sabina entertained the opinions concerning middle-age common to youth, but she was fond of sally and set her heart at rest. "you needn't be frightened," she answered. "he's a gentleman, as you say; and you know i'm not the sort to be a fool. i can't help him coming; and i can't be rude to the young man. for that matter i wouldn't. i won't forget what you've said all the same." she hurried away and started her machine; but while her mind concentrated on spinning, some subconscious instincts worked at another matter and she found that sally had cast a cloud upon a coming event which promised nothing but sunshine. she had agreed to go for a walk with raymond ironsyde on the following sunday, and he had named their meeting-place: a bridge that crossed the bride in the vale two miles from the village. she meant to go, for the understanding between her and raymond had advanced far beyond any point dreamed of by sally groves. sabina's mind was in fact exceedingly full of raymond, and his mind was full of her. temperament had conspired to this state of things, for while the youth found himself in love for the first time in his life, and pursued the quest with that ardour and enthusiasm until now reserved for sport, sabina, who had otherwise been much more cautious, was not only in love, but actually felt that shadowy ambitions from the past began to promise realisation. she was not vain, but she knew herself a finer thing in mind and body than most of the girls with whom she worked. she had read a great deal and learned much from mr. churchouse, who delighted to teach her, and from mr. best, with whom she was a prime favourite. she had refused several offers of marriage and preserved a steady determination not to wed until there came a man who could lift her above work and give her a home that would embrace comfort and leisure. she waited, confident that this would happen, for she knew that she could charm men. as yet none had come who awakened any emotion of love in sabina; and she told herself that real love might alter her values and send her to a poor man's home after all. if that happened, she was willing; but she thought it improbable; because, in her experience, poor men were ignorant, and she felt very sure no ignorant man would ever make her love him. then came into her life one very much beyond her dreams, and from an attitude of utmost caution before a physical beauty that fascinated her, she woke into tremendous excitation of mind at the discovery that he, too, was interested. to her it seemed that he had plenty of brains. his ideas were human and beautiful. he declared the conditions of the workers to be not sufficiently considered. he was full of nebulous theories for the amelioration of such conditions. the spectacle of women working for a living caused raymond both uneasiness and indignation. to sabina, it seemed that he was a chivalric knight of romance--a being from a fairy story. she had heard of such men, but never met with one outside a novel. she glorified raymond into something altogether sublime--as soon as she found that he liked her. he filled her head, and while her common-sense vainly tried to talk as sally groves had talked, each meeting with the young man threw her back upon the tremendous fact that he was deeply interested in her and did not care who knew it. common-sense could not modify that; nor would she listen to common-sense, when it suggested that raymond's record was uninspiring, and pointed to no great difference between him and other young men. she told herself that he was misunderstood; she whispered to herself that she understood him. it must be so, for he had declared it. he had said that he was an idealist. as a matter of fact he did not himself know the meaning of the word half as well as sabina. he filled her thoughts, and believing him to be honourable, in the everyday acceptation of the word, she knew she was safe and need not fear him. this fact added to the joy and excitement of a situation that was merely thrilling, not difficult. for she had to be receptive only, and that was easy: the vital matter rested with him. she did not do anything to encourage him, or take any step that her friends could call "forward." she just left it to him and knew not how far he meant to go, yet felt, in sanguine moments, that he would go all the way, sooner or later, and offer to marry her. her friends declared it would be so. they were mightily interested, but not jealous, for the girls recognised sabina's advantages. when, therefore, he asked her to take a walk on a certain sunday afternoon, she agreed to do so. there was no plotting or planning about it. he named a familiar place of meeting and proposed to go thence to the cliffs--a ramble that might bring them face to face with a dozen people who knew them. she felt the happier for that. nor could sally groves and her warning cast her down for long. the hint that raymond was a gentleman and sabina a spinner touched a point in their friendship long past. the girl knew that well enough; but she also knew what sally did not, and told herself that raymond was a great deal more than a gentleman, just as she--sabina--was something more than a spinner. that, however, was the precious knowledge peculiar to the young people themselves. she could not expect sally, or anybody else, to know it yet. as for the young man, life had cut away from him most of his former interests and amusements. he was keeping regular hours and working steadily. he regarded himself as a martyr, yet could get none to take that view. to him, then, came his love affair as a very present help in time of trouble. the emotions awakened by sabina were real, and he fully believed that she was going to be essential to his life's happiness and completion. he knew nothing about women, for his athletic pursuits and ambitions to excel physically produced an indifference to them. but with the change in his existence, and the void thereby created, came love, and he had leisure to welcome it. he magnified sabina, and since her intellect was as good as his own and her education better, he assured himself that she was in every respect superior to her position and worthy of any man's admiration. he did not analyse his feelings or look ahead very far. he did not bother to ask himself what he wanted. he was only concerned to make sabina 'a chum,' as he said, to himself. he knew this to be nonsense, even while he said it, but in the excitement of the quest, chose to ignore rational lines of thought. they met by the little bridge over bride, then walked southerly up a hill to a hamlet, and so on to the heights. beneath the sponge-coloured cliffs eastward swept the grand scythe of chesil bank; but an east wind had brought its garment of grey-blue haze and the extremity of the bank, with portland bill beyond, was hidden. the cliffs gave presently and green slopes sank to the beaches. they reached a place where, separated from the sea by great pebble-ridges, there lay a little mere. two swans swam together upon it, and round about the grey stone banks were washed with silver pink, where the thrift prospered. sabina had not talked much, though she proved a good listener; but raymond spoke fitfully, too, at first. he was new to this sort of thing and told her so. "i don't believe i've ever been for a walk with a girl in my life before," he said. "i can't walk fast enough for you, i'm afraid." "oh yes, you can; you're a very good walker." at last he began to tell her about himself, in the usual fashion of the male, who knows by instinct that subject is most interesting to both. he dwelt on his sporting triumphs of the past, and explained his trials and tribulations in the present. he represented that he was mewed up like an eagle. he described how the tragic call to work for a living had sounded in his ear when he anticipated no such painful experience. before this narrative sabina affected a deeper sympathy than she felt, yet honestly perceived that to such a man, his present life of regular hours must be dreary and desolate. "it's terrible dull for you, i'm sure," she said. "it was," he confessed, "but i'm getting broken in, or perhaps it's because you're so jolly friendly. you're the only person i know in the whole world who has got the mind and imagination to see what a frightful jar it was for an open-air man like me to be dropped into this. people think it is the most unnatural thing on earth that i should suddenly begin to work. but it's just as unnatural really as if my brother suddenly began to play. even my great friend, arthur waldron, talks rubbish about everybody having to work sooner or later--not that he ever did. but you were quick enough to see in a moment. you're tremendously clever, really." "i wish i was; but i saw, of course, that you were rather contemptuous of it all." "so i was at first," he confessed. "at first i felt that it was a woman's show, and that what women can do well is no work for men. but i soon saw i was wrong. it increased my respect for women in a way. to find, for instance, that you could do what you do single-handed and make light of it; that was rather an eye-opener. whenever any pal of mine talks twaddle about what women can't do, i shall bring him to see you at work." "i could do something better than spin if i got the chance," she said, and he applauded the sentiment highly. "of course you could, and i'm glad you've got the pluck to say so. i knew that from the first. you're a lot too clever for spinning, really. you'd shine anywhere. let's sit here under this thorn bush. i must get some rabbiting over this scrub. the place swarms with them. you don't mind if i smoke?" they rested, and he ventured to make a personal remark after sabina had taken off her gloves to cool her hands. "you've hurt yourself," he said, noting what seemed to be an injury. but she made light of it. "it's only a corn from stopping the spindles. every spinner's hands are like that. alice chick has chilblains in winter, then she gets a cruel, bad hand." the slight deformity made raymond uncomfortable. he could not bear to think of a woman suffering such a stigma in her tender flesh. "they ought to invent something to prevent you being hurt," he said, and sabina laughed. "why, there are very few manual trades don't leave their mark," she answered, "and a woman's lucky to get nothing worse than a scarred hand." "would it come right," he ventured to ask, "if you gave up spinning?" "yes, in no time. there are worse things happen to you in the mills than that--and more painful. sometimes the wind from the reels numbs your fingers till you can't feel 'em and they go red, and then blue. and there's always grumbling about the temperature, because what suits hemp and flax don't suit humans. if some clever man could solve these difficulties, it would be more comfortable for us. not that i'm grumbling. our mill is about as perfect as any mill can be, and we've got the blessing of living in the country, too--that's worth a lot." "you're fond of the country." "couldn't live out of it," she said. "thanks to mr. churchouse, i know more about things than some girls." "i should think you did." "he's very wise and kind and lends me books." "a very nice old bird. i nearly went to live with him when i came to bridetown. sorry i didn't, now." she smiled and did not pretend to miss the compliment. "as to the mill," he went on; "don't think i'm the sort of chap that just drifts and is contented to let things be as they were in the time of his father and grandfather." "wouldn't you?" "certainly not. no doubt it's safer and easier and the line of least resistance and all that sort of thing. but when i've once mastered the business, you'll see. i didn't want to come in, but now i'm in, i'm going to the roots of it, and i shall have a pretty big say in things, too, later on." "fancy!" said sabina. "oh yes. you mustn't suppose my brother and i see alike all round. we don't. he wants to be a copy of my father, and i've no ambition to be anything of the kind. my father wasn't at all sporting to me, sabina, and it doesn't alter the fact because he's dead. the first thing is the workers, and whatever i am, i'm clever enough to know that if we don't do a good many things for the workers pretty soon, they'll do those things for themselves. but it will be a great deal more proper and breed a lot more goodwill between labour and capital, if capital takes the first step and improves the conditions and raises the wages all round. d'you know what i would do if i had my way? i'd go one better than the trade unions! i'd cut the ground from under their feet! i'd say to capital 'instead of whining about the trades unions, get to work and make them needless.'" but these gigantic ideas, uttered on the spur of the moment by one who knew less than nothing of his subject, did not interest sabina as much as he expected. the reason, however, he did not know. it was that he had called her by her name for the first time. it slipped out without intention, though he was conscious of it as he spoke it; but he had no idea that it had greatly startled her and awoke mingled feelings of delight and doubt. she was delighted, because it meant her name must have been often in his thoughts, she was doubtful, because its argued perhaps a measure less of that respect he had always paid her. but, on the whole, she felt glad. he waited for her to speak and did not know that she had heard little, but was wondering at that moment if he would go back to the formal 'miss dinnett' again, or always call her 'sabina' in future. after a pause raymond spoke. "now tell me about yourself," he said. "i'm sure you've heard enough about me." "there's nothing to tell." "how did you happen to be a spinner?" "mother was, so i went into it as a matter of course." "i should have thought old churchouse would have seen you're a genius, and educated you and adopted you." "nothing of a genius about me. i'm like most other girls." "i never saw another girl like you," he said. "you'd spoil anybody with your compliments." "never paid a compliment in my life," he declared. their conversation became desultory, and presently sabina said she must be going home. "mother will be wondering." on the way back they met another familiar pair and sabina speculated as to what raymond thought; but he showed no emotion and took off his hat to sarah northover and nicholas roberts, the lathe worker, as they passed by. sarah smiled, and nicholas, a thin, good-looking man, took off his hat also. "i must go and study the lathes," said raymond after they had passed. "that's a branch of the work i haven't looked at yet. roberts seems a good chap, and he's a very useful bowler, i find." "he's engaged to sarah; they're going to be married when he can get a house." "that's another thing that must be looked to. there are scores of cottages that want pulling down here. i shall point that out to the lord of the manor when i get a chance." "you're all for changes and improvements, mister ironsyde." "call me raymond, sabina." "i couldn't do that." "why not? i want you to. by the way, may i call you sabina?" "yes, if you care to." they parted at the entrance gate of 'the magnolias,' and raymond thanked her very heartily for her company. "i've looked forward to this," he said. "and now i shall look forward to the next time. it's very sporting of you to come and i'm tremendously grateful and--good-bye, sabina--till to-morrow." he went on up the road to north hill house and felt the evening had grown tasteless without her. he counted the hours to when he would see her again. she went to work at seven o'clock, but he never appeared at the mill until ten, or later. he began to see that this was the most serious thing within his experience. he supposed that it must be enduring and tend to alter the whole tenor of his life. marriage was one of the stock jokes in his circle, yet, having regard for sabina, this meant marriage or nothing. he felt ill at ease, for love had not yet taken the bit and run away with him. other interests cried out to him--interests that he would have to give up. he tried to treat the matter as a joke with himself, but he could not. he felt melancholy, and that night at supper waldron asked what was wrong, while estelle told him he must be ill, because he was so dull. "i don't believe the spinning works are good for you," she said. "ask for a holiday and distract your mind with other things," suggested waldron. "if you'd come out in the mornings and ride for a couple of hours before breakfast, as i do, you'd be all right." "i will," promised raymond. "i want bucking up." he pictured sabina on horseback. "i wish to god i was rich instead of being a pauper!" he exclaimed. "my advice is that you stick it out for a year or more, till you've convinced your brother you'll never be any good at spinning," said arthur waldron. "then, after he knows you're not frightened of work, but, of course, can't excel at work that isn't congenial, he'll put money into your hands for a higher purpose, and you will go into breeding stock, or some such thing, to help keep up the sporting instincts of the country." with that bright picture still before him raymond retired. but he was not hopeful and even vague suggestions on waldron's part that his friend should become his bailiff and study agriculture did not serve to win from the sufferer more than thanks. the truth he did not mention, knowing that neither waldron, nor anybody else, would offer palatable counsel in connection with that. chapter viii the lecture daniel ironsyde sat with his aunt jenny after dinner and voiced discontent. but it was not with himself and his personal progress that he felt out of tune. all went well at the mill save in one particular, and he found no fault either with the heads of the offices at bridport, or with john best, who entirely controlled the manufacture at bridetown. his brother caused the tribulation of his mind. miss ironsyde sympathised, but argued for raymond. "he has an immense respect for you and would not willingly do anything to annoy you, i'm sure of that. you must remember that raymond was not schooled to this. it takes a boy of his temperament a long time to find the yoke easy. you were naturally studious, and wise enough to get into harness after you left school; raymond, with his extraordinary physical powers, found the fascination of sport over-mastering. he has had to give up what to your better understanding is trivial and unimportant, but it really meant something to him." "he hasn't given up as much as you might think," answered daniel. "he's always taking holidays now for cricket matches, and he rides often with waldron. it was a mistake his going there. waldron is a person with one idea, and a foolish idea at that. he only thinks a man is a man when he's tearing about after foxes, or killing something, or playing with a ball of some sort. he's a bad influence for raymond. but it's not that. it's not so much what raymond doesn't do as what he does do. he's foolish with the spinners and minders at the mill." "he might be," said jenny ironsyde, "but he's a gentleman." "he's an idiot. i believe he'd wreck the whole business if he had the power. best tells me he talks to the girls about what he's going to do presently, and tells them he will raise all their wages. he suggests to perfectly satisfied people that they are not getting enough money! well, it's only human nature for them to agree with him, and you can easily see what the result of that would be. instead of having the hands willing and contented, they'll grow unsettled and grumble, and then work will suffer and a bad spirit appear in the mill. it is simply insane." "i quite agree," answered his aunt. "there's no excuse whatever for nonsense of that sort, and if raymond minded his own business, as he should, it couldn't happen. surely his own work doesn't throw him into the company of the girls?" "of course it doesn't. it's simply a silly excuse to waste his time and hear his own voice. he ought to have learned all about the mechanical part weeks ago." "well, i can only advise patience," said miss ironsyde. "i don't suppose a woman would carry much weight with him, an old one i mean--myself in fact. but failing others i will do what i can. you say mr. waldron's no good. then try uncle ernest. i think he might touch raymond. he's gentle, but he's wise. and failing that, you must tackle him yourself, daniel. it's your duty. i know you hate preaching and all that sort of thing, but there's nobody else." "i suppose there isn't. it can't go on anyway, because he'll do harm. i believe asses like raymond make more trouble than right down wicked people, aunt jenny." "don't tell him he's an ass. be patient--you're wonderfully patient always for such a young man, so be patient with your brother. but try uncle ernest first. he might ask raymond to lunch, or tea, and give him a serious talking to. he'll know what to say." "he's too mild and easy. it will go in at one ear and come out of the other," prophesied daniel. but none the less he called on mr. churchouse when next at bridetown. the old man had just received a parcel by post and was elated. "a most interesting work sent to me from 'a well wisher,'" he said. "it is an old perambulation of dorsetshire, which i have long desired to possess." "people like your writings in the _bridport gazette_," declared daniel. "can you give me a few minutes, uncle ernest? i won't keep you." "my time is always at the service of henry ironsyde's boys," answered the other, "and nothing that i can do for you, or raymond, is a trouble." "thank you. i'm grateful. it is about raymond, as a matter of fact." "ah, i'm not altogether surprised. come into the study." mr. churchouse, carrying his new book, led the way and soon he heard of the younger man's anxieties. but the bookworm increased rather than allayed them. "do you see anything of raymond?" began daniel. "a great deal of him. he often comes to supper. but i will be frank. he does not patronise my simple board for what he can get there, nor does he find my company very exciting. he wouldn't. the attraction, i'm afraid, is my housekeeper's daughter, sabina. sabina, i may tell you, is a very attractive girl, daniel. it has been my pleasure during her youth to assist at her education, and she is well informed and naturally clever. she is inclined to be excitable, as many clever people are, but she is of a charming disposition and has great natural ability. i had thought she would very likely become a schoolmistress; but in this place the call of the mills is paramount and, as you know, the young women generally follow their mothers. so sabina found the thought of the spinning attractive and is now, mr. best tells me, an amazingly clever spinner--his very first in fact. and it cannot be denied that raymond sees a good deal of her. this is probably not wise, because friendship, at their tender ages, will often run into emotion, and, naturally flattered by his ingenuous attentions, sabina might permit herself to spin dreams and so lessen her activities as a spinner of yarn. i say she might. these things mean more to a girl than a boy." "what can i do about it? i was going to ask you to talk sense to raymond." "with all the will, i am not the man, i fear. sense varies so much from the standpoint of the observer, my dear daniel. you, for example, having an old head on young shoulders, would find yourself in agreement with my sentiments; raymond, having a young and rather empty head on his magnificent shoulders, would not. i take the situation to be this. raymond's life has been suddenly changed and his prodigious physical activities reduced. he bursts with life. he is more alive than any youth i have ever known. now all this exuberance of nature must have an outlet, and what more natural than that, in the presence of such an attractive young woman, the sex instinct should begin to assert itself?" "you don't mean he is in love, or anything like that?" "that is just exactly what i do mean," answered mr. churchouse. "i thought he probably liked to chatter to them all, and hear his own voice, and talk rubbish about what he'll do for them in the future." "he has nebulous ideas about wages and so on; but women are quicker than men, and probably they understand perfectly well that he doesn't know what he's talking about so far as that goes. how would it be if you took him into the office at bridport, where he would be more under your eye?" "he must learn the business first and nobody can teach him like best." "then i advise that you talk to him yourself. don't let the fact that you are only a year and three months older than raymond make you too tolerant. you are really ten, or twenty, years older than he is in certain directions, and you must lecture him accordingly. be firm; be decisive. explain to him that life is real and that he must approach it with the same degree of earnestness and self-discipline as he devotes to running and playing games and the like. i feel sure you will carry great weight. he is far from being a fool. in fact he is a very intelligent young man with excellent brains, and if he would devote them to the business, you would soon find him your right hand. the machinery does honestly interest him. but you must make it a personal thing. he must study political economy and the value of labour and its relations to capital and the market value of dry spun yarns. these vague ideas to better the lot of the working classes are wholly admirable and speak of a good heart. but you must get him to listen to reason and the laws of supply and demand and so forth." "what shall i say about the girls?" "it is not so much the girls as the girl. if he had manifested a general interest in them, you need have said nothing; but, with the purest good will to raymond and a great personal affection for sabina, i do feel that this friendship is not desirable. don't think i am cynical and worldly and take too low a view of human nature--far from it, my dear boy. nothing would ever make me take a low view of human nature. but one has not lived for sixty years with one's eyes shut. unhappy things occur and nature is especially dangerous when you find her busy with such natural creatures as your brother and sabina. a word to the wise. i would speak, but you will do so with far greater weight." "i hate preaching and making raymond think i'm a prig and all that sort of thing. it only hardens him against me." "he knows better. at any rate try persuasion. he has a remarkably good temper and a child could lead him. in fact a child sometimes does. he'd do anything for waldron's little girl. just say you admire and share his ambitions for the welfare of the workers. hint at supply and demand; then explain that all must go according to fixed laws, and amelioration is a question of time and combination, and so on. then tackle him fearlessly about sabina and appeal to his highest instincts. i, too, in my diplomatic way will approach him with modern instances. unfortunately it is only too easy to find modern instances of what romance may end in. and to say that modern instances are exceedingly like ancient ones, is merely to say, that human nature doesn't change." fired by this advice, daniel went straight to the works, and it was about eleven o'clock in the day when he entered his brother's office above the mill--to find it empty. descending to the main shop, he discovered raymond showing a visitor round the machines. little estelle waldron was paying her first visit to the spinners and, delighted at the distraction, raymond, on whose invitation she had come, displayed all the operation of turning flax and hemp into yarn. he aired his knowledge, but it was incomplete and he referred constantly to the operators from stage to stage. round-eyed and attentive, estelle poured her whole heart and soul into the business. she showed a quick perception and asked questions that interested the girls. some, indeed, they could not answer. estelle's mind approached their work from a new angle and saw in it mysteries and points calling for solution that had never challenged them. neither had her problems much struck raymond, but he saw their force when she raised them and pronounced them most important. "why, that's fundamental, really," he said, "and yet, be shot, if i ever thought of it! only best will know and i shouldn't be surprised if he doesn't." they stood at the first drawing frame when daniel appeared. they had followed the flat ribbon of sliver from the carding machine. at the drawing frame six ribbons from the carder were all brought together into one ribbon and so gained in quality, while losing more impurities during a second severe process of combing out. "and even now it's not ready for spinning," explained raymond. "now it goes on to the second drawing frame, and four of these ribbons from the first drawer are brought together into one ribbon again. so you see that no less than twenty-four ribbons from the carder are brought together to make stuff good enough to spin." "what do the drawing frames do to it?" asked estelle; "it looks just the same." "blessed if i know," confessed raymond. "what do they do to it, mrs. chick?" a venerable old woman, whose simple task was to wind away the flowing sliver into cans, made answer. she was clad in a dun overall and had a dim scarlet cap of worsted drawn over her white hair. the remains of beauty homed in her brown and wrinkled face; her grey eyes were gentle, and her expression wistful and kindly. "the drawing heads level the 'sliver,' and true it, and make it good," she said. "all the rubbish is dragged out on the teeth and now, though it seems thinner and weaker, it isn't really. now it goes to the roving frame and that makes it still better and ready for the spinners." then came daniel, and raymond, leaving estelle with mrs. chick, departed at his brother's wish. the younger anticipated trouble and began to excuse himself. "waldron's so jolly friendly that i thought you wouldn't mind if i showed his little girl round the works. she's tremendously clever and intelligent." "of course i don't mind. that's nothing, but i want to speak to you on the general question. i do wish, raymond, you'd be more dignified." "dignified! me? good lord!" "well, if you don't like that word, say 'self-respecting.' you might take longer views and look ahead." "you may bet your boots i do that, dan. this life isn't so delightful that i am content to live in the present hour, i assure you. i look ahead all right." "i mean look ahead for the sake of the business, not for your own sake. i don't want to preach, or any nonsense of that kind; but there's nobody else to speak, so i must. the point is that you don't see in the least what you are doing here. in the future my idea was--and yours, too, i suppose--that you came into the business as joint partner with me in everything." "jolly sporting of you, dan." "but that being so, can't you see you ought to support me in everything?" "i do." "no, you don't. you're not taking the right line in the least, and what's more, i believe you know it yourself. don't think i'm selfish and careless about our people, or indifferent to their needs and rights. i'm quite as keen about their welfare as you are; but one can't do everything in a moment. and you're not helping them and only hindering me by talking a lot of rubbish to them." "it isn't rubbish, dan. i had all the facts from levi baggs, the hackler. he understands the claims of capital and what labour is entitled to, and all the rest of it." "baggs is a sour, one-sided man and will only give you a biased and wrong view. if you want to know the truth, you can come into bridport and study it. then you'll see exactly what things are worth, and what we get paid in open market for our goods. all you do by listening to levi is to waste your time and waste his. and then you wander about among the women talking nonsense. and remember this: they know it's nonsense. they understand the question very much better than you do, and instead of respecting you, as they ought to respect a future master, they only laugh at you behind your back. and what will the result be? why, when you come to have a voice in the thing, they'll remind you of all your big talk. and then you've got to climb down and they'll not respect you, or take you seriously." "all right, old chap--enough said. only you needn't think the people wouldn't respect me. i get on jolly well with them as a matter of fact. and i do look ahead--perhaps further than you do. i certainly wouldn't promise anything i wouldn't try to perform. in fact, i'm very keen about them. and i believe if we scrapped all the machinery and got new--" "when you've mastered the present machinery, it will be time to talk about scrapping it," answered daniel. "people are always shouting out for new things, and when they get them--and sacrifice a year's profits very likely in doing so--often the first thing they hear from the operatives is, that the old machinery was much better. our father always liked to see other firms make the experiments." "that's the way to get left, if you ask me." "i don't ask you," answered the master. "i'm telling you, raymond; and you ought to remember that i very well know what i'm talking about and you don't. you must give me some credit. to question me is to question our father, for i learned everything from him." "but times change. you don't want to be left high and dry in the march of progress, my dear chap." "no--you needn't fear that. if you're young, you're a part of progress; you belong to it. but you must get a general knowledge of the present situation in our trade before you can do anything rational in the shape of progress. i've been left a very fine business with a very honoured name to keep up, and if i begin trying to run before i can walk, i should very soon fall down. you must see that." raymond nodded. "yes, that's all right. i'm a learner and i know you can teach me a lot." "if you'd come to me instead of to the mill people." "you don't know their side." "much better than you do. i've talked with our father often and often about it. he was no tyrant and nobody could ever accuse him of injustice." raymond flashed; but he kept his mouth shut on that theme. the only bitter quarrels between the brothers had been on the subject of their father, and the younger knew that the ground was dangerous. at this moment the last thing he desired was any difference with daniel. "i'll keep it all in mind, dan. i don't want to do anything to annoy you, god knows. is there any more? i must go and look after young estelle." "only one thing; and this is purely personal, and so i hope you'll excuse me. i've just been seeing uncle ernest, and nobody wished us better fortune than he does." "he's a good old boy. i've learned a lot about spinning from him." "i know. but--look here, raymond, i do beg of you--i implore of you not to be too friendly with sabina dinnett. you can't think how i should hate anything like that. it isn't fair--it isn't fair to the woman, or to me, or to the family. you must see yourself that sort of thing isn't right. she's a very good girl--our champion spinner best says; and if you go distracting her and taking her out of her station, you are doing her a very cruel turn and upsetting her peace of mind. and the others will be jealous, of course, and so it will go on. it isn't playing the game--it really isn't. that's all. i know you're a sportsman and all that; so i do beg you'll be a sportsman in business too, and take a proper line and remember your obligations. and if i've said a harsh, or unfair word, i'm sorry for it; but you know i haven't." seeing that sabina dinnett was now in paramount and triumphant possession of raymond's mind, he felt thankful that his brother, by running on over this subject and concluding upon the whole question, had saved him the necessity for any direct reply. whether he would have lied or no concerning sabina, raymond did not stop to consider. there is little doubt that he would. but the need was escaped; and so thankful did he feel, that he responded to the admonishment in a tone more complete and with promises more comprehensive than daniel expected. "you're dead right. of course i know it! i've been a silly fool all round. but i won't open my mouth so wide in future, dan. and don't think i'm wasting my time. i'm working like the devil, really, and learning everything from the beginning. best will tell you that's true. he's a splendid teacher and i'll see more of him in future. and i'll read all about yarn and get the hang of the markets, and so on." "thank you--you can't say more. and you might come into bridport oftener, i think. aunt jenny was saying she never sees you now." "i will," promised raymond. "i'm going to dine with you both on my birthday. i believe she'll be good for fifty quid this year. father left her a legacy of a thousand." they parted, and raymond returned to estelle, who was now watching the warping, while daniel went into his foreman's office. estelle was radiant. she had fallen in love with the works. "the girls are all so kind and clever," she said. "rather so. i expect you know all about everything now." "hardly anything yet. but you must let me come again. i do want to know all about it. it is splendidly interesting." "of course, come and go when you like, kiddy." "and i'm going to ask some of them to tea with me," declared estelle. "they all love flowers, and i'm going to show them our garden and my pets. i've asked seven of them and two men." "ask me, too." she brought out a piece of paper and showed him that she had written down nine names. "and if they like it, they'll tell the others and i shall ask them too," she said. "father is always wanting me to spend money, so now i'll spend some on a beautiful tea." raymond saw the name of sabina dinnett. "i'll be there to help you," he promised. "nicholas roberts is the lover of miss northover," explained estelle, "and benny cogle is the lover of miss gale. that's why i asked them. i very nearly went back and asked mister baggs to come, because he seems a silent, sad man; but i was rather frightened of him." "don't ask him; he's an old bear," declared raymond. thus, forgetting his brother as though daniel had ceased to exist, he threw himself into estelle's enterprise and planned an entertainment that must at least have rendered the master uneasy. chapter ix the party arthur waldron did more than love his daughter. he bore to her almost a superstitious reverence, as for one made of superior flesh and blood. he held her in some sort a reincarnation of his wife and took no credit for her cleverness himself. yet he did not spoil her, for her nature was proof against that. estelle, though old for her age, could not be called a prig. she developed an abstract interest in life as her intellect unfolded to accept its wonders and mysteries, yet she remained young in mind as well as body, and was always very glad to meet others of her own age. the mill girls were indeed older than she, but mr. waldron's daughter found their minds as young as her own in such subjects as interested her, though there were many things hidden from her that life had taught them. her father never doubted estelle's judgment or crossed her wishes. therefore he approved of the proposed party and did his best to make it a success. others also were glad to aid estelle and, to her delight, ernest churchouse, with whom she was in favour, yielded to entreaty and joined the company on the lawn of north hill house. tea was served out of doors, and to it there came nine workers from the mill, and two of mr. best's own girls, who were friends of estelle. nicholas roberts arrived with his future wife, sarah northover; sabina dinnett came with nancy buckler and sally groves from the carding machine, while alice chick brought old mrs. chick; mercy gale came too--a fair, florid girl, who warped the yarn when it was spun. mr. waldron was not a ladies' man, and after helping with the tea, served under a big mulberry tree in the garden, he turned his attention to mr. roberts, already known favourably to him as a cricketer, and benny cogle, the engine man. they departed to look at a litter of puppies and the others perambulated the gardens. estelle had a plot of her own, where grew roses, and here, presently, each with a rose at her breast, the girls sat about on an old stone seat and listened to mr. churchouse discourse on the lore of their trade. some, indeed, were bored by the subject and stole away to play beside a fountain and lily pond, where the gold fish were tame and crowded to their hands for food; but others listened and learned surprising facts that set the thoughtful girls wondering. "you mustn't think, you spinners, that you are the last word in spinning," he said; "no, alice and nancy and sabina, you're not; no more are those at other mills, who spin in choicer materials than flax and hemp--i mean the workers in cotton and silk. for the law of things in general, called evolution, seems to stand still when machinery comes to increase output and confuse our ideas of quality and quantity. missis chick here will tell you, when she was a spinner and the old rope walks were not things of the past, that she spun quite as good yarn from the bundle of tow at her waist as you do from the regulation spinners." "and better," said mrs. chick. "i believe you," declared ernest, "and before your time the yarn was better still. for, though some of the best brains in men's heads have been devoted to the subject, we go backwards instead of forwards, and things have been done in spinning that i believe will never be done again. in fact, the further you go back, the better the yarn seems to have been, and i'm sure i don't know how the laws of evolution can explain that. the secret is this: machinery, for all its marvellous improvements, lags far behind the human hand, and the record yarns were spun in the east, while our forefathers still went about in wolf-skins and painted their faces blue. you may laugh, but it is so." "tell us about them, mister churchouse," begged estelle. "for the moment we needn't go back so far," he said. "i'll remind you what a girl thirteen years old did in ireland a hundred years ago. only thirteen was catherine woods--mark that, sabina and alice--but she was a genius who lived in dunmore, county down, and she spun a hank of linen yarn of such tenuity that it would have taken seven hundred such hanks to make a pound of yarn." he turned to estelle. "sabina and the other spinners will appreciate this," he said, "but to explain the marvel of such spider-like spinning, estelle, i may tell you that seventeen and a half pounds of catherine's yarn would have sufficed to stretch round the equator of the earth. no machine-spun yarn has ever come within measurable distance of this astounding feat, and i have never heard of any spinner in europe or america equalling it; yet even this has been beaten when we were painting our noses blue." "where?" asked estelle breathlessly. "in the land of all wonders: egypt. herodotus tells us of a linen corselet, presented to the lacedemonians by king amasis, each thread of which commanded admiration, for though very fine, each was twisted of three hundred and sixty others! and if you decline to believe this--" "oh, mister churchouse, we quite believe it i'm sure, sir, if you say so," interrupted mrs. chick. "well, a later authority, sir gardiner wilkinson, tells us of equal wonders. the linen which he unwound from egyptian mummies has proved as delicate as silk, and equal, if not superior, to our best cambrics. five hundred and forty threads went to the warp and a hundred and ten to the weft; and i'm sure a modern weaver would wonder how they could produce quills fine enough for weaving such yarn through." "there's nothing new under the sun, seemingly," said old mrs. chick. "indeed there isn't, my dear, and so, perhaps, in the time to come, we shall spin again as well as the egyptians five or six thousand years ago," declared ernest. "and even then the spiders will always beat us i expect," said estelle. "true--true, child; nor has man learned the secret, of the caterpillar's silken spinning. talking of caterpillars, you may, or may not, have observed--" it was at this point that raymond, behind the speaker's back, beckoned sabina, and presently, as mr. churchouse began to expatiate on nature's spinning, she slipped away. the garden was large and held many winding paths and secluded nooks. thus the lovers were able to hide themselves from other eyes and amuse themselves with their own conversation. sabina praised estelle. "she's a dear little lady and ever so clever, i'm sure." "so she is, and yet she loses a lot. though her father's such a great sportsman, she doesn't care a button about it. wouldn't ride on a pony even." "i can very well understand that. nor would i if i had the chance." "you're different, sabina. you've not been brought up in a sporting family. all the same you'd ride jolly well, because you've got nerve enough for anything and a perfect figure for riding. you'd look fairly lovely on horseback." "whatever will you say next?" "i often wonder myself," he answered. "this much i'll say any way: it's meat and drink to me to be walking here with you. i only wish i was clever and could really amuse you and make you want to see me, sometimes. but the things i understand, of course, bore you to tears." "you know very well that isn't so," she said. "you've told me heaps of things well worth knowing--things i should never have heard of but for you. and--and i'm sure i'm very proud of your friendship." "good lord! it's the other way about. thanks to mister churchouse and your own wits, you are fearfully well read, and your cleverness fairly staggers me. just to hear you talk is all i want--at least that isn't all. of course, it is a great score for an everyday sort of chap like me to have interested you." sabina did not answer and after a silence which drew out into awkwardness, she made some remark on the flowers. but raymond was not interested about the flowers. he had looked forward to this occasion as an opportunity of exceptional value and now strove to improve the shining hour. "you know i'm a most unlucky beggar really, sabina. you mightn't think it, but i am. you see me cheerful, and joking and trying to make things pleasant for us all at the works; but sometimes, if you could see me tramping alone over north hill, or walking on the beach and looking at the seagulls, you'd be sorry for me." "of course, i'd be sorry for you--if there was anything to be sorry for." "look at it. an open-air man brought up to think my father would leave me all right, and then cut off with nothing and forced to come here and stew and toil and wear myself out struggling with a most difficult business--difficult to me, any way." "i'm sure you're mastering it as quickly as possible." "but the effort. and my muscles are shrinking and i'm losing weight. but, of course, that's nothing to anybody but myself. and then, another side: i want to think of you people first and raise your salaries and so on--especially yours, for you ought to have pounds where you have shillings. and my wishes to do proper things, in the line of modern progress and all that, are turned down by my brother. here am i thinking about you and worrying and knowing it's all wrong--and there's nobody on my side--not a damned person. and it makes me fairly mad." "i'm sure it's splendid of you to look at the mill in such a high-minded way," declared sabina. "and now you've told me, i shall understand what's in your mind. i'm sure i thank you for the thought at any rate." "if you'd only be my friend," he said. "it would be a great honour for a girl--just a spinner--to be that." "the honour is for me. you've got such tons of mind, sabina. you understand all the economical side, and so on." "a thing is only worth what it will fetch, i'm afraid." "that's the point. if you would help me, we would go into it and presently, when i'm a partner, we could bring out a scheme; and then you'd know you'd been instrumental in raising the tone of the whole works. and probably, if we set a good example, other works would raise their tone, too, and gradually the workers would find the whole scheme of things changing, to their advantage." sabina regarded this majestic vision with due reverence. she praised his ideals and honestly believed him a hero. they discussed the subject while the dusk came down and he prophesied great things. "we shall live to see it," he assured her, "and it may be largely thanks to you. and when you have a home of your own and--and--" it was then that she became conscious of his very near presence and the dying light. "they'll all have gone, and so must i," she said, "and i hope you'll thank miss waldron dearly for her nice party." "this is only the first; she'll give dozens more now that this has been such a success. she loves the mill. if you come this way i can let you out by the bottom gate--by the bamboo garden. you've bucked me up like anything--you always do. you're the best thing in my life, sabina. oh, if i was anything to you--if--but of course it's all one way." his voice shook a little. he burned to put his arms round her, and nature shouted so loud in his humming ears that he hardly heard her answer. for she echoed his emotion. "what can i say to that? you're so kind--you don't know how kind. you can't guess what such friendship means to a girl like me. it's something that doesn't come into our lives very often. i'm only wondering what the world will be like when you've gone again." "i shan't go--i'm never going. never, sabina. i--i couldn't live without you. kiss me, for god's sake. i must kiss you--i must--or i shall go mad." his arms were round her and he felt her hot cheek against his. they were young in love and dared not look into each other's eyes. but she kissed him back, and then, as he released her, she ran away, slipped through the wicket, where they stood and hastened off by the lane to bridetown. he glowed at her touch and panted at his triumph. she had not rebuked him, but let him see that she loved him and kissed him for his kiss. he did not attempt to follow her then but turned full of glory. here was a thing that dwarfed every interest of life and made life itself a triviality by comparison. she loved him; he had won her; nothing else that would be, or had been, in the whole world mattered beside such a triumph. his head had touched the stars. and he felt amazingly grateful to her. his thoughts for the moment were full of chivalry. her life must be translated to higher terms and new values. she should have the best that the world could offer, and he would win it for her. her trust was so pathetic and beautiful. to be trusted by her made him feel a finer thing and more important to the cosmic scheme. in itself this was a notable sensation and an addition of power, for nobody had ever trusted him until now. and here was a radiant creature, the most beautiful in the world, who trusted him with herself. his love brought a sense of splendour; her love brought a sense of strength. he swung back to the house feeling in him such mastery as might bend the whole earth to his purposes, take leviathan with a hook, and hang the constellations in new signs upon the void of heaven. chapter x work sarah northover and another young woman were tending the spread board. to this came the 'long line' from the hackler--those strides of amber hemp and lint-white flax that mr. baggs prepared in the hackler's shop. the spread board worked upon the long line as the carder on the tow. over its endless leathern platform, or spreading carriage, the long fibre was drawn into the toothed gills of the machine and converted into sliver for the drawing frames. with swift and rhythmic flinging apart of her arms over her head, sarah separated the stricks into three and laid them overlapping on the carriage. the ribbon thus created was never-ending and wound away into the torture chambers of wheels and teeth within, while from the rear of the spreader trickled out the new-created sliver. great scales hung beside sarah and from time to time she weighed fresh loads of long line and recorded the amount. her arms flashed upwards, the divided stricks came down to be laid in rotation on the running carriage, and ceaselessly she and her fellow worker chattered despite the din around them. "my aunt nelly's coming to see me this morning," said sarah. "she's driving over to talk to mister waldron about his apple orchard and have a look round. last year she bought the whole orchard for cider; and if she thinks well of it, she'll do the same this year." "i wonder you stop here," answered the other girl, "when you might go to your aunt and work in her public-house. i'd a long sight sooner be there than here." "you wouldn't if you was engaged to mister roberts," answered sarah. "of course seeing him every day makes all the difference. and as to work, there's nothing in it, for everybody's got to work at 'the seven stars,' i can tell you, and the work's never done there." "it's the company i should like," declared the other. "i'd give a lot to see new people every day. in a public they come and go, before you've got time to be sick of the sight of 'em. but here, you see the same people and hear the same voices every day of your blessed life; and sometimes it makes me feel right down wicked." "it's narrowing to the mind i dare say, unless you've got a man like mister roberts with a lot of general ideas," admitted sarah. "but you know very well for that matter you could have a man to-morrow. benny cogle's mate is daft for you." the other sniffed. "it's very certain he ain't got no general ideas, beyond the steam engine. he can only talk about the water wheel to-day and the boilers to-morrow. when i find a chap, he'll have to know a powerful lot more about life than that chap--and shave himself oftener also." "he'd shave every day if you took him, same as mister roberts does," said sarah. elsewhere mr. best was starting a run of the gill spinner, a machine which took sliver straight from the drawing frames and spun it into a large coarse yarn. a novice watched him get the great machine to work, make all ready and then, at a touch, connect it with the power and set it crashing and roaring. its voice was distinctive and might be heard by a practised ear above the prevailing thunder. then came mrs. nelly northover to this unfamiliar scene, peeped in at a door or two and failed to see sarah, who laboured at the other end of the mill. but the hostess of 'the seven stars' knew sabina dinnett and now shook hands with her and then stood and watched in bewildered admiration before a big frame of a hundred spindles. sabina was spinning with a heart very full of happiness. on the previous evening she had promised to wed raymond ironsyde, and her thoughts to-day were winged with over-mastering joy. for life had turned into a glorious triumph; the man who had asked her to marry him was not only a gentleman, but far above the power of any wrong-doing. she knew in the very secret places of her soul, that he could never act away from his honest and noble character; that he was a knight above reproach, incapable of wronging any living thing. there was an element of risk for most girls who fell in love with those better born than themselves; but none for her. other men might deceive and abuse, and suffer outer influences to chill their love, when the secret of it became known; but not this man. his rare nature had been revealed to her; he desired the welfare of all people; he was moved with nothing but the purest principles and loftiest feeling. he would not willingly have brought sorrow to a child. and she had won this unique spirit! he loved her with the love that only such a man was great enough to show; and she echoed it and knew that such a passion must be unchanging, everlasting, built not only to make their united lives unspeakably happy and gloriously content, but to run over also into the lives of others, less blessed, and leave the sad world happier for their happiness. there was not a cloud in the sky of her romance and she shared with him for the moment the joy of secrecy. but that would not be long. they had determined to hug their delicious knowledge for a little while and then proclaim the great tidings to the world. so she followed the old road, along which her sisters had tramped from immemorial time, and would still tramp through the generations to come, when her journey was ended and the wonderful country of man's love explored--its oases visited, its antres endured. now sabina played priestess to the spinning machine--a monster reared above her, stupendous and insatiable. along the summit of the spinning frame, just within reach of tall sabina's uplifted hand, there perched a row of reels from which the finished material descended through series of rollers. the retaining roller aloft gave it to the steel delivery roller which drew the thin, sad-looking stuff with increased speed downward. and here at its moment of most shivering tenuity, when the perfected and purified material seemed reduced to an extremity of weakness, came the magic change. unseen in the whirring complexity of the spinner, it received the momentous gift that translates fibre to yarn. in a moment it changed from stuff a baby's finger could break to thread capable of supporting fifteen pounds of pressure. for now came the twist--that word of mighty significance--and the tiny thread of new-born yarn descended to the spindle, vanished in the whirl of the flier and reappeared, an accomplished miracle, winding on the bobbin beneath. upon the spindle revolved the flier--a fork of steel with guide eye at one leg of the fork--and through the guide eye came the twisted yarn to wind on the bobbin below. there, as the bobbin frame rose and fell, the thread was perfectly delivered to the reel and coiled off layer by layer upon it. mrs. northover stared to see the nature of a spinner's duties and the ease with which she controlled the great, pulsing, roaring frame of a hundred spindles. sabina's eyes were everywhere; her hands were never still; her feet seemed to dance a measure to the thunder of the frame. now she marked a roving reel aloft that was running out, and in a moment she had broken the sliver, swept away the empty reel and hung up a full one. then she drew the new sliver down to the point of the break and, in a moment, the two merged and the thread ran on. now her fingers touched the spindles, as a musician touches the keys, and at a moment's pressure the machine obeyed and the yarn flew on its way obedient. now she cleared a snarl, or catch, where a spindle appeared to have run amuck or created hopeless confusion; now she readjusted the weights that kept a drag on the humming bobbins. her twinkling hands touched and calmed and fed the monster. she knew its whims, corrected its errors, brought to her insensate machine the complement of brain that made it trustworthy. and when the bobbins were all full, she hastened along the frame, turned off the driving power and silenced the huge activity in a moment. then, like lightning, she cut her hundred threads and lifted the bobbins from their spindles until she had a pile upon her shoulder. in a marvellously short time she had doffed the bobbins and set up a hundred empty ones. then the cut threads were readjusted, the power turned on and all was motion again. sabina had never calculated her labours, until raymond took the trouble to do so; then she learned a fact that astonished her. he found that it took a hundred and fifty minutes to spin one thousand and fifty yards; and as each spindle spun two and a half miles in ten hours, her daily accomplishment was two hundred and fifty miles of yarn. "you spin from seventy to eighty thousand miles of single yarn a year," he told her, and the fact expressed in these terms amazed her and her sister spinners. now nelly northover praised the performance. "to think that you slips of girls can do anything so wonderful!" she said. "we talk of the spinners of bridport as if they were nobodies; but upon my conscience, sabina, i never will again. i've always thought i was a pretty busy woman; but i'd drop to the earth i'm sure after an hour of your job, let alone ten hours." sabina laughed. "it's use, mrs. northover. some take to it like a duck to water. i did for one. but some never do. if you come to the frame frightened, you never make a spinner. they're like humans, the spinning frames; if they think you're afraid of them, they'll always bully you, but if you show them you're mistress, it's all right. they have their moods and whims, just as we have. they vary, and you never know how the day will go. sometimes everything runs smoothly; sometimes nothing does. some days you're as fresh at the end as the beginning; some days you're dog-tired and worn out after a proper fight." "there's something hungry and cruel and wicked about 'em to my eye," declared mrs. northover. "we're oftener in fault than the frames, however. sometimes the spinner's to blame herself--she may be out of sorts and heavy-handed and slow on her feet and can't put up her ends right, or do anything right; and often it's the fault of the other girls and the 'rove' comes to the spinner rough; and often, again, it's just luck--good or bad. if the machine always ran perfect, there'd be nothing to do. but you've got to use your wits from the time it starts to the time it stops." "the creature would best me every time," said the visitor, regarding sabina's machine with suspicion and something akin to dislike. the spinner stopped a fouled spindle and rubbed her hand. "sometimes the yarn's always snarling and your drag weights are always burning off and the stuff is full of kinks and the sliver's badly pieced up--that's the drawing minder's fault--and a bad drawing minder means work for me. your niece, sarah, is a very good drawing minder, mrs. northover. then you'll get ballooning, when the thread flies round above the flier, and that means too little strain on the jamb and the bobbin has got to be tempered. and often it's too hot, or else too cold, for hemp and flax must have their proper temperature. but to-day my machine is as good and kind as a nice child, that only asks to be fed and won't quarrel with anybody." mrs. northover, however, saw nothing to praise, for sabina's speech had been broken a dozen times. "if that's what you call working kindly, i'd like to see the wretch in a nasty mood," she said. "i lay you want to slap it sometimes." sabina was mending a drag that had burned off. the drags were heavy weights hanging from strings that pressed upon the side of the bobbins and controlled their speed. the friction often burned these cords through and the weights had to be lifted and retied again and again. "we want a clever invention to put this right," she said. "a lot of good time's wasted with the weights. nobody's thought upon the right thing yet." "i'm properly dazed," confessed nelly northover. "you live and learn without a doubt--nothing's so true as that." her niece had seen her and approached, as the machinery began to still for the dinner-hour. "morning, sarah. can you do such wonders as miss dinnett?" she asked. "no, aunt nelly. i'm a spreader minder. but i'll be a spinner some day, if mr. roberts likes for me to stop, here after i'm married." "sarah would soon learn to spin," declared sabina. then she turned to bid raymond ironsyde good morning. his brother was away from bridport on a tour with one of his travellers, that he might become acquainted with many of his more important customers. raymond, therefore, felt safe and was wasting a good deal of his time. he had brought a basket of fruit from north hill house--a present from estelle--and he began to dispense plums and pears as the women streamed away to dinner. they knew him very well now and treated him with varying degrees of familiarity. early doubts had vanished, and they took him as a good natured, rather 'soft' young man, who meant well and was friendly and harmless. the ill-educated are always suspicious, and levi baggs declared from the first that raymond was nothing better than his brother's spy, placed here for a time to inquire into the ambitions and ideas of the workers and so help the firm to combat the lawful demands of those whom they employed; but this theory was long exploded save in the mind of mr. baggs himself. the people of bridetown mill held raymond on their side, and all were secretly interested to know what would spring of his frank friendship with sabina. in serious moments raymond felt uneasy at the relations he had established with the workers, and mr. best did not hesitate to warn him again and again that discipline was ill served by such easy terms between employer and employed; but his moments of perspicuity were rare, for now his mind and soul were poured into one thought and one only. he was riotously happy in his love affair and could not pretend to his fellow creatures anything he did not feel. always amiable and accessible, his romance made him still more so, and he was constitutionally unable at this moment to take a serious view of anything or anybody. one ray of hope, however, mr. best recognised: raymond did show an honest and genuine interest in the machines. he had told the foreman that he believed the great problem lay there, and where machinery was concerned he could be exceedingly intelligent and rational. this trait in him had a bearing on the future and, in time to come, john best remembered its inception and perceived how it had developed. now, his fruit dispensed, raymond talked with sabina about the spinning frame and instructed mrs. northover, who was an acquaintance of his, in its mysteries. "these are old-fashioned frames," he declared, "and i shan't rest till i've turned them out of the works and got the latest and best. i'm all for the new things, because they help the workers and give good results. in fact, i tell my brother that he's behind the times. that's the advantage of coming to a subject fresh, with your mind unprejudiced. daniel's all bound up in the past and, of course, everything my father did must be right; but i know better. you have to move with the times, and if you don't you'll get left." "that's true enough, mr. ironsyde, whatever your business may be," answered mrs. northover. "of course--look at 'the seven stars.' you're always up to date, and why should my spinners--i call them mine--why should they have to spin on machines that come out of the ark, when, by spending a few thousand, they could have the latest?" "you've got to balance cost against value," answered the innkeeper. "it don't do to dash at things. one likes for the new to be tried on its merits first, and then, if it proves all that's claimed for it, you go in and keep abreast of the times according; but the old will often be found as good as the new; and so mr. daniel no doubt looks before he leaps." "that's cowardly in my opinion," replied raymond. "you must take the chances. of course if you're frightened to back your judgment, then that shows you're a second class man with a second class sort of mind; but if you believe in yourself, as everybody does who is any good, then you go ahead, and if you come a purler now and again, that's nothing, because you get it back in other ways. i'm not frightened to chance my luck, am i, sabina?" "never was such a brave one, i'm sure," she said, conscious of their secret. "if you haven't got nerve, you're no good," summed up the young man; "and if you have got nerve, then use it and break out of the beaten track and welcome your luck and court a few adventures for your soul's sake." "all very well for you men," said mrs. northover. "you can have adventures and no great harm done; but us women, if we try for adventures, we come to a bad end." "nobody's more adventurous than you," answered raymond. "look at your gardens and your teas for a bob ahead. wasn't that an adventure--to give a better tea than anybody in bridport?" "i believe women have quite as many adventures as men," declared sarah northover, who was waiting for her aunt, "only we're quieter about 'em." "we've got to be," answered mrs. northover. "now come on to your mother's, sarah. there's mr. roberts waiting for us outside." in the silent and empty mill raymond dawdled for a few minutes with sabina, talked love and won a caress. then she put on her sunbonnet and he walked with her to the door of her home, left her at 'the magnolias' and went his way with estelle's fruit basket. a great expedition had been planned by the lovers for a forthcoming public holiday. they were going to rise in the dawn, before the rest of the world was awake, and tramp out through west haven to golden cap--the supreme eminence of the south coast, that towers with bright, sponge-coloured precipices above the sea, nigh lyme. chapter xi the old store-house through a misty morning, made silver bright by the risen sun, sabina and raymond started for their august holiday. they left bridetown, passed through a white fog on the water-meadows and presently climbed to the cliffs and pursued their way westward. now the sun was over the sea and the channel gleamed and flashed under a wakening, westerly breeze. to west haven they came, where the cliffs break and the rivers from bridport flow through sluices into the little harbour. among the ancient, weather-worn buildings standing here with their feet in the sand drifts, was one specially picturesque. a long and lofty mass it presented, and a hundred years of storm and salt-laden winds had toned it to rich colour and fretted its roof and walls with countless stains. it was a store, three stories high, used of old time for merchandise, but now sunk to rougher uses. in its great open court, facing north, were piled thousands of tons of winnowed sand; its vaults were barred and empty; its glass windows were shattered; rust had eaten away its metal work and rot reduced its doors and sashes to powder. rich red and auburn was its face, with worn courses of brickwork like wounds gashed upon it. a staircase of stone rose against one outer wall, and aloft, in the chambers approached thereby, was laid up a load of sweet smelling, deal planks brought by a norway schooner. here too, were all manner of strange little chambers, some full of old nettings, others littered with the marine stores of the fishermen, who used the ruin for their gear. the place was rat-haunted and full of strange holes and corners. even by day, with the frank sunshine breaking through boarded windows and broken roof, it spoke of incident and adventure; by night it was eloquent of the past--of smugglers, of lawless deeds, of napoleonic spies. raymond and sabina stood and admired the old store. to her it was something new, for her activities never brought her to west haven; but he had been familiar with it from childhood, when, with his brother, he had spent school holidays at west haven, caught prawns from the pier, gone sailing with the fisher folk, and spent many a wet day in the old store-house. he smiled upon it now, told her of his childish adventures and took her in to see an ancient chamber where he and daniel had often played their games. "our nurse used to call it a 'cubby hole,'" he said. "and she was always; jolly thankful when she could pilot us in here from the dangers of the cliffs and the old pier, or the boats in the harbour. the place is just the same--only shrunk. the plaster from the walls is all mouldering away, or you might see the pictures we used to draw upon them with paint from the fishermen's paint pots. down below they bring the sand and grade it for the builders. they've carted away millions of tons of sand from the foreshore in the last fifty years and will cart away millions more, no doubt, for the sea always renews it." she wandered with him and listened half-dreaming. the air for them was electric with their love and they yearned for each other. "i wish we could spend the whole blessed day in this little den together," he said suddenly putting his arms round her; and that brought her to some sense of reality, but none of danger. not a tremor of peril in his company had she ever felt, for did not perfect love cast out fear, and why should a woman hesitate to trust herself with one, to her, the most precious in the world? he suggested dawdling awhile; but she would not. "we are to eat our breakfast at eype beach," she reminded him, "and that's a mile or two yet." so they went on their way again, breasted the grassy cliffs westward of the haven, admired the fog bank touched with gold that hung over the river flats, praised bridport wakening under its leafy woods, marked the herons on the river mud in the valley and the sparrow-hawk poised aloft above the downs. she took his arm up the hill and, like birds themselves, they went lightly together, strong, lissome, radiant in health and youth and the joy of a shared worship that made all things sweet. they talked of the great day when the world was to know their secret. the secret itself proved so attractive to both that they agreed to keep it a little longer. their shared knowledge proved amusing and each told the other of the warnings and advice and fears imparted by careful friends of both sexes, who knew not the splendid truth. how small the wisdom of the wise appeared--how peddling and foolish and mean--contrasted with their superb trust. how sordid were the ways of the world, its fears and suspicions, from the vantage point to which they had climbed. material things even suggested this thought to raymond, and when before noon, they stood on the green crown of golden cap, with the earth and sea spread out around them in mighty harmonies of blue and green, he told sabina so. "we ought to be perched on a place like this," he said, "because we are to the rest of the world, in mind and in happiness, as we are here in body too." "only the sea gulls can go higher, and i always feel they're more like spirits than birds," she answered. "i've got no use for spirits," he told her. "the splendid thing about us is that we're flesh and blood and spirit too. that's the really magnificent combination for happy creatures. a spirit at best can only be an unfinished thing. people make such a fuss about escaping from the flesh. what the deuce do you want to escape from your flesh for, if it's healthy and tough and fine?" "when they get old, they feel like that." "let the old comfort the old then," he said. "i'm proud of my flesh and bones, and so are you, and so we ought to be; and if i had to give them up and die, i should hate it. and if i found myself in another world, a poor shivering idea and nothing else, without flesh and bones to cover me, or clothes to cover them, i should feel ashamed of myself. and they might call it paradise as much as they liked, but it would be hades to me. of course many of the ghosts would pretend that they liked it; but i bet none would really--so jolly undignified to be nothing but an idea." she laughed. "that's just what i feel too; and of course it's utterly wrong of us," she said. "it shows we have got a lot to learn. we only feel like this because we're young. perhaps young ghosts begin like that; but i expect they soon get past it." "i should never want to get past it," he said. he rolled over on the grass and played with her hand. "how could you love and cuddle a ghost?" "no doubt you could love it. i don't suppose you could cuddle it. you wouldn't want to." "no--that's true, sabina. if this cliff carried away this moment, and we were both smashed to pulp and arrived together in another world without any clothes and both horribly down on our luck--but it's too ghastly a picture. i should howl all through eternity--to think what i'd missed." they talked nonsense, played with their thoughts and came nearer and nearer together. one tremendous and masterful impulse drew them on--a raging hunger and thirst on his part and something not widely different on hers. again and again they caught themselves in each other's arms, then broke off, grew serious and strove to steady the trend of their desires. golden cap was a lonely spot and few visited it that day. once a middle-aged man and woman surprised them where they sat behind a rock near the edge of the great precipices. the man had grown warm and mopped his face and let the wind cool it. he was ugly, clumsily built, and displayed large calves in knickerbockers and a hot, bald head. "how hideous human beings can be," said raymond after they had gone. "he wasn't hideous in his wife's eyes, i expect." "middle-age is mercifully blind no doubt to its own horrors," he said. "you can respect and even admire old age, like other ruins, if it's picturesque, but middle-age is deadly always." he smoked and they dawdled the hours away until sabina declared it was tea time. then they sought a little inn at chidcock and spent an hour there. the weather changed as the sun went westerly; the wind sank to a sigh and brought with it rain clouds. but they were unconscious of such accidents. sabina longed for the cliffs again, so they turned homeward by seaton and thorncombe beacon and eype mouth. their talk ran upon marriage and raymond swore that he could not wait long, while she urged the importance to him of so doing. "'twould shake your brother badly if you wed yet awhile, be sure of that," she said. "he would say that you weren't thinking of the work, and it might tempt him to change his mind about making you a partner." "oh damn him. don't talk about him--or work either. i shall never want to work again, or think of work, or anything else on earth till--till--what does he matter anyway--or his ideas? it's a free country and a man has the right to plan his life his own way. if he wants to get the best out of me, he'd better give me five hundred a year to-morrow and tell me to marry you." "we don't want five hundred. that's a fortune. i'm a good manager and know very well how far money can go. with your money and mine." "yours? you won't have any--except mine. you'll stop work then and live--not at bridetown anyway." "i was forgetting. it will be funny not to spin." "you'll spin my happiness and my life and my fate and my children. you'll have plenty of spinning. i'll spin for you and you'll spin for me." "you darling boy! i know you'll spin for me." "work! what's the good of working for yourself?" he asked. "who the devil cares about himself? it's because i don't care a button for myself that i haven't bothered about the mill. but when it comes to you--! you're worth working for! i haven't begun to work yet. i'll surprise daniel presently and everybody else, when i fairly get into my stride. i didn't ask for it and i didn't want it; but as i've got to work, i will work--for you. and you'll live to see that my brother and his ways and plans and small outlook are all nothing to the way i shall grasp the business. and he'll see, too, when i get the lead by sheer better understanding. and that won't be my work, sabina. it will be yours. nothing's worth too much toil for you. and if you couldn't inspire a man to wonderful things, then no woman could." this fit of exaltation passed and the craving for her dominated him again and took psychological shape. he grew moody and abstracted. his voice had a new note in it to her ear. he was fighting with himself and did not guess what was in her mind, or how unconsciously it echoed to his. at dusk the rain came and they ran before a sudden storm down the green hills back to west haven. the place already sank into night and a lamp or two twinkled through the grey. it was past eight o'clock and raymond decided for dinner. "we'll go to the 'brit arms,'" he said, "and feed and get dry. the rain won't last." "i told mother i should be home by nine." "well, you told her wrong. d'you think i'm going to chuck away an hour of this day for a thousand mothers?" when they sauntered out into the night again at ten o'clock, the haven had nearly gone to sleep and the rain was past. in the silence they heard the river rushing through the sluices to the sea; and then they set their faces homeward. but they had to pass the old store-house. it loomed a black, amorphous pile heaved up against the stars, and the man's footsteps dragged as he came to the gaping gates and silent court. he stopped and she stopped. his voice was gruff and queer and half-choked. "come," he said, "i'm in hell, and you've got to turn it to heaven." she murmured something, but he put his arm round her and they vanished into the mass of silent darkness. it was past midnight when they parted at the door of sabina's home and he gave her the cool kiss of afterwards. "now we are one, body and soul, for ever," she whispered to him. "by god, yes," he said. chapter xii credit the mind of raymond ironsyde was now driven and tossed by winds of passion which, blowing against the tides of his own nature, created unrest and storm. a strain of chivalry belonged to him and at first this conquered. he felt the magnitude of sabina's sacrifice and his obligation to a love so absolute. in this spirit he remained for a time, during which their relations were of the closest. they spoke of marriage; they even appointed the day on which the announcement of their betrothal should be made. and though he had gone thus far at her entreaty, always recognising when with her the reasonableness of her wish, after she was gone, the cross seas of his own character, created a different impression and swept the pattern of sabina's will away. for a time the intrigue of meeting her, the planning and the plotting amused him. he imagined the world was blind and that none knew, or guessed, the truth. but bridetown, having eyes as many and sharp as any other hamlet, had long been familiar with the facts. the transparent veil of their imagined secrecy was already rent, though the lovers did not guess it. then raymond's chivalry wore thinner. ruling passions, obscured for a season by the tremendous experience of his first love and its success, began by slow degrees to rise again, solid and challenging, through the rosy clouds. his love, while he shouted to himself that it increased rather than diminished, none the less assumed a change of colour and contour. the bright vapours still shone and sabina could always kindle ineffable glow to the fabric; but she away, they shrank a little and grew less radiant. the truth of himself and his ambitions showed through. at such times he dinned on the ears of his heart that sabina was his life. at other times when the fading fire astonished him by waking a shiver, he blamed fate, told himself that but for the lack of means, he would make a perfect home for sabina; worship and cherish her; fill her life with happiness; pander to her every whim; devote a large portion of his own time to her; do all that wit and love could devise for her pleasure--all but one thing. he did not want to marry her. with that deed demanding to be done, the necessity for it began to be questioned sharply. he was not a marrying man and, in any case, too young to commit himself and his prospects to such a course. he assured himself that he had never contemplated immediate marriage; he had never suggested it to sabina. she herself had not suggested it; for what advantage could be gained by such a step? while a thousand disasters might spring therefrom, not the least being a quarrel with his brother, there was nothing to be said for it. he began to suspect that he could do little less likely to assure sabina's future. he clung to his strand of chivalry at this time, like a drowning man to a straw; but other ingredients of his nature dragged him away. selfishness is the parent of sophistry, and raymond found himself dismissing old rules of morality and inherited instincts of religion and justice for more practical and worldly values. he told himself it was as much for sabina's sake as for his own that he must now respect the dictates of common-sense. there came a day in october, when the young man sat in his office at the mills, smoking and absorbed with his own affairs. the river bride was broken above the works, and while her way ran south of them, the mill-race came north. its labour on the wheel accomplished, the current turned quickly back to the river bed again. from raymond's window he could see the main stream, under a clay bank, where the martins built their nests in spring, and where rush and sedge and an over-hanging sallow marked her windings. the sunshine found the stickles, and where bride skirted the works lay a pool in which trout moved. water buttercups shone silver white in this back-water at spring-time and the water-voles had their haunts in the bank side. beyond stretched meadow-lands and over the hill that rose behind them climbed the road to the cliffs. hounds had ascended this road two hours before and their music came faintly from afar to raymond's ear, then ceased. already his relations with sabina had lessened his will to pleasure in other directions. his money had gone in gifts to her, leaving no spare cash for the old amusements; but the distractions, that for a time had seemed so tame contrasted with the girl, cried louder and reminded how necessary and healthy they were. life seemed reduced to the naked question of cash. he was sorry for himself. it looked hard, outrageous, wrong, that tastes so sane and simple as his own, could not be gratified. a horseman descended the hill and raymond recognised him. it was neddy motyer. his horse was lame and he walked beside it. raymond smiled to himself, for neddy, though a zealous follower of hounds, lacked judgment and often met with disaster. ten minutes later neddy himself appeared. "come to grief," he said. "horse put his foot into a rabbit hole and cut his knee on a flint. i've just taken him to the vet, here to be bandaged, so i thought i'd look you up. why weren't you out?" "i've got more important things to think about for the minute." neddy helped himself to a cigarette. "growing quite the man of business," he said. "what will power you've got! a few of us bet five to one you wouldn't stick it a month; but here you are. only i can tell you this, ray: you're wilting under it. you're not half the man you were. you're getting beastly thin--looking a worm in fact." raymond laughed. "i'm all right. plenty of time to make up for lost time." "it's metal more attractive, i believe," hazarded motyer. "a little bird's been telling us things in bridport. keep clear of the petticoats, old chap--the game's never worth the candle. i speak from experience." "do you? i shouldn't think any girl would have much use for you." "oh yes, they have--plenty of them. but once bit, twice shy. i had an adventure last year." "i don't want to hear it." neddy showed concern. "you're all over the shop, ray. these blessed works are knocking the stuffing out of you and spoiling your temper. are you coming to the 'smoker' at 'the tiger' next month?" "no." "well, do. you want bucking. it'll be a bit out of the common. jack buckler's training at 'the tiger' for his match with solly blades. you know--eliminating round for middle-weight championship. and he's going to spar three rounds with our boy from the tannery--tim chick." "i heard about it from one of our girls here--a cousin of tim's. but i'm off that sort of thing." "since when?" "you can't understand, ned; but life's too short for everything. perhaps you'll have to turn to work someday. then you'll know." "you don't work from eight o'clock at night till eleven anyway. take my tip and come to the show and make a night of it. waldron's going to be there. he's hunting this morning." "i know." the dinner bell had rung and now there came a knock at raymond's door. then sabina entered and was departing again, but her lover bade her stay. "don't go, sabina. this is my friend, mr. motyer--miss dinnett." motyer, remembering raymond's recent snub, was exceedingly charming to sabina. he stopped and chatted another five minutes, then mentioned the smoking concert again and so took his departure. raymond spoke slightingly of him when he had gone. "he's no good, really," he said. "an utter waster and only a hanger-on of sport--can't do anything himself but talk. now he'll tell everybody in bridport about you coming up here in the dinner-hour. come and cheer me up. i'm bothered to death." he kissed her and put his arms round her, but she would not stop. "i can't stay here," she said. "i want to walk up the hill with you. if you're bothered, so am i, my darling." he put on his hat and they went out together. "i've had a nasty jar," she told him. "people are beginning to say things, raymond--things that you wouldn't like to think are being said." "i thought we rose superior to the rest of the world, and what it said and what it thought." "we do and we always have. we're not moral cowards either of us. but there are some things. you don't want me to be insulted. you don't want either of us to lose the respect of people." "we can't have our cake and eat it too, i suppose," he said rather carelessly. "personally i don't care a straw whether people respect me, or despise me, as long as i respect myself. the people that matter to me respect me all right." "well, the people that matter to me, don't," she answered with a flash of colour. "we'll leave you out, raymond, since you're satisfied; but i'm not satisfied. it isn't right, or fair, that i should begin to get sour looks from the women here, where i used to have smiles; and looks from the men--hateful looks--looks that no decent woman ought to suffer. and my mother has heard a lot of lies and is very miserable. so i think it's high time we let everybody know we're engaged. and you must think so, too, after what i've told you, ray dear." "certainly," he answered, "not a shadow of doubt about it. and if i saw any man insult you, i should delight to thrash him on the spot--or a dozen of them. how the devil do people find out about one? i thought we'd been more than clever enough to hoodwink a dead alive place like this." "will you let me tell mother, to-day? and sally groves, and one or two of my best friends at the mill? do, raymond--it's only fair to me now." had she left unspoken her last sentence, he might have agreed; but it struck a wrong note on his ear. it sounded selfish; it suggested that sabina was concerned with herself and indifferent to the complications she had brought into his life. for a moment he was minded to answer hastily; but he controlled himself. "it's natural you should feel like that; so do i, of course. we must settle a date for letting it out. i'll think about it. i'd say this minute, and you know i'm looking forward quite as much as you are to letting the world know my luck; but unfortunately you've just raised the question at an impossible moment, sabina." "why? surely nothing can make it impossible to clear my good name, raymond?" "i've got a good name, too. at least, i imagine so." "our names are one, or should be." "not yet, exactly. i wanted to spare you bothers. i do spare you all the bothers i can; but, of course, i've got my own, too, like everybody else. you see it's rather vital to your future, which you're naturally so keen about, sabina, that i keep in with my brother. you'll admit that much. well, for the moment i'm having the deuce of a row with him. you know what an exacting beggar he is. he will have his pound of flesh, and he has no sympathy for anything on two legs but himself. i asked him for a fortnight's holiday." "a fortnight's holiday, raymond!" "yes--that's not very wonderful, is it? but, of course, you can't understand what this work is to me, because you look at it from a different angle. anyway i want a holiday--to get right away and consider things; and he won't let me have it. and finding that, i lost my temper. and if, at the present moment, daniel hears that we're engaged to be married, sabina, it's about fifty to one that he'd chuck me altogether and stop my dirty little allowance also." they had reached the gate of 'the magnolias,' and sabina did a startling thing. she turned from him and went down the path to the back entrance without another word. but this he could not stand. his heart smote him and he called her with such emotion that she also was sorrowful and came back to the gate. "good god! you frightened me," he said. "this is a quarrel, sabina--our first and last, i hope. never, never let anything come between us. that's unthinkable and i won't have it. you must give and take, my precious girl. and so must i. but look at it. what on earth happens to us if daniel fires me out of the mill?" "he's a just man," she answered. "dislike him as we may, he's a just man and you need not fear him, or anybody else, if you do the right thing." "you oppose your will to mine, then, sabina?" "i don't know your will. i thought i did; i thought i understood you so well by now and was learning better and better how to please you. but now i tell you i am being wronged, and you say nothing can be done." "i never said so. i'm not a blackguard, sabina, and you ought to know that as well as the rest of the world. i'm poor, unfortunately, and the poor have got to be politic. daniel may be just, but it's a narrow-minded, hypocritical justice, and if i tell him i'm engaged to you, he'll sack me. that's the plain english of it." "i don't believe he would." "well, i know he would; and you must at least allow me to know more about him than you do. and so i ask you whether it is common-sense to tell him what's going to happen, for the sake of a few clod-hoppers, who matter to nobody, or--" "but, but, how long is it to go on? why do you shrink from doing now what you wanted to do at first?" "i don't shrink from it at all. i only intend to choose the proper time and not give the show away at a moment when to do so will be to ruin me." "'give the show away,'" she quoted bitterly. "you can look me in the face and say a thing like that! it's only 'a show' to you; but it's my life to me." "i'm sorry i used the expression. words aren't anything. it's my life to me, too. and i've got to think for both of us. in a week, or ten days, i'll eat humble pie and climb down and grovel to daniel. then, when i'm pardoned, we'll tell everybody. it won't kill you to wait another fortnight anyway. and in the meantime we'd better see less of each other, since you're getting so worried about what your friends say about us." now he had said too much. sabina would have agreed to the suggestion of a fortnight's waiting, but the proposal that they should see less of each other both hurt and angered her. the quarrel culminated. "caution seems to me rather a cowardly thing, raymond, from you to me. i tell you that your wife's good name is at stake. for, since you've called me your wife so often, i suppose i may do the same. and if you're so careless for my credit, then i must be jealous for it myself." "and my credit can go to the devil, i suppose?" then she flamed, struck to the root of the matter and left him. "if the fact that you're engaged to me, by every sacred tie of honour, ruins your credit--then tell yourself what you are," she said, and her voice rose to a note he had never heard before. this time he did not call her back, but went his own way up the hill. chapter xiii in the foreman's garden mr. best was a good gardener and cultivated fruit and flowers to perfection. his rambling patch of ground ran beside the river and some of his apple trees bent over it. pear trees also he grew, and a medlar and a quince. but flowers he specially loved. his house was bowered in roses to the thatched roof, and in the garden grew lilies and lupins, a hundred roses and many bright tracts of shining, scented blossoms. now, however, they had vanished and on a saturday afternoon john best was tidying up, tending a bonfire and digging potatoes. he was generous of his treasures and the girls never hesitated to ask him for a rose in june. ancient mrs. chick, too, won an annual gift from the foreman. down one side of his garden ranged great elder bushes, and mrs. chick made of the blooth in summer time, a decoction very precious for throat troubles. now best stood for a moment and regarded a waste corner where grew nettles. somebody approached him in this act of contemplation and he spoke. "i often wonder if it would be worth while making an experiment with stinging nettles," he said to ernest churchouse, who was the visitor. "they have a spinnable fibre, john, without a doubt." "they have, mister churchouse, and they scutch well and can be wrought into textiles. but there's no temptation to make trial. i'm only thinking in a scientific spirit." he swept up the fallen nettles for his bonfire. "i've come for a few balls of the rough twine," said mr. churchouse. "and welcome." an unusual air of gloom sat on mr. best and the other was quick to observe it. "all well, i hope?" he said. "not exactly. i'm rather under the weather; but i dare say it's my own fault." "it often is," admitted ernest; "but in my experience that doesn't make it any better. in fact, the most disagreeable sort of depression is that which we know we are responsible for ourselves. when other people annoy us, we have the tonic effect of righteous indignation; but not when we annoy ourselves and know ourselves to blame." "i wouldn't go so far as to say it's all my own fault, however," answered mr. best. "it is and it isn't my fault. to be a father of children is your own fault in a manner of speaking; and yet to be a father is not any wrong, other things being as they should." "on the contrary, it's part of the whole duty of man--other things being equal, as you say." "we look to see ourselves reflected in our offspring, yet how often do we?" asked the foreman. "perhaps we might oftener, if we didn't suffer from constitutional inability to recognise ourselves, john. i've thought of this problem, let me tell you, for you are one of many who feel the same. so far as i can see, parents worry about what their children look like to them; but never about what they look like to their children." "you speak as a childless widower," answered the other. "believe me, mister churchouse, children nowadays never hesitate to tell us what we look like to them--or what they think of us either. even my sailor boy will do it." "it's the result of education," said ernest. "there is no doubt that education has altered the outlook of the child on the parent. the old relation has disappeared and the fifth commandment does not make its old appeal. children are better educated than their parents." "and what's the result? they'd kill the home goose that lays the golden eggs to-morrow, if they could. in fact, they're doing it. those that remain reasonable and obedient to their fathers and mothers feel themselves martyrs. that's the best sort; but it ain't much fun having a house full of martyrs whether or no; and it ain't much fun to know that your offspring are merely enduring you, as a necessary affliction. as for the other sort, who can't stick home life and old-fashioned ideas, they just break loose and escape as quick as ever they know how--and no loss either." "a gloomy picture," admitted mr. churchouse; "but, like every other picture, it has two sides. i think time may be trusted to put it right. after the young have left the nest, and hopped out into the world, and been sharply pecked now and again, they begin to see home in its true perspective and find that there is nothing like the affection of a mother and father." "they don't want anything of that," declared john. "if you stand for sense and experience and try to learn them, they think you're a fossil and out of sight of reality; and if you attempt to be young and interest yourself in their wretched little affairs and pay the boy with the boys and the girl with the girls, they think you're a fool." "no doubt they see through any effort on the part of the middle-aged to be one with them," admitted ernest. "and for my part i deprecate such attempts. let us grow old like gentlemen, john, and if they cannot perceive the rightness and stateliness of age, so much the worse for them. some of us, however, err very gravely in this matter. there are men who have not the imagination to see themselves growing old; they only feel it. and they try to hide their feelings and think they are also hiding the fact. such men, of course, become the laughing-stocks of the rising generation and the shame of their own." "all the young are alike, so i needn't grumble at my own family for that matter," confessed mr. best. "their generation is all equally headstrong and opinionated--high and low, the same. if i've hinted to raymond ironsyde once, i've hinted a thousand times, that he's not going about his business in a proper spirit." "he is at present obviously in love, john, and must not therefore be judged. but i share your uneasiness." "it's wrong, and he knows it, and she ought to know it, too. sabina, i mean. i should have given her credit for more sense myself. i thought she had plenty of self-respect and brains too." "things are coming to a crisis in that quarter," prophesied ernest. "it is a quality of love that it doesn't stand still, john; and something is going to happen very shortly. either it will be given out that they are betrothed, or else the thing will fade away. sabina has very fine instincts; and on his side, he would, i am sure, do nothing unbecoming his family." "he has--plenty," declared mr. best. "nothing about which there would not be two opinions, believe me. the fact that he has let it go so far makes me think they are engaged. the young will go their own way about things." "if it was all right, sabina dinnett wouldn't be so miserable," argued john best. "she was used to be as cheerful as a bird on a bough; and now she is not." "merely showing that the climax is at hand. i have seen myself lately that sabina was unhappy and even taxed her with it; but she denied it. her mother, however, knows that she is a good deal perturbed. we must hope for the best." "and what is the best?" asked john. "there is not the slightest difficulty about that; the best is what will happen," replied mr. churchouse. "as a good christian you know it perfectly well." but the other shook his head. "that won't do," he answered, "that's only evasion, mister ernest. there's lots and lots of things happen, and the better the christian you are, the better you know they ought not to happen. and whether they are engaged to be married, or whether they quarrel, trouble must come of it. if people do wrong, it's no good for christians to say the issue must be right. that's simply weak-minded. you might as well argue nothing wrong ever does happen, since nothing can happen without the will of god." "in a sense that's true," admitted ernest. "so true, in fact, that we'd better change the subject, john. we thinking and religious men know there's a good deal of thin ice in christianity, where we've got to walk with caution and not venture without a guide. one needs professional theologians to skate over these dangerous places safely. but, for my part, i have my reason well under control, as every religious person should. i can perfectly accept the fact that evil happens, and yet that nothing happens without the sanction of an all powerful and all good god." "you'd better come and get your string then," said mr. best. "and long may your fine faith flourish. you're a great lesson to us people cursed with too much common-sense, i'm sure." "where our religion is concerned, we should be too proud to submit it to common-sense," declared ernest. "common-sense is all very well in everyday affairs; in fact, this world would not prosper without it; but i strongly deprecate common-sense as applied to the next world, john. the next world, from what one glimpses of it in prophecy and revelation, is outside the category of common-sense altogether." "i stand corrected," said mr. best. "but it's a startler--to leave common-sense out of what matters most to thinking men." "we shall be altered in the twinkling of an eye," explained ernest, "and so, doubtless, will be our humble, earthly intelligence, our reliance on reason and other mundane virtues. from the heavenly standpoint, earth will seem a very sordid business altogether, i suspect, and even our good qualities appear very peddling. in fact, we may find, john, that we were in the habit of putting up statues to the wrong persons, and discover the most unexpected people at the right hand of the throne." "i dare say we shall," admitted mr. best; "for if common-sense is going by the board and the virtues all to be scrapped also, then we that think we stand had better take heed lest we fall--you and me included, mister churchouse. however, i'm glad to say i'm not with you there. the book tells us very clear what's good and what's evil; and whatever else heaven will do, it won't go back on the book. i suppose you'll grant that much?" "most certainly," said the elder. "most certainly and surely, john. that, at least, we can rely upon. our stronghold lies in the fact that we know good from evil, and though we don't know what 'infinite' goodness is, we do know that it is still goodness. therefore, though god is infinitely good, he is still good; the difference between his goodness and ours is one of degree, not kind. so metaphysics and quibbling leave us quite safe, which is all that really matters." "i hope you're right," answered best. "life puts sharp questions to religion, and i can't pretend my religion's always clever enough to answer them." ernest took his twine and departed; but the subject of raymond and sabina was not destined to slumber, for now he met raymond on his way to north hill house. he asked him to come into tea and, to his surprise, the young man refused. "that means sabina isn't at home then," said mr. churchouse blandly. "i don't know where she is." at this challenge ernest spoke and struck into the matter very directly. he blamed raymond and feared that his course of action was not that of a gentleman. "you would be the very first to protest and criticise unfavourably, my dear boy, if you saw anybody else treating a girl in this fashion," he concluded. "i'm going to clear it up," answered the culprit. "don't you worry. these things can't be done in a minute. this infernal place is always so quick to think evil, apparently, and judges decent people by its own dirty opinions. i've asked daniel to give me a holiday, so that i may go away and think over life in general. and he won't give me a holiday. it's very clear to me, uncle ernest, that no self-respecting man would be able to work under daniel for long. things are coming to a climax. i doubt if i shall be able to keep on here." "you evade the subject, which is your friendship with sabina, raymond. as to daniel, there ought to be no difficulty whatever, and you know it very well in your heart and head. your protest deceives nobody. but sabina?" here the conversation ceased abruptly, for raymond committed an unique offence. he told mr. churchouse to go to the devil, and left him, standing transfixed with amazement, at the outer gate of 'the magnolias.' with the insult to himself ernest was not much concerned. his regretful astonishment centred in the spectacle of raymond's downfall. "to what confusion and disorder must his mind have been reduced, before he could permit himself such a lapse," reflected mr. churchouse. chapter xiv the concert the effect of raymond's attitude on sabina's mind proved very serious. it awoke in her first anger and then dismay. she was a woman of fine feeling and quick perception. love and ambition had pointed the same road, and the hero, being, as it seemed, without guile, had convinced her that she might believe every word that he spoke and trust everything that he did. she had never contemplated any sacrifice before marriage, and, indeed, when it came, the consummation of their worship proved no sacrifice to her, but an added joy. less than many a married woman had she mourned the surrender, for in her eyes it made all things complete between them and bound them inseparably with the golden links of love and honour. when, therefore, upon this perfect union, sinister light from without had broken, she felt it no great thing to ask raymond that their betrothal should be known. reason and justice demanded it. she did not for an instant suppose that he would hesitate, but rather expected him to blame his own blindness in delay. but finding he desired further postponement, she was struck with consternation that rose to wrath; and when he persisted, she became alarmed and now only considered what best she might do for her own sake. her work suffered and her friends perceived that all was not well with her. with the shortening days and bad weather, the meetings with raymond became more difficult to pursue and she saw less of him. they had patched their quarrel and were friendly enough, but the perfect understanding had departed. they preserved a common ground and she did not mention subjects likely to annoy him. he appeared to be working steadily, seldom came into the shops and was more reserved to everybody in the mill. sabina had not yet spoken to her mother, though many times tempted to do so. her loyalty proved strong in the time of trial; but the greater the strain on herself, the greater the strain on her love for the man. she told herself that no such cruel imposition should have been placed upon her; and she could not fail closely to question the need for it. why did raymond demand continued silence even in the face of offences put upon her by her neighbours? how could he endure to hear that people had been rude to her, and uttered coarse jests in her hearing aimed only at her ear? would a man who loved her, as she deserved to be loved, suffer this? then fear grew. with her he was always kind--kind and considerate in every matter but the vital matter. yet there were differences. the future, in which he had delighted to revel, bored him now, and when she spoke of it, he let the matter drop. he was on good terms with his brother for the moment, and appeared to be winning an increasing interest in his business to the exclusion of other affairs. he would become animated on the subject of sabina's work, rather than the subject of sabina. he stabbed her unconsciously with many little shafts of speech, yet knew not that he was doing so. he grew more grave and self-controlled in their relations. her personal touch began to lose power and waken his answering fire less often. it was then that she found herself with child, and knowing that despite much to cause concern, raymond was still himself, she rejoiced, since this fact must terminate his wavering and establish her future. here at least was an event beyond his power to evade. he loved her and had promised to wed her. he was a man who might be weak, but had never explicitly behaved in a manner to make her tremble for such a situation as the present. procrastination ceased to be possible. what now had happened must demand instant recognition of her rights, and that given, she assured herself the future held no terrors. now he must marry her, or contradict his own record as a gentleman and a man of honour. yet she told him with a tremor and, until the last moment, could not banish from her heart the shadow of fear. he had never spoken of this possibility, or taken it into account, and she felt, seeing his silence, that it would be a shock. the news came to him as they walked from the mill on a saturday when the works closed at noon. he was on his way to bridport and she went beside him for a mile through the lanes. for a moment he said nothing, then, seeing the road empty, he put his arms round her and kissed her. "you clever girl!" he said. "don't tell me you're sorry, for god's sake, or i shall go and drown myself," she answered. her face was anxious and she looked haggard in the cold light of a sunless, winter day. but a genuine, generous emotion had touched him, and with it woke pangs of remorse and contrition. he knew very well what she had been suffering mentally on his account, and he knew that the frightened voice in which she told him the news and the trembling mouth and the tear in her eyes ought not to have been there. every fine feeling in the man and every honest instinct was aroused. for the moment he felt glad that no further delay was possible. his self-respect had already suffered; but now life offered him swift means to regain it. he did not, however, think of himself while his arms were round her; he thought of her and her only, while they remained together. "'sorry'?" he said. "can you think i'm sorry? i'm only sorry that i didn't do something sooner and marry you before this happened, sabina. good lord--it throws a lot of light. i swear it does. i'm glad--i'm honestly glad--and you must be glad and proud and happy and all the rest of it. we'll be married in a month. and you must tell your mother we're engaged to-day; and i'll tell my people. don't you worry. damn me, i've been worrying you a lot lately; but it was only because i couldn't see straight. now i do and i'll soon atone." she wept with thankful heart and begged him to turn with her and tell mrs. dinnett himself. but that he would not do. "it will save time if i go on to bridport and let aunt jenny hear about it. of course the youngster is our affair and nobody need know about that. but we must be married in a jiffey and--you must give notice at the mill to-day. go back now and tell best." "how wonderful you are!" she said. "and yet i feared you might be savage about it." "more shame to me that you should have feared it," he answered; "for that means that i haven't been sporting. but you shall never be frightened of me again, sabina. to see you frightened hurts me like hell. if ever you are again, it will be your fault, not mine." she left him very happy and a great cloud seemed to fall off her life as she returned to the village. she blamed herself for ever doubting him. her love rose from its smothered fires. she soared to great heights and dreamed of doing mighty things for raymond. straight home to her mother she went and told mrs. dinnett of her engagement and swiftly approaching marriage. the light had broken on her darkness at last and she welcomed the child as a blessed forerunner of good. the coming life had already made her love it. meantime raymond preserved his cheerful spirit for a season. but existence never looked the same out of sabina's presence and before he had reached bridport, his mood changed. he recognised very acutely his duty and not a thought stirred in him to escape it; but what for a little while had appeared more than duty and promised to end mean doubts and fears for ever, began now to present itself under other aspects. the joy of a child and a wife and a home faded. for what sort of a home could he establish? he leaned to the hope that daniel might prove generous under the circumstances and believed that his aunt might throw her weight on his side and urge his brother to make adequate provision; but these reflections galled him unspeakably, for they were sordid. they argued weakness in him. he must come as a beggar and eat humble pie; he must for ever sacrifice his independence and, with it, everything that had made life worth living. the more he thought upon it, the more he began to hate the necessity of taking this story to his relations. better men than he had lived in poverty and risen from humble beginnings. it struck him that if he went his own way, redoubled his official energies and asked for nothing more on the strength of his marriage, his own self-respect would be preserved as well as the respect of his aunt and brother. he pictured himself as a hero, yet knew that what he contemplated was merely the conduct of an honest man. the thought of approaching anybody with his intentions grew more distasteful, and by the time he reached bridport, he had determined not to mention the matter, at any rate until the following day. so great a thing demanded more consideration than he could give it for the moment, because his whole future depended on the manner in which he broke it to his people. it was true that the circumstances admitted of no serious delay; sabina must, of course, be considered before everything; but twenty-four hours would make no difference to her, while it might make all the difference to him. he reduced the courses of action to two. either he would announce that he was going to be married immediately as a fact accomplished; or he would invite his aunt's sympathies, use diplomacy and win her to his side with a view to approaching daniel. daniel appeared the danger, because it was quite certain that he would strongly disapprove of raymond's marriage. this certainty induced another element of doubt. for suppose, far from seeking to help raymond with his new responsibilities, daniel took the opposite course and threatened to punish him for any such stupidity? suppose that his brother, from a personal standpoint, objected and backed his objection with a definite assurance that raymond must leave the mill if he took this step? the only way out of that would be to tell daniel that he was compromised and must wed sabina for honour. but raymond felt that he would rather die than make any such confession. his whole soul rose with loathing at the thought of telling the truth to one so frozen and unsympathetic. moreover there was not only himself to be considered, but sabina. what chance would she have of ever winning daniel to acknowledge and respect her if the facts came to his ears? raymond thought himself into a tangle and found a spirit of great depression settling upon him. but, at last, he decided to sleep on the situation. he did not go home, but turned his steps to 'the tiger,' ate his luncheon and drank heartily with it. then he went to see a boxer, who was training with mr. gurd, and presently when neddy motyer appeared, he turned into the billiard room and there killed some hours before the time of the smoking concert. he imbibed the intensely male atmosphere of 'the tiger' with a good deal of satisfaction; but surging up into the forefront of his mind came every moment the truth concerning himself and his future. it made him bitter. for some reason he could not guess, he found himself playing billiards very much above his form. neddy was full of admiration. "by jove, you've come on thirty in a hundred," he said. "if you only gave a fair amount of time to it, you'd soon beat anybody here but waldron." "my sporting days are practically over," answered raymond. "i've got to face real life now, and as soon as you begin to do that, you find sport sinks under the horizon a bit. i thought i should miss it a lot, but i shan't." "if anybody else said that, i should think it was the fox who had lost his brush talking," replied neddy; "but i suppose you mean it. only you'll find, if you chuck sport, you'll soon be no good. even as it is, going into the works has put you back a lot. i doubt if you could do a hundred in eleven seconds now." "there are more important things than doing a hundred in eleven seconds--or even time, either, for that matter." "you won't chuck football, anyway? you'll be fast enough for outside right for year's yet if you watch yourself." "damned easy to say 'watch yourself.' yes, i shall play footer a bit longer if they want me, i suppose." arthur waldron dropped in a few minutes later. he was glad to see raymond. "good," he said. "i thought you were putting in a blameless evening with your people." "no, i'm putting in a blameless evening here." "he's playing enormous billiards, waldron," declared motyer. "i suppose you've been keeping him at it. he's come on miles." "he didn't learn with me, anyway. it's not once in a blue moon that he plays at north hill. but if he's come on, so much the better." they played, but raymond's form had deserted him. waldron was much better than the average amateur and now he gave raymond fifty in two hundred and beat him by as much. they dined together presently, and job legg, who often lent a hand at 'the tiger' on moments of extra pressure, waited upon them. "how's your uncle, job?" asked arthur waldron, who was familiar with mr. legg, and not seldom visited 'the seven stars,' when estelle came with him to bridport. "he's a goner, sir. i'm off to the funeral on monday." "hope the will was all right?" "quite all right, sir, thank you, sir." "then you'll leave, no doubt, and what will missis northover do then?" legg smiled. "it's hid in the future, sir," he answered. a comedian, who was going to perform at the smoking concert, came in with mr. gurd, and the innkeeper introduced him to neddy and raymond. he joined them and added an element of great hilarity to the meal. he abounded in good stories, and understood horse-racing as well as neddy motyer himself. neddy now called himself a 'gentleman backer,' but admitted that, so far, it had not proved a lucrative profession. their talk ranged over sport and athletics. they buzzed one against the other, and not even the humour of the comic man was proof against the seriousness of arthur waldron, who demonstrated, as always, that england's greatness had sprung from the pursuit of masculine pastimes. the breed of horses and the breed of men alike depended upon sport. the empire, in mr. waldron's judgment, had arisen from this sublime foundation. "it reaches from the highest to the lowest," he declared. "the puppy that plays most is the one that always turns into the best dog." the smoking concert, held in mr. gurd's large dining-room, went the way of such things with complete success. the boxing was of the best, and the local lad, tim chick, performed with credit against his experienced antagonist. all the comic man's songs aimed at the folly of marriage and the horrors of domesticity. he seemed to be singing at raymond, who roared with the rest and hated the humourist all the time. the young man grew uneasy and morose before the finish, drank too much whiskey, and felt glad to get into the cold night air when all was over. and then there happened to him a challenge very unexpected, for waldron, as they walked back together through the night-hidden lanes, chose the opportunity to speak of raymond's private affairs. "you can't accuse me of wanting to stick my nose into other people's business, can you, ray? and you can't fairly say that you've ever found me taking too much upon myself or anything of that sort." "no; you're unique in that respect." "well, then, you mustn't be savage if i'm personal. you know me jolly well and you know that you're about the closest friend i've got. and if you weren't a friend and a great deal to me, i shouldn't speak." "go ahead--i can guess. there's only one topic in bridetown, apparently. no doubt you've seen me in the company of sabina dinnett?" "i haven't, i can honestly say. but estelle is very keen about the mill girls. she wants to do all sorts of fine things for them; and she's specially friendly with missis dinnett's daughter. and she's heard things that puzzled her young ears naturally, and she told me that some people say you're being too kind to sabina and other people say you're treating her hardly. of course, that puzzled estelle, clever though she is; but, as a man of the world, i saw what it meant and that kindness may really be cruelty in the long run. you'll forgive me, won't you?" "of course, my dear chap. if one lives in a hole like bridetown, one must expect one's affairs to be common property." "and if they are, what does it matter as long as they are all straightforward? i never care a button what anybody says about me, because i know they can't say anything true that is up against me; and as to lies, they don't matter." "and d'you think i care what they say about me?" "rather not. only if a girl is involved, then the case is altered. i'm not a saint; but--" "when anybody says they're not a saint, you know they're going to begin to preach, arthur." waldron did not answer for a minute. he stopped and lighted his pipe. to raymond, sabina appeared unmeasurably distant at this midnight hour. his volatile mind was quick to take colour from the last experience, and in the aura of the smoking concert, woman looked a slight and inferior thing; marriage, a folly; domestic life, a jest. waldron spoke again. "you won't catch me preaching. i only venture to say that in a little place like this, it's a mistake to be identified with a girl beneath you in every way. it won't hurt you, and if she was a common girl and given to playing about, it wouldn't hurt her; but the dinnetts are different. however, you know a great deal more about her than i do, and if you tell me she's not all she seems and you're not the first and won't be the last, then, of course i'm wrong and enough said. but if she's all right and all she's thought to be, and all estelle thinks her--for estelle's a jolly good student of character--then, frankly, i don't think it's sporting of you to do what you're doing." the word 'sporting' summed the situation from waldron's point of view and he said no more. raymond grew milder. "she's all estelle thinks her. i have a great admiration for her. she's amazingly clever and refined. in fact, i never saw any girl a patch on her in my life." "well then, what follows? surely she ought to be respected in every way." "i do respect her." "then it's up to you to treat her as you'd treat anybody of your own class, and take care that nothing you do throws any shadow on her. and, of course, you know it. i'm not suggesting for a second you don't. i'm only suggesting that what would be quite all right with a girl in your own set, isn't exactly fair to sabina--her position in the world being what it is." it was on raymond's tongue to declare his engagement; but he did not. he had banished sabina for that night and the subject irked him. the justice of waldron's criticism also irked him; but he acknowledged it. "thank you," he answered. "it's jolly good of you to say these things, arthur, because they're not in your line, and i know you hate them. but you're dead right. i dare say i'll tell you something that will astonish you before long. but i'm not doing anything to be ashamed of. i haven't made any mistake; and if i had, i shouldn't shirk the payment." "you can't, my dear chap. a mistake has always got to be paid for in full--often with interest added. as a sportsman you know that, and it holds all through life in my experience." "i shan't make one. but if i do, i'm quite prepared to pay the cost." "we all say that till the bill comes along. better avoid the mistake, and i'm glad you're going to." far away from the scrub on north hill came a sharp, weird sound. "hark!" said waldron. "that's a dog fox! i hope the beggar's caught a rabbit." chapter xv a visit to miss ironsyde on the following day raymond did not appear at breakfast, and estelle wondered at so strange an event. "he's going for a long walk with me this afternoon," she told her father. "it's a promise; we're going all the way to chilcombe, for me to show him that dear little chapel and the wonderful curiosity in it." "not much in his line, but if he said he'll go, he'll go, no doubt," answered her father. they went to church together presently, for waldron observed sunday. he held no definite religious opinions; but inclined to a vague idea that it was seemly to go, because it set a good example and increased your authority. he believed that church-going was a source of good to the proletariat, and though he did not himself accept the doctrine of eternal punishment, since it violated all sporting tenets, he was inclined to think that acceptation of the threat kept ignorant people straight and made them better members of society. he held that the parson and squire must combine in this matter and continue to claim and enforce, as far as possible, a beneficent autocracy in thorpe and hamlet; and he perceived that religion was the only remaining force which upheld their sway. that supernatural control was crumbling under the influences of education he also recognised; but did his best to stem the tide, and trusted that the old dispensation would at least last out his time. on returning from worship they found raymond in the garden, and when estelle reminded him of his promise, he agreed and declared that he looked forward to the tramp. he was cheerful and apparently welcomed estelle's programme, but there happened that which threatened to interfere with it. waldron had retired to his study and a new book on 'the fox terrier,' which he reserved for sabbath reading, and estelle and raymond were just setting out for chilcombe when there came sabina. she had called to see her lover and entered the garden in time to stop him. she had never openly asked to see him in this manner before, and raymond was quick to mark the significance of the change. it annoyed him, while inwardly he recognised its reasonableness. he turned and shook hands with her, and estelle did the same. "we're just starting for chilcombe," she said. sabina looked her surprise. she had been expecting raymond all the morning, to bring the great news to ernest churchouse, and was puzzled to know why he had not come. she could not wait longer, and while her mother advised delay, found herself unable to delay. now she perceived that raymond had made plans independently of her. "i was coming in this evening," he said, in answer to her eyes. "may i speak to you a moment before you start with miss waldron?" she asked, and together they strolled into estelle's rose garden where still a poor blossom or two crowned naked sprays. "i don't understand," began the girl. "surely--surely after yesterday?" "i'd promised to go for this walk with her." "what then? wasn't there all the morning? my mother and i didn't go to church--expecting you every minute." "you must keep your nerve, sabina--both of us must. you mustn't be hysterical about it." she perceived how mightily his mood had changed since their leave-taking of the day before. "what's the matter?" she asked. "i suppose your people have not taken this well." "they don't know yet--nobody does." "you didn't tell them?" "things prevented it. we must choose the right moment to spring this. it's bound to knock them over for a minute. i'm thinking it all out. probably you don't quite realise, sabina, what this means from their point of view. the first thing is to get my aunt on my side; daniel's hopeless, of course." she stared at him. "what in god's name has come over you? you talk as though you hadn't a drop of blood in your veins. were you deaf yesterday? didn't you hear me tell you i was with child by you? 'their point of view'! what about my point of view?" "don't get excited, my dear girl. do give me credit for some sense. this is a very ticklish business, and the whole of our future--yours, of course, quite as much as mine--will depend on what i do during the next few days. do try to realise that. if i make a mistake now, we may repent it for fifty years." "what d'you call making a mistake? what choice of action have you got if you're a gentleman? it kills me--kills me to hear you talking about making a mistake; and your hard voice means that you think you've made one. what have i done but love you with all my heart and soul? what have i ever done to make you put other people's points of view before mine?" "i'm not--i'm not, sabina." "you are. you used to understand me so well and know what was in my mind before i spoke, and now--now before this--the greatest thing in the world for me--you--" "talk quietly, for goodness' sake. you don't want all bridetown to hear us." "you can say that? and you go out walking with a child and--" "look here, sabina, you must pull yourself together, or else you stand a very good chance of bitching up our show altogether," he answered calmly. "this thing has got to be carried out by me, not you; and if you are not going to let me do it my own way, then so much the worse for both of us. i won't be dictated to by you, or anybody, and if you're not contented to believe in me, then i can only say you're making a big mistake and you'll very soon find it out." "what are you going to do, then?" she asked, "and when are you going to do it? i've a right to know that, i suppose?" "to think you can talk in that tone of voice to me--to me of all people!" "to think you can force me to! and now you'll say you've seen things in me you never thought were there, and turn it over in your mind--and--and oh, it's cowardly--it's cruel. and you call yourself an honourable man and could tell me and swear to me only yesterday that i was more to you than anything else in the world!" "d'you know what you're doing?" he asked. "d'you want to make me--there--i won't speak it--i won't come down to your level and forget myself and say things that i'd break my heart to think of afterwards. i must go now, or that girl will be wondering what the deuce has happened. she's told her father already that you weren't happy or something; so i suppose you must have been talking. i'll come in this evening. you'd better go home now as quick as you can." he left her abruptly and she sat down shaking on a stone seat, to prevent herself from falling. grief and terror shared her spirit. she watched him hurry away and, after he was gone, arose to find her legs trembling under her. she went home slowly; then thoughts came to her which restored her physical strength. her anger gave place to fear and her fear beckoned her to confide in somebody with greater power over raymond than her own. she returned to her mother, described her repulse and then declared her intention of going immediately to see miss ironsyde. she concentrated her thoughts on the lady, of whom raymond had often spoken with admiration and respect. she argued with herself that his aunt would only have to hear her story to take her side; she told herself and her mother that since raymond had feared to approach his aunt, sabina might most reasonably do so. she grew calm and convinced herself that not only might she do this, but that when raymond heard of it, he would very possibly be glad that the necessity of confession was escaped. his aunt jenny was very fond of him, and would forgive him and help him to do right. sabina found herself stronger than raymond, and that did not astonish her, for she had suspected it before. her mother, now in tears, agreed with her and she started on foot for bridport, walked quickly, and within an hour, reached the dwelling of the ironsydes--a large house standing hidden in the trees above the town. miss ironsyde was reading and looking forward to her tea when sabina arrived. she had heard of the girl through ernest churchouse, but she had never met her and did not connect her in any way with raymond. jenny received her and was impressed with her beauty, for sabina, albeit anxious and nervous, looked handsome after her quick walk. "i've heard of you from your mother and mr. churchouse," said miss ironsyde, shaking hands. "you come from him, i expect. i hope he is well? sit down by the fire." her kindly manner and gentle face set the younger at ease. "he's quite well, thank you, miss. but i'm here for myself, not him. i'm in a great deal of terrible anxiety, and you'll excuse me for coming, i do hope, when i explain why i've come. it was understood between me and mr. raymond ironsyde very clearly yesterday that he was going to tell you about it. he left me yesterday to do so. but i've seen him to-day and i find he never came, so i thought i might venture to come even though it was sunday." "the better the day, the better the deed. something is troubling you. why did not my nephew come, if he started to come?" "i don't know. indeed, he should have come." "i'm afraid he starts to do a great many things he doesn't carry through," said jenny, and the words, lightly spoken, fell sinister on sabina's ear. "there are some things a man must carry through if he starts to do them," she said quietly, and her tone threw light for raymond's aunt. she grew serious. "tell me," she said. "i know my nephew very well and have his interests greatly at heart. he is somewhat undisciplined still and has had to face certain difficulties and problems, not much in themselves, but much to one with his temperament." then sabina, who felt that she might be fighting for her life, set out to tell her story. she proved at her best and spoke well. she kept her temper and chose her words. the things that she had thought to speak, indeed, escaped her, but her artless and direct narrative did not fail to convince the listener. "you're more to him than anybody in the world, but me," she said; "but i'm first, miss ironsyde. i must be first now. even if to-day he had been different--but what seemed so near yesterday is far off to-day. he was harsh to-day. he terrified me, and i felt you'd think no worse of me than you must, if i ventured to come. i don't ask you to believe anything i say until you have seen him; but i'm not going to tell you anything but the sacred truth. thanks to mr. churchouse i was well educated, and he took kind pains to teach me when i was young and helped me to get fond of books. so when mr. raymond came to the mill, he found i was intelligent and well mannered. and he fell in love with me and asked me to marry him. and i loved him very dearly, because i had never seen or known a man with such a beautiful face and mind. and i promised to marry him. he wished it kept secret and we loved in secret and had great joy of each other for a long time. then people began to talk and i begged him to let it be known we were engaged; but he would not. and then i told him--yesterday--that it must be known and that he must marry me as quickly as he could, for right and honour. and he seemed very glad--almost thankful i thought. he rejoiced about it and said it was splendid news. then he left me to come straight to you and i was happy and thankful. but to-day i went to see him and he had changed and was rough to me and said he must choose his own time! this to me, who am going to be mother of his child next year! i nearly fainted when he said that. he told me to go; and i went. but i could not sit down under the shock; i had to do something and thought of you. so i came to implore you to be on my side--not only for my sake, but his. it's a very fearful thing--only i know how fearful, because i know all he's said and promised; and well i know he meant every word while he was saying it. and i do humbly beg you, miss, for love of him, to reason with him and hear what he's got to say. and if he says a word that contradicts what i've said, then i'll be content for you to believe him and i'll trouble you no more. but he won't. he'll tell you everything i've told you. he couldn't say different, for he's truthful and straight. and if it was anything less than the whole of my future life i wouldn't have come. but i feel there are things hidden in his mind i can't fathom--else after what i told him yesterday, he never, never could have been cruel to me, or changed his mind about coming to see you. and please forgive me for taking up your time. only knowing that you cared for him so much made me come to you." miss ironsyde did not answer immediately. her intuition inclined her to believe every word at its face value; but her very readiness to do so made her cautious. the story was one of every day and bore no marks of improbability; yet among raymond's faults she could not remember any unreasonable relations with the other sex. it had always been one bright spot in his dead father's opinion that the young man did not care about drink or women, and was not intemperate, save in his passion for athletic exercises and his abomination of work. it required no great perception to see that sabina was not the type that entangles men. she had a beautiful face and a comely figure, but she belonged not to the illusive, distracting type. she was obvious and lacked the quality which attracts men far more than open features, regular modelling and steady eyes. it was, in fact, such a face as raymond might have admired, and sabina was such a girl as he might have loved--when he did fall in love. she was apparently his prototype and complement in directness and simplicity of outlook; that miss ironsyde perceived, and the more she reflected the less she felt inclined to doubt. sabina readily guessed the complex thoughts which kept the listener silent after she had finished, and sat quietly without more speech until jenny chose to answer her. that no direct antagonism appeared was a source of comfort. unconsciously sabina felt happier for the presence of the other, though as yet she had heard no consoling word. miss ironsyde regarded her thoughtfully; then she rose and rang the bell. sabina's heart sank for she supposed that she was to be immediately dismissed, and that meant defeat in a quarter very dangerous. but her mind was set at rest, for jenny saw the fear in her eyes. "i'm ringing for tea," she said. "i will ask you to stop and drink a cup with me. you've had a long walk." then came tears; but sabina felt such weakness did not become her and smothered them. "thank you, gratefully, miss ironsyde," she said. tea was a silent matter, for jenny had very little to say. her speech was just and kind, however. it satisfied sabina, whose only concern was justice now. she had spoken first. "i think--i'm sure it's only some hitch in mr. raymond's mind. he's been so wonderful to me--so tender and thoughtful--and he's such a gentleman in all he does and says, that i'm sure he never could dream of going back on his sacred word. he wants to marry me. he'll never tell you different from that. but he cannot realise, perhaps, the need--and yet i won't say that neither, for, of course, he must realise." "say nothing more at all," answered jenny. "you have said everything there was to say and i'm glad you have come to me and told me about it. but i'm not going to say anything myself until i've seen my nephew. you are satisfied that he will tell me the truth?" "yes, i am. don't think i don't trust him. only if there's something hidden from me, he might explain to you what it is, and what i've done to anger him." miss ironsyde did not lack experience of men and could have thrown light on sabina's problem; but she had not the heart. she began to suspect it was the girl's own compliance and his easy victory that had made raymond weary before the reckoning. there is nothing more tasteless than paying after possession, unless the factors combine to make the payment a pleasure and possession an undying delight. miss ironsyde indeed guessed at the truth more accurately than she knew; but her sympathies were entirely with sabina and it was certain that if raymond, when the time came, could offer no respectable and sufficient excuse for a change of mind, he would find little support from her. of her intentions, however, she said nothing, nor indeed while sabina drank a cup of tea had miss ironsyde anything to say. she was not unsympathetic, but she was guarded. "i will see raymond to-morrow without fail," she said when sabina departed. "i share your belief, miss dinnett, that he is a truthful and straightforward man. at least i have always found him so. and i feel very sure that you are truthful and straightforward too. this will come right. i will give you one word of advice, if i may, and ask one question. does anybody know of your engagement except my nephew and myself?" "only my mother. yesterday he told me to go straight home and tell her. and i did. whether he's told anybody, i don't know." "be sure he has not. he would tell nobody before me, i think. my advice, then, is to say nothing more until you hear from him, or me." "i shouldn't, of course, miss ironsyde." "good-bye," said the other kindly. "be of good heart and be patient for a few hours longer. it's hard to ask you to be, but you'll understand the wisdom." when sabina had gone, miss ironsyde nibbled a hot cake and reflected deeply on an interview full of pain. the story--so fresh and terrific to the teller--was older than the hills and presented no novel feature whatever to her who listened. but in theory, jenny ironsyde entertained very positive views concerning the trite situation. whether she would be able to sustain them before her nephew remained to be seen. she already began to fear. she saw the dangers and traversed the arguments. though free from class prejudice, she recognised its weight in such a situation. a break must mean sabina's social ruin; but would union mean ruin to raymond? and if the problem was reduced to that, what became of her theories? she decided that since her theories were based in righteousness and justice, she must prefer his downfall to the woman's. for if, indeed, he fell as the result of a mistaken marriage, he would owe the fall to himself and his attitude after the event. he need not fall. a tendency to judge him hardly, however, drew jenny up. he had yet to be heard. she went to her writing-desk and wrote him a letter directing him to see her on the following day without fail. "it is exceedingly important, my dear boy," she said, "and i shall expect you not later than ten o'clock to-morrow morning." chapter xvi at chilcombe meantime raymond had kept his promise and devoted some hours to estelle's pleasure. the girl was proud of such an event, anticipated it for many days and won great delight from it when it came. she perceived, as they started, that her friend was perturbed and wondered dimly a moment as to what sabina could have said to annoy him; but he appeared to recover quickly and was calm, cheerful and attentive to her chatter after they had gone a mile. "to think you've never been to chilcombe, ray," she said. "you and father go galloping after foxes, or shooting the poor pheasants and partridges and don't care a bit for the wonderful tiny church at chilcombe--the tiniest in england almost, i do believe. and then there's a beautiful thing in it--a splendid treasure; and many people think it was a piece of one of the ships of the spanish armada, that was wrecked on the chesil bank; and i dare say it is." "you must tell me about it." "i'm going to." "not walking too fast for you?" "not yet, but still you might go a little slower, or else i shall get out of breath and shan't be able to tell you about things." he obeyed. "there are no flowers for you to show me now," he said. "no, but there are interesting things. for instance, away there to the right is a wonderful field. and the old story is that everything that is ever planted in it comes up red--red." "what nonsense." "yes, it is, but it's creepy, nice nonsense. because of the story. once there were two murderers at swire village, and one turned upon the other and told the secret of the murder and got his friend caught and hanged. and the bad murderer was paid a great deal of money for telling the government about the other murderer; and that was blood-money, you see. then the bad murderer bought a field, and because he bought it with blood-money, everything he planted came up red. i wish it was true; but, of course, i know it can't be, though a good many things would come up red, like sanfoin and scarlet clover and beetroots." "a jolly good yarn," declared raymond. they tramped along through a network of winding lanes, and presently estelle pointed to a lofty hillock that rose above the high lands on which they walked. "that's shipton hill," she said, pointing to the domelike mound. "and i believe it's called so, because from one point it looks exactly like a ship upside down." "i'll bet it is, and a very good name for it." the diminutive chapel of chilcombe stood in a farmyard beside a lofty knoll of trees. it was a stout little place of early english architecture, lifted high above the surrounding country and having a free horizon of sea and land. it consisted of a chancel, nave and south porch. its bell cote held one bell; and within was a norman font, a trefoil headed piscina, and sitting room for thirty-four people. "isn't it a darling little church?" asked estelle, her voice sunk to a whisper; and raymond nodded and said that it was 'ripping.' then they examined the medieval treasure of the reredos--a panel of cedar wood, some ten feet in length, that surmounted the altar. it was set in a deep oaken frame, and displayed two circular drawings with an oblong picture in the midst. in the left circle was the scourging of christ; in the right, the redeemer rose from the tomb; while between them the crucifixion had been depicted, with armies of mail-clad soldiers about the cross. the winged symbols of the evangelists appeared in other portions of the panel with various separate figures, and there were indications that the work was unfinished. estelle, who had often studied every line of it, gave her explanations and ideas to raymond, while he listened with great attention. then they went to the ancient manor house now converted into a farm; and there the girl had friends who provided them with tea. she made no attempt to hide her pride at her companion, for she was a lonely little person and the expedition with raymond had been a great event in her life. exceedingly happy and contented, she walked beside him homeward in the fading light and ceased not to utter her budding thoughts and reflections. he proved a good listener and encouraged her, for she amused him and really interested him. in common with her father, raymond was often struck by the fact that a child would consider subjects which had never entered his head; but so it was, since estelle's mind had been wrought in a larger plan and compassed heights and depths, even in its present immaturity, to which neither waldron's nor raymond's had aspired. yet the things she said were challenging, though often absurd. facts which he knew, though estelle as yet did not, served to block her ideals and explain her mysteries, yet he recognised the girl's simple dreams, unvexed by practical considerations, or the 'nay' that real life must make to them, were beautiful. she spoke a good deal about the mill, where now her chief interest centred; and raymond spoke about it too. and presently, after brisk interchange of ideas, she pointed out a fact that had not struck him. "it's a funny thing, ray," she said, "but what you love best about the works is the machinery; and what i love best about them is the people. yet i don't see how a machine can be as interesting as a girl." "perhaps you're wrong, estelle. perhaps i wish you were right. if i hadn't found a girl more interesting--" he broke off and turned from the road she had innocently opened into his own thoughts. "of course the people are more interesting, really. but because i'm keen about the machines, you mustn't think i'm not keener still about the people. you see the better the machines, the better time the people will have, and the less hard and difficult and tiring for them will be their work." she considered this and suddenly beamed. "how splendid! of course i see. you _are_ clever, ray. and it's really the people you think of all the time." she gave him a look of admiration. "i expect presently they'll all see that; and gradually you'll get them more and more beautiful machines, till their work is just pleasure and nothing else. and do invent something to prevent sabina and nancy and alice hurting their hands. they have to stop the spindles so often, and it wounds them, and nancy gets chilblains in the winter, so it's simply horrid for her." "that's right. it's one of the problems. i'm not forgetting these things." "and if i think of anything may i tell you?" "i hope you will, estelle." she talked him into a pleasant humour, and it took a practical form unknown to estelle, for before they had reached home again, there passed through raymond's mind a wave of contrition. the contrast between estelle's steadfast and unconscious altruism and his own irresolution and selfishness struck into him. she made him think more kindly of sabina, and when he considered the events of that day from sabina's standpoint, he felt ashamed of himself. for it was not she who had done anything unreasonable. the blame was his. he had practically lied to her the day before, and to-day he had been harsh and cruel. she had a right--the best possible right--to come and see him; she had good reason to be angry on learning that he had not kept his word. he determined to see sabina as quickly as possible, and about seven o'clock in the evening after the return from the walk, he went down to 'the magnolias' and rang the bell. mrs. dinnett came to the door, and said something that hardened the young man's heart again very rapidly. sabina's mother was unfriendly. since her daughter returned, she had learned all there was to know, and for the moment felt very antagonistic. she had already announced the betrothal to certain of her friends, and the facts that day had discovered made her both anxious and angry. she was a woman of intermittent courage, but her paroxysms of pluck soon passed and between them she was craven and easily cast down. for the moment, however, she felt no fear and echoed the mood in which sabina had returned from bridport an hour earlier. "sabina can't be seen to-night," she said. "you wouldn't have anything to do with her this afternoon, mr. ironsyde, and treated her like a stranger; and now she won't see you." "why not, missis dinnett?" "she's got her pride, and you've wounded it--and worse. and i may tell you we're not the people to be treated like this. it's a very ill-convenient business altogether, and if you're a gentleman and a man of honour--" he cut her short. "is she going to see me, or isn't she?" "she is not. she's very much distressed, and every reason to be, god knows; and she's not going to see you to-night." raymond took it quietly and his restraint instantly alarmed mrs. dinnett. "it's not my fault, mr. ironsyde. but seeing how things are between you, she was cruel put about this afternoon, and she's got to think of herself if you can do things like that at such a moment." "she must try and keep her nerve better. there was no reason why i should break promises. she ought to have waited for me to come to her." mary dinnett flamed again. "you can say that! and didn't she wait all the morning to see if you'd come to her--and me? and as to promises--it don't trouble you to break promises, else you'd have seen your family yesterday, as you told sabina you were going to do." "is she going to the mill to-morrow?" he asked, ignoring the attack. "no, she ain't going to the mill. it isn't a right and fitting thing that the woman you're going to marry and the mother of your future child should be working in a spinning mill; and if you don't know it, others do." "she told you then--against my wishes?" "and what are your wishes alongside of your acts? you're behaving very wickedly, mr. ironsyde, and driving my daughter frantic; and if she can't tell her mother her sorrows, who should know?" "she has disobeyed me and done a wrong thing," he said quietly. "this may alter the whole situation, and you can tell her so." "for god's sake don't talk like that. would you ruin the pair of us?" "what am i to do if i can't trust her?" he asked, and then went abruptly away before mary could answer. she was terribly frightened and soon drowned in tears, for when she returned to sabina and related the conversation, her daughter became passionate and blamed her with a shower of bitter words. "i only told you, because i thought you had sense enough to keep your mouth shut about it," she cried. "now he'll think it's common news and hate me--hate me for telling. you've ruined me--that's what you've done, and i may as well go and make a hole in the water as not, for he'll never marry me now." "you told miss ironsyde," sobbed the mother. "that was different. she'll keep it to herself, and i had to tell her to show how serious it was for me. for anything less than that, she'd have taken his side against me. and now he'll find i've been to her, and that may--oh, my god, why didn't i keep quiet a little longer, and trust him?" "you had every right to speak, when you found he was telling lies," said mrs. dinnett. and while they quarrelled, raymond returned to north hill in a mood that could not keep silence. he and arthur waldron smoked after supper, and when estelle had gone to bed, the younger spoke and took up the conversation of the preceding night where he had dropped it. the speech that now passed, however, proceeded on a false foundation, for raymond only told arthur what he pleased and garbled the facts by withholding what was paramount. "you were talking of sabina dinnett last night," he said. "what would you think if i told you i was going to marry her, waldron?" "a big 'if.' but you're not going to tell me so. you would surely have told me yesterday if you had meant that." "why shouldn't i if i want to?" "i always keep out of personal things--even with pals. i strained a point with you last night for friendship, ray. is the deed done, or isn't it? if it is, there is nothing left but to congratulate you and wish you both luck." "if it isn't?" mr. waldron was cautious. "you're not going to draw me till i know as much as you know, old chap. either you're engaged, or you're not." "say it's an open question--then what?" "how can i say it's an open question after this? i'm not going to say a word about it." "well, i thought we were engaged; but it seems there's a bit of doubt in the air still." "then you'd better clear that doubt, before you mention the subject again. until you and she agree about it, naturally it's nobody else's business." "and yet everybody makes it their business, including you. why did you advise me to look out what i was doing last night?" "because you're young, boy, and i thought you might make a mistake and do an unsporting thing. that was nothing to do with your marrying her. how was i to know such an idea was in your mind? naturally nobody supposed any question of that sort had arisen." "why not?" waldron felt a little impatient. "you know as well as i do. men in your position don't as a rule contemplate marriage with women, however charming and clever, who--. but this is nonsense. i'm not going to answer your stupid questions." "then you'd say--?" "no, i wouldn't. i'll say nothing about it. you're wanting to get something for nothing now, and presently i daresay you'd remind me of something i had said. we can go back to the beginning if you like, but you're not going to play lawyer with me, ray. it's in a nutshell, i suppose. you're going to marry miss dinnett, or else you're not. of course, you know which. and if you won't tell me which, then don't ask me to talk about it." "i've not decided." "then drop it till you have." "you're savage now." "i'm never savage--you know that very well. or, if i am, it's only with men who are unsporting." "let's generalise, then. i suppose you'd say a man was a fool to marry out of his own class." "as a rule, yes. because marriage is difficult enough at best without complicating it like that. but there are exceptions. you can't find any rule without exceptions." "i'll tell you the truth then, arthur. i meant to marry sabina. i believed that she was the only being in the world worth living for. but things have happened and now i'm doubtful whether it would be the best possible." "and what about her? is she doubtful too?" "i don't know. anyway i've just been down to see her and she wouldn't see me." "see her to-morrow then and clear it up. if there's a doubt, give yourselves the benefit of the doubt. she's tremendously clever, estelle says, and she may be clever enough to believe it wouldn't do. and if she feels like that, you'll be a fool to press it." they talked on and waldron, despite his caution, was too ingenuous to hide his real opinions. he made it very clear to raymond that any such match, in his judgment, would be attended by failure. but he spoke in ignorance of the truth. the younger went to bed sick of himself. his instincts of right and honour fought with his desires to be free. his heart sank now at the prospect of matrimony. he assured himself that he loved sabina as steadfastly as ever he had loved her; but that there might yet be a shared life of happiness for them without the matrimonial chains. he considered whether it would be possible to influence sabina in that direction; he even went so far as to speculate on what would be his future feelings for her if she insisted upon the sanctity of his promises. chapter xvii confusion mr. churchouse was standing in his porch, when a postman brought him a parcel. it was a book, and ernest displayed mild interest. "what should that be, i wonder?" he said. then he asked a question. "have you seen bert, the newspaper boy? for the second morning he disappoints me." but bert himself appeared at the same moment and the postman went his way. "no newspaper on saturday--how was that?" asked mr. churchouse. "i was dreadful ill and my mother wouldn't let me go outdoors," explained the boy. "i asked neddy prichard to go down to the baker's and get it for you; but he wouldn't." "then i say no more, except to hope you're better." "it's my froat," explained bert, a sturdy, flaxen youngster of ten. "one more point i should like to raise while you are here. have you noticed that garden chair in the porch?" "yes, i have, and wondered why 'twas left there." "wonder no more, bert. it is there that you may put the paper upon it, rather than fling the news on a dirty door-mat." "fancy!" said bert. "i never!" "bear it in mind henceforth, and, if you will delay a moment, i will give you some black currant lozenges for your throat." a big black cat stood by his master listening to this conversation and bert now referred to him. "would thicky cat sclow me?" he asked. "no, bert--have no fear of peter grim," answered mr. churchouse. "his looks belie him. he has a forbidding face but a friendly heart." "he looks cruel fierce." "he does, but though a great sportsman, he has a most amiable nature." having ministered to bert, mr. churchouse retired with his book and paper. then came mary dinnett, red-eyed and in some agitation. but for a moment he did not observe her trouble. he had opened his parcel and revealed a volume bound in withered calf and bearing signs of age and harsh treatment. "a work i have long coveted--it is again 'a well-wisher,' missis dinnett, who has sent it to me. there is much kindness in the world still." but mrs. dinnett was too preoccupied with her own affairs to feel interest in ernest's pleasant little experience. by nature pessimistic, original doubts, when she heard of sabina's engagement, were now confirmed and she felt certain that her daughter would never become young ironsyde's wife. regardless of the girl's injunction to silence, and feeling that both for herself and sabina this disaster might alter the course of their lives and bring her own hairs with sorrow to the grave, mary now took the first opportunity to relate the facts to mr. churchouse. they created in him emotions of such deep concern that neither his book nor his newspaper were opened on the day of the announcement. mrs. dinnett rambled through her disastrous recital, declared that for her own part, she had already accepted the horror of it and was prepared to face the worst that could happen, and went so far as to predict what ernest himself would probably do, now that the scandal had reached his ears. she was distraught and for the moment appeared almost to revel in the accumulated horrors of the situation. she told the story of promise and betrayal and summed up with one agonised prophecy. "and now you'll cast her out--you'll turn upon us and throw us out--i know you will." "'cast her out'? good god of mercy! who am i to cast anybody out, missis dinnett? shall an elderly and faulty fellow creature rise in judgment at the weakness of youth? what have i done in the past to lead you to any such conclusion? i feel very certain, indeed, that you are permitting yourself a debauch of misery--wallowing in it, mary dinnett--as misguided wretches often wallow in drink out of an unmanly despair at their own human weakness. fortify yourself! approach the question on a higher plane. remember no sparrow falls to the ground without the cognisance of its creator! as for sabina, i love her and have devoted many hours to her education. i also love raymond ironsyde--for his own sake as well as his family's. i am perfectly certain that you exaggerate the facts. such a thing is quite incredible. shall i quarrel with a gracious flower because a wandering bee has set a seed? he may be an inconsiderate and greedy bee--but--" mr. churchouse broke off, conscious that his simile would land him in difficulties. "no," he said, "we must not pursue this subject on a pagan or poetical basis. we are dealing with two young christians, missis dinnett--a man and a woman of good nurture and high principle. i will never believe--not if he said it himself--that raymond ironsyde would commit any such unheard-of outrage. you say that he has promised to marry her. that is enough for me. the son of henry ironsyde will keep his promise. be sure of that. for the moment leave the rest in my hands. exercise discretion, and pray, pray keep silence about it. i do trust that nobody has heard anything. publicity might complicate the situation seriously." as a matter of fact mrs. dinnett had told everything to her bosom friend--a woman who dwelt in a cottage one hundred yards from 'the magnolias.' she did not mention this, however. "if you say there's hope, i'll try to believe it," she answered. "the man came here last night and sabina wouldn't see him, and god knows what'll be the next thing." "leave the next thing to me." "she's given notice at the works. he told her to." "of course--quite properly. now calm down and fetch me my walking boots." in half an hour ernest was on his way to bridport. as sabina, before him, his instinct led to miss ironsyde and he felt that the facts might best be imparted to her. if anybody had influence with raymond, it was she. his tone of confidence before mrs. dinnett had been partly assumed, however. his sympathies were chiefly with sabina, for she was no ordinary mill hand; she had enjoyed his tuition and possessed native gifts worthy of admiration. but she was as excitable as her mother, and if this vital matter went awry, there could be no doubt that her life must be spoiled. mr. churchouse managed to get a lift on his way from a friendly farmer, and he arrived at bridport town hall soon after ten o'clock. while driving he put the matter from his mind for a time, and his acquaintance started other trains of thought. one of them, more agreeable to a man of his temperament than the matter in hand, still occupied his mind when he stood before jenny ironsyde. "you!" she said. "i had an idea you never came into the world till afternoon." "seldom--seldom. i drove a good part of the way with farmer gate, and he made a curious remark. he said that a certain person might as well be dead for all the good he was. now what constitutes life? i've been asking myself that." "it's certainly difficult to decide about some people, whether they're alive or dead. some make you doubt if they ever were alive." "a good many certainly don't know they're born; and plenty don't know they're dead," he declared. "to be in your grave is not necessarily to be dead, and to be in your shop, or office, needn't mean that you're alive," admitted the lady. "quite so. who doesn't know dead people personally, and go to tea with them, and hear their bones rattle? and whose spirit doesn't meet in their thoughts, or works, the dead who are still living?" "most true, i'm sure; but you didn't come to tell me that?" "no; yet it has set me wondering whether, perhaps, i am dead--at any rate deader than i need be." "we are probably all deader than we need be." "but to-day there has burst into my life a very wakening thing. it may have been sent. for mystery is everywhere, and what's looking exceedingly bad for those involved, may be good for me. and yet, one can hardly claim to win goodness out of the threatened misfortunes to those who are dear to one." "what's the matter? something's happened, or you wouldn't come to see me so early." "something has happened," he answered, "and one turns to you in times of stress, just as one used to turn to your dear brother, henry. you have character, shrewdness and decision." miss ironsyde saw light. "you've come for raymond," she said. "now how did you divine that? but, as a matter of fact, i've come for somebody else. a very serious thing has happened and if we older heads--" "who told you about it?" "this morning, an hour ago, it was broken to me by sabina's mother." "tell me just what she told you, ernest." he obeyed and described the interview exactly. "i cannot understand that, for sabina saw me last night and explained the situation. i impressed upon her the importance of keeping the matter as secret as possible for the present." "nevertheless mary dinnett told me. she is a very impulsive person--so is sabina; but in sabina's case there is brain power to control impulse; in her mother's case there is none." "i'm much annoyed," declared miss ironsyde--"not of course, that you should know, but that there should be talking. please go home and tell them both to be quiet. this chattering is most dangerous and may defeat everything. last night i wrote to raymond directing him to come and see me immediately. i did not tell him why; but i told him it was urgent. i made the strongest appeal possible. when you arrived, i thought it was he. he should have been here an hour ago." "if he is coming, i will go," answered ernest. "i don't wish to meet him at present. he has done very wrongly--wickedly, in fact. the question is whether marriage with sabina--" "there is no question about that in my opinion," declared the lady. "i am a student of character, and had she been a different sort of girl--. but even as it is i suspend judgment until i have seen raymond. it is quite impossible, however, after hearing her, to see what excuse he can offer." "she is a very superior girl indeed, and very clever and refined. i always hoped she would marry a schoolmaster, or somebody with cultured tastes. but her great and unusual beauty doubtless attracted raymond." "i think you'd better go home, ernest. i'll write to you after i've seen the boy. do command silence from both of them. i'm very angry and very distressed, but really nothing can be done till we hear him. my sympathy is entirely with sabina. let her go on with her life for a day or two and--" "she's changed her life and left the mill. i understand raymond told her to do so." "that is a good sign, i suppose. if she's done that, the whole affair must soon be known. but we talk in the dark." mr. churchouse departed, forgot his anxieties in a second-hand book shop and presently returned home. but he saw nothing of raymond on the way; and miss ironsyde waited in vain for her nephew's arrival. he did not come, and her letter, instead of bringing him immediately as she expected, led to a very different course of action on his part. for, taken with sabina's refusal to see him, he guessed correctly at what had inspired it. sabina had threatened more than once in the past to visit miss ironsyde and he had forbidden her to do so. now he knew from her mother why she had gone, and while not surprised, he clutched at the incident and very quickly worked it into a tremendous grievance against the unlucky girl. his intelligence told him that he could not fairly resent her attempt to win a powerful friend at this crisis in her fortunes; but his own inclinations and growing passion for liberty fastened on it and made him see a possible vantage point. he worked himself up into a false indignation. he knew it was false, yet he persevered in it, as though it were real, and acted as though it were real. he tore up his aunt's letter and ignored it. instead of going to bridport, he went to his office and worked as usual. at dinner time he expected sabina, but she did not come and he heard from mr. best that she was not at the works. "she came in here and gave notice on saturday afternoon," said the foreman, shortly, and turned away from raymond even as he spoke. then the young man remembered that he had bade sabina do this. his anger increased, for now everybody must soon hear of what had happened. in a sort of subconscious way he felt glad, despite his irritation, at the turn of events, for they might reconcile him with his conscience and help to save the situation in the long run. chapter xviii the lovers' grove a little matter now kindled a great fire, and a woman's reasonable irritation, which he had himself created, produced for raymond ironsyde a very complete catastrophe. his aunt, indeed, was not prone to irritation. few women preserved a more level mind, or exhibited that self-control which is a prime product of common-sense; but, for once, it must be confessed that jenny broke down and did that which she had been the first to censure in another. the spark fell on sufficient fuel and the face of the earth was changed for raymond before he slept that night. for his failure to answer her urgent appeal, his contemptuous disregard of the strongest letter she had ever written, annoyed her exceedingly. it argued a callous indifference to her own wishes and a spirit of extraordinary unkindness. she had been a generous aunt to him all his life; he had very much for which to thank her; and yet before this pressing petition he could remain dumb. that his mind was disordered she doubted not; but nothing excused silence at such a moment. after lunch on this day daniel spent some little while with his aunt, and then when a post which might have brought some word from raymond failed to do so, jenny's gust of temper spoke. it was the familiar case of a stab at one who has annoyed us; but to point such stabs, the ear of a third person is necessary, and before she had quite realised what she was doing, miss ironsyde sharply blamed her nephew to his brother. "the most inconsiderate, selfish person on earth is raymond," she said as a servant brought her two letters, neither from the sinner. "i asked him--and prayed him--to see me to-day about a subject of the gravest importance to him and to us all; and he neither comes nor takes the least notice of my letter. he is hopeless." "what's he done now?" "i don't know exactly--at least--never mind. leave it for the minute. sorry, i was cross. you'll know what there is to know soon enough. if there's trouble in store, we must put a bold face on it and think of him." "i rather hoped things were going smoother. he seems to be getting more steady and industrious." "perhaps he reserved his industry for the works and leaves none for anything else, then," she answered; "but don't worry before you need." "you'll tell me if there's anything i ought to know, aunt jenny." "he'll tell you himself, i should hope. and if he doesn't, no doubt there will be plenty of other people to do so. but don't meet trouble half way. shall you be back to tea?" "probably not. i'm going to bridetown this afternoon. i have an appointment with best. he was to see some machinery that sounded all right; but he's very conservative and i can always trust him to be on the safe side. one doesn't mean to be left behind, of course." "always ask yourself what your father would have thought, daniel. and then you'll not make any mistakes." he nodded. "i ask myself that often enough, you may be sure." * * * * * an hour later the young man had driven his trap to the mill and listened to john best on the subject of immediate interest. the foreman decided against any innovation for the present and daniel was glad. then he asked for his brother. "is mister raymond here?" "he was this morning; but he's not down this afternoon. at least he wasn't when i went to his office just before you came." "everything's all right, i suppose?" mr. best looked uncomfortable. "i'm afraid not, sir; but i hate talking. you'd better hear it from him." daniel's heart sank. "tell me," he said. "you're one of us, john--my father's right hand for twenty years--and our good is your good. if you know of trouble, tell me the truth. it may be better for him in the long run. miss ironsyde was bothered about him, to-day." "if it's better for him, then i'll speak," answered best. "he's a very clever young man and learning fast now. he's buckling to and getting on with it. but--sabina dinnett, our first spinner, gave notice on saturday. she's not here to-day." "what does that mean?" "you'd better ask them that know. i've heard a lot of rumours, and they may be true or not, and i hope they're not. but if they are, i suppose it means the old story where men get mixed up with girls." daniel was silent, but his face flushed. "don't jump to the conclusion it's true," urged the foreman. "hear both sides before you do anything about it." "i know it's true." mr. best did not answer. "and you know it's true," continued the younger. "what everybody says nobody should believe," ventured best. "what happened was this--sabina came in on saturday afternoon, when i was working in my garden, and gave notice. not a month, but to go right away. of course i asked her why, but she wouldn't tell me. she was as happy as a lark about it, and what she said was that i'd know the reason very soon and be the first to congratulate her. of course, i thought she was going to be married. and still i hope she is. that's all you can take for truth. the rest is rumour. you can guess how a place like this will roll it over their tongues." "i'll go and see mister churchouse." "do, sir. you can trust him to be charitable." daniel departed; but he did not see ernest churchouse. the antiquary was not at home and, instead, he heard mrs. dinnett, who poured the approximate truth into his ears with many tears. his brother had promised to marry sabina, but on hearing the girl was with child, had apparently refused to keep his engagement. then it was daniel ironsyde's turn to lose his temper. he drove straight to north hill house, found his brother in the garden with estelle waldron, took him aside and discharged him from the mill. raymond had been considering the position and growing a little calmer. with a return of more even temper, he had written to miss ironsyde and promised to be with her on the following evening without fail. he had begged her to keep an open mind so far as he was concerned and he hoped that when the time came, he might be able to trust to her lifelong friendship. what he was going to say, he did not yet know; but he welcomed the brief respite and was in a good temper when his brother challenged him. the attack was direct, blunt and even brutal. it burst like a thunder-bolt on raymond's head, staggered him, and then, of course, enraged him. "i won't keep you," said daniel. "i only want to know one thing. sabina dinnett's going to have a baby. are you the father of it, or aren't you?" "what the devil business is that of yours?" "as one of my mill hands, i consider it is my business. one thinks of them as human beings as well as machines--machines for work, or amusement--according to the point of view. so answer me." "you cold-blooded cur! what are you but a machine?" "answer my question, please." "go to hell." "you blackguard! you do a dirty, cowardly thing like this, despite my warnings and entreaties; you foul our name and drag it in the gutter and then aren't man enough to acknowledge it." the younger trembled with passion. "shut your mouth, or i'll smash your face in!" he cried. his sudden fury calmed his brother. "you refuse to answer, and that can only mean one thing, raymond. then i've done with you. you've dragged us all through the mud--made us a shame and a scandal--proud people. you can go--the further off, the better. i dismiss you and i never want to see your face again." "don't worry--you never shall. god's my judge, i'd sooner sweep a crossing than come to you for anything. i know you well enough. you always meant to do this. you saved your face when my father robbed me from the grave and left me a pauper--you saved your face by putting me into the works; but you never meant me to stop there. you only waited your chance to sack me and keep the lot for yourself. and you've jumped at this and were glad to hear of this--damned glad, i'll bet!" daniel did not answer, but turned his back on his brother, and a minute or two later was driving away. when he had gone, the panting raymond went to his room and flung himself on his bed. under his cooling anger again obtruded the old satisfaction--amorphous, vile, not to be named--that he had felt before. this brought ultimate freedom a step nearer. if ostracism and punishment were to be his portion, then let him earn them. if the world--his world--was to turn against him, let the reversal be for something. poverty would be a fair price for liberty, and those who now seemed so ready to hound him out of his present life and crush his future prospects, should live to see their error. for a time he felt savagely glad that this had happened. he regretted his letter to his aunt; he thought of packing his portmanteau on the instant and vanishing for ever; yet time and reflection abated his dreams. he began to grow a little alarmed. he even regretted his harsh words to his brother before the twilight fell. then his mind was occupied with sabina; but sabina had wounded him to the quick, for it was clear she and her mother had shamelessly published the truth. sabina, then, had courted ruin. she deserved it. he soon argued that the disaster of the day was sabina's work, and he dismissed her with an oath from his thoughts. then he turned to miss ironsyde and found keen curiosity waken to know what she was thinking and feeling about him. did she know that daniel had dismissed him? could she have listened to so grave a determination on daniel's part and taken no step to prevent it? he found himself deeply concerned at being flung out of his brother's business. the more he weighed all that this must mean and its effect upon his future, the more overwhelmed he began to be. he had worked very hard of late and put all his energy and wits into spinning. he was beginning to understand its infinite possibilities and to see how, daniel's trust once won, he might have advanced their common welfare. from this point he ceased to regret his letter to miss ironsyde, but was glad that he had written it. he now only felt concerned that the communication was not penned with some trace of apology for his past indifference to her wishes. he began to see that his sole hope now lay with his aunt, and the supreme point of interest centred in her attitude to the situation. he despatched a second letter, confirming the first, and expressing some contrition at his behaviour to her. but this rudeness he declared to have been the result of peculiarly distressing circumstances; and he assured her, that when the facts came to her ears, she would find no difficulty in forgiving him. their meeting was fixed for the following evening, and until it had taken place, raymond told nobody of what had happened to him. he went to work next morning, to learn indirectly whether best had heard of his dismissal; but it seemed the foreman had not. the circumstance cheered raymond; he began to hope that his brother had changed his mind, and the possibility put him into a sanguine mood at once. he found himself full of good resolutions; he believed that this might prove the turning point; he expected that daniel would arrive at any moment and he was prepared frankly to express deep regret for his conduct if he did so. but daniel did not come. sabina constantly crossed raymond's mind, to be as constantly dismissed from it. he was aware that something definite must be done; but he determined not even to consider the situation until he had seen his aunt. a hopeful mood, for which no cause existed, somehow possessed him upon this day. for no reason and spun of nothing in the least tangible, there grew around him an ambient intuition that he was going to get out of this fix with the help of jenny ironsyde. the impression created a wave of generosity to sabina. he felt a large magnanimity. he was prepared to do everything right and reasonable. he felt that his aunt would approve the line he purposed to take. she was practical, and he assured himself that she would not consent to pronounce the doom of marriage upon him. in this sanguine spirit raymond went to bridport and dined at 'the tiger' before going to see his aunt at the appointed time. and here there happened events to upset the level optimism that had ruled him all day. raymond had the little back-parlour to himself and richard gurd waited upon him. they spoke of general subjects and then the older man became personal. "if you'll excuse me, mister raymond," he said, "if you'll excuse me, as one who's known you ever since you went out of knickers, sir, i'd venture to warn you as a good friend, against a lot that's being said in bridetown and bridport, too. you know how rumours fly about. but a good deal more's being said behind your back than ought to be said; and you'll do well to clear it up. and by the same token, mister motyer's opening his mouth the widest. as for me, i got it from job legg over the way at 'the seven stars'; and he got it from a young woman at bridetown mills, niece of missis northover. so these things fly about." raymond was aware that richard gurd held no puritan opinions. he possessed tolerance and charity for all sorts and conditions, and left morals alone. "and what did you do, dick? i should think you'd learned by this time to let the gossip of a public-house go in at one ear and out of the other." "yes--for certain. i learned to do that before you were born; but when things are said up against those i value and respect, it's different. i've told three men they were liars, to-day, and i may have to tell thirty so, to-morrow." raymond felt his heart go slower. "what the deuce is the matter?" "just this: they say you promised to marry a mill girl at bridetown and--the usual sort of thing--and, knowing you, i told them it was a lie." the young man uttered a scornful ejaculation. "tell them to mind their own business," he said. "good heavens--what a storm in a teacup it is! they couldn't bleat louder if i'd committed a murder." "there's more to it than to most of these stories," explained richard. "you see it sounds a very disgraceful sort of thing, you being your brother's right hand at the works." "i'm not that, anyway." "well, you're an ironsyde, mister raymond, and to have a story of this sort told about an ironsyde is meat and drink for the baser sort. so i hope you'll authorise me to contradict it." "good god--is there no peace, even here?" burst out raymond. "can even a man i thought large-minded and broad-minded and all the rest of it, go on twaddling about this as if he was an old washer-woman? here--get me my bill--i've finished. and if you're going to begin preaching to people who come here for their food and drink, you'd better chuck a pub and start a chapel." mr. gurd was stricken dumb. a thousand ghosts from the grave had not startled him so much as this rebuke. indeed, in a measure, he felt the rebuke deserved, and it was only because he held the rumour of raymond's achievements an evil lie, that he had cautioned the young man, and with the best motives, desired to put him on his guard. but that the story should be true--or based on truth--as now appeared from raymond's anger, had never occurred to richard. had he suspected such a thing, he must have deplored it, but he certainly would not have mentioned it. he went out now without a word and held it the wisest policy not to see his angry customer again that night. he sent raymond's account in by a maid, and the young man paid it and went out to keep his appointment with miss ironsyde. but again his mood was changed. gurd had hit him very hard. indeed, no such severe blow had been struck as this unconscious thrust of richard's. for it meant that an incident that raymond was striving to reconcile with the ways of youth--a sowing of wild oats not destined to damage future crops--had appeared to the easy-going publican as a thing to be stoutly contradicted--an act quite incompatible with raymond's record and credit. coming from gurd this attitude signified a great deal; for if the keeper of a sporting inn took such a line about the situation, what sort of line were others likely to take? above all, what sort of line would his aunt jenny take? his nebulous hopes dwindled. he began to fear that she would find the honour of the family depended not on his freeing himself from sabina, but the contrary. and he was right. miss ironsyde welcomed him kindly, but left no shadow of doubt as to her opinion; and the fact that the situation had been complicated by publicity, which in the last resort he argued, by no means turned her from her ultimatum. "sit down and smoke and listen to me, raymond," she began, after kissing him. "i forgive you, once for all, that you could be so rude to me and fail to see me despite my very pressing letter. no doubt some whim or suspicion inspired you to be unkind. but that doesn't matter now. that's a trifle. we've got to thresh out something that isn't a trifle, however, for your honour and good name are both involved--and with yours, ours." "i argue that a great deal too much is being made of this, aunt jenny." "i hope so--i hope everything has been exaggerated through a misunderstanding. delay in these cases is often simply fatal, raymond, because it gives a lie a start. and if you give a lie a start, it's terribly hard to catch. sabina dinnett came to see me on sunday afternoon and i trust with all my heart she told me what wasn't true." he felt a sudden gleam of hope and she saw it. "don't let any cheerful feeling betray you; this is far from a cheerful subject for any of us. but again, i say, i hope that sabina dinnett has come to wrong conclusions. what she said was this. trust me to be accurate, and when i have done, correct her statement if it is false. frankly, i thought her a highly intelligent young woman, with grace of mind and fine feeling. she was fighting for her future and she did it like a gentlewoman." miss ironsyde then related her conversation with sabina and raymond knew it to be faithful in every particular. "is that true, or isn't it?" she concluded. "yes, it's perfectly true, save in her assumption that i had changed my mind," he said. "what i may have done since, doesn't matter; but when i left her, i had not changed my mind in the least; if she had waited for me to act in my own time, and come to see you, and so on, as i meant to do, and broken it to daniel myself, instead of hearing him break it to me and dismiss me as though i were a drunken groom, then i should have kept my word to her. but these things, and her action, and the fact that she and her fool of a mother have bleated the story all over the county--these things have decided me it would be a terrible mistake to marry sabina now. she's not what i thought. her true character is not trustworthy--in fact--well, you must see for yourself that they don't trust me and are holding a pistol to my head. and no man is going to stand that. we could never be married now, because she hates me. there's another reason too--a practical one." "what?" "why, the best. i'm a pauper. daniel has chucked me out of the works." miss ironsyde showed very great distress. "do you honestly mean that you could look the world in the face if you ruin this woman?" "why use words like that? she's not ruined, any more than thousands of other women." "i'm ashamed of you, raymond. i hope to god you've never said a thing so base as that to anybody but me. and if i thought you meant it, i think it would break my heart. but you don't mean it. you loved the girl and you are an honourable man without a shadow on your good name so far. you loved sabina, and you do love her, and if you said you didn't a thousand times, i should not believe it. you're chivalrous and generous, and that's the precious point about you. granted that she made a mistake, is her mistake to wreck her whole life? just think how she felt--what a shock you gave her. you part with her on saturday the real raymond, fully conscious that you must marry her at once--for her own honour and yours. then on sunday, you are harsh and cruel--for no visible reason. you frighten her; you raise up horrible fears and dangers in her young, nervous spirit. she is in a condition prone to terrors and doubts, and upon this condition you came in a surly mood and imply that you yourself are changed. what wonder she lost her head? yet i do not think that it was to lose her head to come to me. she had often heard you speak of me. she knew that i loved you well and faithfully. she felt that if anybody could put this dreadful fear to rest, i should be the one. don't say she wasn't right." he listened attentively and began to feel something of his aunt's view. "forgive her first for coming to me. if mistaken, admit at least it was largely your own fault that she came. she has nothing but love and devotion for you. she told nothing but the truth." he asked a question, which seemed far from the point, but none the less indicated a coming change of attitude. at any rate jenny so regarded it. "what d'you think of her?" "i think she's a woman of naturally fine character. she has brains and plenty of sense and if she had not loved you unspeakably and been very emotional, i do not think this could have happened to her." she talked on quietly, but with the unconscious force of one who feels her subject to the heart. the man began to yield--not for love of sabina, but for love of himself. for miss ironsyde continued to make him see his own position must be unbearable if he persisted, while first she implied and finally declared, that only through marriage with sabina could his own position be longer retained. but he put forward his dismissal as an argument against marriage. "whatever i feel, it's too late now," he explained. "daniel heard some distorted version of the truth in bridetown, and, of course, believed it, and came to me white with rage and sacked me. well, you must see that alters the case if nothing else does. granted, for the sake of argument, that i can overlook the foolish, clumsy way she and her mother have behaved and go on as we were going, how am i to live and keep a wife on nothing?" "that is a small matter," she answered. "you need not worry about it in the least. and you know in your heart, my dear, you need not. i have had plenty of time to think over this, and i have thought over it. and i am very ready and willing to come between you and any temporal trouble of that sort. as to daniel, when he hears that you are going to marry and always meant to do so, it must entirely change his view of the situation. he is just and reasonable. none can deny that." "you needn't build on daniel, however. i'd rather break stones than go back to the mill after what he said to me." "leave him, then. leave him out of your calculation and come to me. as i tell you, i've thought about it a great deal, and first i think sabina is well suited to be a good wife to you. with time and application she will become a woman that any man might be proud to marry. i say that without prejudice, because i honestly think it. she is adaptable, and, i believe, would very quickly develop into a woman in every way worthy of your real self. and i am prepared to give you five hundred a year, raymond. after all, why not? all that i have is yours and your brother's, some day. and since you need it now, you shall have it now." at another time he had been moved by this generosity; to-night, knowing what it embraced, he was not so grateful as he might have been. his instinct was to protest that he would not marry sabina; but shame prevented him from speaking, since he could advance no decent reason for such a change of mind. he felt vaguely, dimly at the bottom of his soul that, despite events, he ought not to marry her. he believed, apart from his own intense aversion from so doing now, that marriage with him would not in the long run conduce to sabina's happiness. but where were the words capable of lending any conviction to such a sentiment? certainly he could think of none that would change his aunt's opinion. sullenly he accepted her view with outward acknowledgment and inward resentment. then she said a thing that nearly made him rebel, since it struck at his pride, indicated that miss ironsyde was sure of her ground, showed that she had assumed the outcome of their meeting before the event. first, however, he thanked her. "of course, it is amazingly good and kind. i don't like to accept it. but i suppose it would hurt you more if i didn't than if i do. it's a condition naturally that i marry sabina--i quite understand that. well, i must then. i might have been a better friend to her if i hadn't married; and might love her better and love her longer for that matter. but, of course, i can't expect you to understand that. i only want to be sporting, and a man's idea of being sporting isn't the same--" "now, now--you're forgetting and talking nonsense, raymond. you really are forgetting. a man's idea of being 'sporting' does not mean telling stories to a trusting and loving girl, does it? i don't want anybody to judge you but yourself. i am perfectly content to leave it to your own conscience. and very sure i am that if you ask yourself the question, you'll answer it as it should be answered. so sure, indeed, that i have done a definite thing about it, which i will tell you in a moment. for the rest you must find a house where you please and be married as soon as you can. and when daniel understands what a right and proper thing you're doing, i think you'll very soon find all will be satisfactory again in that quarter." "thank you, i'm sure. but don't speak to him yet. i won't ask for favours nor let you, aunt jenny. if he comes to me, well and good--i certainly won't go to him. as to sabina, we'll clear out and get married in a day or two." "not before a registrar," pleaded miss ironsyde. "before the devil i should think," he said, preparing to leave her. she chid him and then mentioned certain preparations made for this particular evening. "don't be cross any more, and let me see you value my good will and love, ray, by doing what i'm going to ask you to do, now. so sure was i that, when the little details were cleared up, you would feel with me, and welcome your liberty from constraint, and return to sabina with the good news, that i asked her to meet you to-night--this very night, my dear, so that you might go home with her and make her happy. she had tea with me--i made her come, and then she went to friends, and she will be in the lovers' grove waiting for you at ten o'clock--half an hour from now." his impulse was to protest, but he recognised the futility for so doing. he felt baffled and cowed and weary. he hated himself because, weakened by poverty, an old woman had been too much for him. he clutched at a hope. perhaps by doing as his aunt desired and going through with this thing, he would find his peace of mind return and a consciousness that, after all, to keep his promise was the only thing which would renew his self-respect. it might prove the line of least resistance to take this course. he felt not sorry at the immediate prospect of meeting sabina. in his present mood that might be a good thing to happen. annoyance passed, and when he did take leave it was with more expressions of gratitude. "i don't know why you are so extraordinarily good to me," he said. "i certainly don't deserve it. but the least i can do is throw up the sponge and do as you will, and trust your judgment. i don't say i agree with you, but i'm going to do it; and if it's a failure, i shan't blame you, aunt jenny." "it won't be a failure. i'm as sure as i'm sure of anything that it will be a splendid success, raymond. come again, very soon, and tell me what you decide about a house. and remember one thing--don't fly away and take a house goodness knows where. always reckon with the possibility--i think certainty--that daniel will soon be friendly, when he hears you're going to be married." he left her very exhausted, and if her spirits sank a little after his departure, raymond's tended to rise. the night air and moonlight brisked him up; he felt a reaction towards sabina and perceived that she must have suffered a good deal. he threw the blame on her mother. once out of bridetown things would settle down; and if his brother came to his senses and asked him to return, he would make it a condition that he worked henceforth at bridport. a feeling of hatred for bridetown mastered him. he descended west street until the town lay behind him, then turned to the left through a wicket, crossed some meadows and reached a popular local tryst and sanctity: the lovers' grove. a certain crudity in the ideas of miss ironsyde struck raymond. how simple and primitive she was after all. could such an unworldly and inexperienced woman be right? he doubted it. but he went on through the avenue of lime and sycamore trees which made the traditional grove. beneath them ran pavement of rough stones, that lifted the pathway above possible inundation, and, to-night, the pattern of the naked boughs above was thrown down upon the stones in a black lace work by the moon. the place was very still, but half a mile distant there dreamed great woods, whence came the hooting of an owl. raymond stood to listen, and when the bird was silent, he heard a footfall ring on the paving-stones and saw sabina coming to him. at heart she had been fearful that he would not appear; but this she did not whisper now. instead she pretended confidence and said, "i knew you'd come!" he responded with fair ardour and tried to banish his grievances against her. he assured her that all her alarm and tribulation were not his fault, but her own; and her responsive agreement and servile tact, by its self-evidence defeated its own object and fretted the man's nerves, despite his kindly feelings. for sabina, in her unspeakable thankfulness at the turn of events, sank from herself and was obsequious. when they met he kissed her and presently, holding his hand, she kissed it. she heaped blame upon herself and praised his magnanimity; she presented the ordinary phenomena of a happy release from affliction and fear; but her intense humility was far from agreeable to raymond, since its very accentuation served to show his own recent actions in painful colours. he told her what his aunt was going to do; and where a subtler mind had held its peace, sabina erred again and praised miss ironsyde. in truth, she was not at her best to-night and her excitement acted unfavourably on raymond. he fought against his own emotions, and listened to her high-strung chatter and plans for the future. a torrent of blame had better suited the contrite mood in which she met him; but she took the blame on her own shoulders, and in her relief said things sycophantic and untrue. he told her almost roughly to stop. "for god's sake don't blackguard yourself any more," he said. "give me a chance. it's for me to apologise to you, surely. i knew perfectly well you meant nothing, and i ought to have had more imagination and not given you any cause to be nervous. i frightened you, and if a woman's frightened, of course, she's not to be blamed for what she does, any more than a man's to be blamed for what he does when he's drunk." this, however, she would not allow. "if i had trusted you, and known you could not do wrong, and remembered what you said when i told you about the child--then all this would have been escaped. and god knows i did trust you at the bottom of my heart all the time." she talked on and the man tired of it and, looking far ahead, perceived that his life must be shared for ever with a nature only now about to be revealed to him. he had seen the best of her; but he had never seen the whole truth of her. he knew she was excitable and passionate; but the excitation and passion had all been displayed for him till now. how different when she approached other affairs of life than love, and brought her emotional characteristics to bear upon them! a sensation of unutterable flatness overtook raymond. she began talking of finding a house, and was not aware that his brother had dismissed him. he snatched an evil pleasure from telling her so. it silenced her and made her the more oppressively submissive. but through this announcement he won temporary release. there came a longing to leave her, to go back to bridport and see other faces, hear other voices and speak of other things. they had walked homeward through the valley of the river and, at west haven, raymond announced that she must go the remainder of the way alone. he salved the unexpected shock of this with a cheerful promise. "i sleep at bridport, to-night," he said, "and i'll leave you here, sabina; but be quite happy. i dare say daniel will be all right. he's a pious blade and all that sort of thing and doesn't understand real life. and as some fool broke our bit of real life rather roughly on his ear, it was too much for his weak nerves. i shan't take you very far off anyway. we'll have a look round soon. i'll go to a house agent or somebody in a day or two." "you must choose," she said. "no, no--that's up to you, and you mustn't have small ideas about it either. you're going to live in a jolly good house, i promise you." this sweetened the parting. he kissed her and turned his face to bridport, while she followed the road homeward. it took her past the old store--black as the night under a roof silvered by the moon. a strange shiver ran through her as she passed it. she could have prayed for time to turn back. "oh, my god, if i was a maiden again!" she said in a low voice to herself. then, growing calmer and musing of the past rather than the future, she asked herself whether in that case she would still be caring for raymond; but she turned from such a thought and smothered the secret indignation still lying red-hot and hidden under the smoke of the things she had said to him that night. on his way to bridport, the man also reflected, but of the future, not the past. "i must be cruel to be kind," he told himself. what he exactly meant by the assurance, he hardly knew. but, in some way, it assisted self-respect and promised a course of action likely to justify his coming life. chapter xix job legg's ambition a disquieting and wholly unexpected event now broke into the strenuous days of the mistress of 'the seven stars.' it followed another, which was now a thing of the past; but mrs. northover had scarcely finished being thankful that the old order was restored again, when that occurred to prove the old order could never be restored. job legg had been called away to the deathbed of an aged uncle. for a fortnight he was absent, and during that time nelly northover found herself the victim of a revelation. she perceived, indeed, startling truths until then hidden from her, and found the absence of job created undreamed-of complications. at every turn she missed the man and discovered, very much to her own surprise, that this most unassuming person appeared vital to the success of her famous house. on every hand she heard the same words; all progress was suspended; nothing could advance until the return of mr. legg. 'the seven stars' were arrested in their courses while he continued absent. thus his temporary disappearance affected the system and proved that around the sun of job legg, quite as much as his mistress, the galaxy revolved; but something more than this remained to be discovered by mrs. northover herself. she found that not only had she undervalued his significance and importance in her scheme of things; but that she entertained a personal regard for the man, unsuspected until he was absent. she missed him at every turn; and when he came back to her, after burying his uncle, mrs. northover could have kissed him. this she did not do; but she was honest; she related the suspension of many great affairs for need of job; she described to him the dislocation that his departure had occasioned and declared her hearty thankfulness that her right hand had returned to her. "you was uppermost in my mind a thousand times a day, job; and when it came to doing the fifty thousand things you do, i began to see what there is to you," said nelly northover. "and this i'll say: you haven't been getting enough money along with me." he was pleased and smiled and thanked her. "i've missed 'the stars,'" he said, "and am very glad to be back." then when things were settled down and mrs. northover happy and content once more, mr. legg cast her into much doubt and uncertainty. indeed his attitude so unexpected, awoke a measure of dismay. life, that nelly hoped was becoming static and comfortable again, suddenly grew highly dynamic. changes stared her in the face and that was done which nothing could undo. on the night that raymond ironsyde left sabina at west haven and returned to bridport, mr. legg, the day's work done, drank a glass of sloe gin in mrs. northover's little parlour and uttered a startling proposition--the last to have been expected. the landlady herself unconsciously opened the way to it, for she touched the matter of his wages and announced her purpose to increase them by five shillings a week. then he spoke. "before we talk about that, hear me," he said. "you were too nice-minded to ask me if i got anything by the death of my old man; but i may tell you, that i got everything. and there was a great deal more than anybody knew. in short he's left me a shade over two hundred pounds per annum, and that with my own savings--for i've saved since i was thirteen years old--brings my income somewhere near the two hundred and fifty mark--not counting wages." "good powers, job! but i am glad. never none on earth deserved a bit better than you do." "and yet," he said, "i only ask myself if all this lifts me high enough to say what i want to say. you know me for a modest man, mrs. northover." "none more so, job." "and therefore i've thought a good deal about it and come to it by the way of reason as well as inclination. in fact i began to think about what i'm going to say now, many years ago after your husband died. and i just let the idea go on till the appointed time, if ever it should come; and when my uncle died and left a bit over four thousand pounds to me, i felt the hour had struck!" nelly's heart sank. "you're going?" she said. "all this means that you are going into business on your own, legg." "let me finish. but be sure of one thing; i'm not going if i can stay with peace and honour. if i can't, then, of course, i must go. to go would be a terrible sad thing for me, for i've grown into this place and feel as much a part of it as the beer engine, or the herbaceous border. but i had to weigh the chances, and i may say my cautious bent of mind showed very clearly what they were. and, so, first, i'll tell what a flight i've took and what a thought i've dared, and then i'll ask you, being a woman with a quick mind and tongue, to answer nothing for the moment, and say no word that you may wish to recall after." "all very wise and proper, i'm sure." "if it ain't, god forgive me, seeing i've been working it out in my mind for very near twenty years. and i say this, that being now a man of capital, and a healthy and respectable man, and well thought of, i believe, and nothing against me to my knowledge, i offer to marry you, nelly northover. the idea, of course, comes upon you like a bolt from the blue, as i can see by your face; but before you answer 'no,' i must say i've loved you in a respectful manner for many years, and though i knew my place too well to say so, i let it appear by faithful service and very sharp eyes always on your interests--day and night you may say." "that is true," she said. "i didn't know my luck." "i don't say that. any honourable man would have done so much, very likely; but perhaps--however, i'm not here to praise myself but to praise you; and i may add i never in a large experience saw the woman--maid, wife or widow--to hold a candle to you for brains and energy and far-reaching fine qualities in general. and therefore i never could be worthy of you, and i don't pretend to it, and the man who did would be a very vain and windy fool; but such is my high opinion and great desire to be your husband that i risk, you may say, everything by offering myself." "this is a very great surprise, job." "so great that you must do me one good turn and not answer without letting it sink in, if you please. i have a right to beg that. of course i know on the spur of the moment the really nice-minded woman always turns down the adventurous male. 'tis their delicate instinct so to do. but you won't do that--for fairness to me. and there's more to it yet, because we've got to think of fairness to you also. i wouldn't have you buy a pig in a poke and take a man of means without knowing where you stood. so i may say that if you presently felt the same as i do about it, i should spend a bit of my capital on 'the seven stars,' which, in my judgment, is now crying for capital expenditure." "it is," admitted mrs. northover, "i grant you that." "very well, then. it would be my pride--" he was interrupted, for the bell of the inn rang and a moment later raymond ironsyde appeared in the hall. he had come for supper and bed. "good evening, mrs. northover," he said. "i'm belated and starving into the bargain. have you got a room?" "for that matter, yes," she answered not very enthusiastically. "but surely 'the tiger's' your house, sir?" "i'm not bound to 'the tiger,' and very likely shall never go there again. gurd is getting too big for his shoes and seems to think he's called upon to preach sermons to his customers, besides doing his duty as a publican. if i want sermons i can go to church for them, not to an inn. give me some supper and a bottle of your best claret. i'm tired and bothered." a customer was a customer and mrs. northover had far too much experience to take up the cudgels for her friend over the way. she guessed pretty accurately at the subject of richard gurd's discourse, yet wondered that he should have spoken. for her own part, while quite as indignant as others and more sorry than many that this cloud should have darkened a famous local name, she held it no personal business of hers. "i'll see what cold meat we've got. would you like a chicken, sir?" "no--beef, and plenty of it. and let me have a room." job legg, concealing the mighty matters in his own bosom, soon waited upon raymond and found him in a sulky humour. the claret was not to his liking and he ordered spirits. he began to smoke and drink, and from an unamiable mood soon thawed and became talkative. he bade job stay and listen to him. "i've got a hell of a lot on my mind," he said, "and it's a relief to talk to a sensible man. there aren't many knocking about so far as i can see." he rambled on touching indirectly, as he imagined, at his own affairs, but making it clear to the listener that a very considerable tumult raged in raymond's own mind. then came mrs. northover, told the guest that it was nearer two o'clock than one, and hoped he was soon going to bed. he promised to do so and she departed; but the faithful job, himself not sleepy, kept raymond company. unavailingly he urged the desirability of sleep, but young ironsyde sat on until he was very drunk. then mr. legg helped him upstairs and assisted him to his bed. it was after three o'clock before he retired himself and found his mind at liberty to speculate upon the issue of his own great adventure. chapter xx a conference jenny ironsyde came to see ernest churchouse upon the matter of the marriage. she found him pensive and a little weary. according to his custom he indulged in ideas before approaching the subject just then uppermost in all minds in bridetown. "i have been suffering from rather a severe dose of the actual," he said; "at present, in the minds of those about me, there is no room for any abstraction. we are confronted with facts--painful facts--a most depressing condition for such a mind as mine. there are three orders of intelligence, jenny. the lowest never reaches higher than the discussion of persons; the second talks about places, which is certainly better; the third soars into the region of ideas; and when one finds a person indulge in ideas, then court their friendship, for ideas are the only sound basis of intellectual interchanges. it is so strange to see an educated person, who might be discussing the deepest mysteries and noblest problems of life, preferring to relate the errors of a domestic servant, or deplore the price of sprats." "all very well for you," declared miss ironsyde; "from your isolated situation, above material cares and anxieties, you can affect this superiority; but what about mrs. dinnett? you would very soon be grumbling if mrs. dinnett put the deepest mysteries and noblest problems of life before the price of sprats. it is true that man cannot live by bread alone; and it is equally true that he cannot live without it. the highest flights are impossible without cooking, and cooking would be impossible if all aspired to the highest flights." "as a matter of fact, mrs. dinnett is my present source of depression," he said. "all is going as it should go, i suppose. the young people are reconciled, and i have arranged that sabina should be married from here a fortnight hence. thus, as it were, i shield and protect her and support her against back-biting and evil tongues." "it is splendid of you." "far from it. i am only doing the obvious. i care much for the girl. but mary dinnett, despite the need to be sanguine and expeditious, permits herself an amount of obstinate melancholy which is most ill-judged and quite unjustified by the situation. nothing will satisfy her. she scorns hope. she declines to take a cheerful view. she even confesses to a premonition they are not going to be married after all. she says that her grandmother had second sight and believes that the doubtful gift has been handed down to her." "this is very bad for sabina." "of course it is. i impress that upon her mother. the girl has been through a great deal. she is highly strung at all times, and these affairs have wrought havoc with her intelligence for the moment. her one thought and feverish longing is to be married, and her mother's fatuous prophecies that she never will be are causing serious nervous trouble to sabina. i feel sure of it. they may even be doing permanent harm." "you should suppress mary." "i endeavour to do so. i put much serving upon her; but her frame of mind is such that her energy is equal to anything. you had better see her and caution her. from another woman, words of wisdom would carry more weight than mine. as to sabina, i have warned her against her mother--a strong thing to do, but i felt it to be my duty." they saw mary dinnett then, and miss ironsyde quickly realised that there were subtle tribulations and shades of doubt in the mother's mind beyond mr. churchouse's power to appreciate. indeed, mrs. dinnett, encouraged so to do by the sympathetic presence of jenny ironsyde, strove to give reasons for her continued gloom. "you must be more hopeful and put a brighter face on it, mary, if only for the sake of the young people," declared the visitor. "you're not approaching the marriage from the right point of view. we must forget the past and keep our minds on the future and proceed with this affair just as though it were an ordinary marriage without any disquieting features. we have to remember that they love each other and really are well suited. the future is chequered by certain differences between my nephews, which have not yet been smoothed out; but i am sure that they will be; and meantime you need feel no fear of any inconvenience for sabina. i am responsible." "i know all that," said mrs. dinnett, "and your name is in my prayers when i rise up and when i go to bed. but while there's a lot other people can do for 'em, there's also a deal they can only do for themselves; and, in my opinion, they are not doing it. it's no good us playacting and forgetting the past and pretending everything is just as it should be, if they won't." "but they have." "sabina has. i doubt if he has. i don't know how you find him, but when i see him he's not in a nice temper and not taking the situation in the spirit of a happy bridegroom--very far from it. and my second-sight, which i get from my grandmother, points to one thing: that there won't be no wedding." "this is preposterous," declared miss ironsyde. "the day is fixed and every preparation far advanced." "that's nought to a wayward mind like his. he's got in a state now when i wouldn't trust him a yard. and i hope to god you'll hold the reins tight, miss, and not slacken till they're man and wife. once let him see his way clear to bolt, and bolt he will." mr. churchouse protested, while jenny only sighed. sabina's mother was echoing her own secret uneasiness, but she lamented that others had marked it as well as herself. "he is in a very moody state, but never speaks of any change of mind to me." "because he well knows you hold the purse," said mrs. dinnett. "i don't want to say anything uncharitable against the man, though i might; but i will say that there's danger and that i do well to be a miserable woman till the danger's past. you tell me to cheer up, and i promise to cheer up quick enough when there's reason to do so. mr. churchouse here is the best gentleman on god's earth; but he don't understand a mother's heart--how should he? and he don't know what a lot women have got to hide from men--for their own self-respect, and because men as a body are such clumsy-minded fools--speaking generally, of course." to see even mrs. dinnett dealing thus in ideas excited ernest and filled him with interest. he forgot everything but the principle she asserted and would have discussed it for an hour; but mary, having thus hit back effectively, departed, and miss ironsyde brought the master of 'the magnolias' back to their subject. "there's a lot of truth in what she says and it shows how trouble quickens the wits," she declared; "and i can say to you, what i wouldn't to her, that raymond is not taking this in a good spirit, or as i hoped and expected. i feel for him, too, while being absolutely firm with him. stupid things were done and the secret of his folly made public. he has a grudge against them and, of course, that is rather a threatening fact, because a grudge against anybody is a deadly thing to get into one's mind. it poisons character and ruins your steady outlook, if it is deep seated enough." "would you say that he bore sabina a grudge?" "i'm afraid so; but i do my best to dispel it by pointing out what she thought herself faced with. and i tell him what is true, that sabina in her moments of greatest fear and exasperation, always behaved like a lady. but in your ear only, ernest, i confess to a new sensation--a sickly sensation of doubt. it comes over my religious certainty sometimes, like a fog. it's cold and shivery. of course from every standpoint of religion and honour and justice, they ought to be married. but--" he stopped her. "having named religion and honour and justice, there is no room for 'but.' indeed, jenny, there is not." "let me speak, all the same. other people can have intuitions besides mrs. dinnett. it's an intuition--not second sight--but it is alive. supposing this marriage doesn't really make for the happiness of either of them?" "if they put religion and honour and justice first, it must," he repeated. "you cannot, i venture to say, have happiness without religion and honour and justice; and if raymond were to go back on his word now, he would be the most miserable man in the country." "i wonder." "don't wonder. be sure of it. granted he finds himself miserable--that is because he has committed a fault. will it make him less miserable to go on and commit a greater? sorrow is a fair price to pay for wisdom, jenny. he is a great deal wiser now than he was six months ago, and to shirk his responsibilities and break his word will not mend matters. besides, there is another consideration, which you forget. these young people are no longer free. even if they both desired to remain single, honour, justice and religion actually demand marriage. there was a doubt in my own mind once, too, whether their happiness would be assured by union. now there is no doubt. a child is coming into the world. need i say more?" "i stand corrected," she answered. "there is really nothing more to be said. for the child's sake, if for no other reason, marry they must. we know too well the fate of the child born out of wedlock in this country." "it is a shameful and cruel fate; and while the church of england cowardly suffers the state to impose it, and selfish men care not, we, with some enthusiasm for the unborn and some indignation to see their disabilities, must do what lies in our power for them." he rambled off into generalities inspired by this grave theme. "'suffer the little children to come unto me,' said christ; and we make it almost impossible for fifty thousand little children to come unto him every year; and those who stand for him, the ministers of his church, lift not a finger. the little children of nobody they are. they grow up conscious of their handicap; they come into the world to trust and hope and find themselves pariahs. is that conducive to a religious trust in god, or a rational trust in man for these outlawed thousands?" she brought him back again to raymond and sabina. "apart from the necessity and justice," she said, "and taking it for granted that the thing must happen, what is your opinion of the future? you know sabina well and ought to be in a position to say if you think she will have the wit and sense to make it a happy marriage." "i should wish to think so. they are a gracious pair--at least they were. i liked both boy and girl exceedingly and i happened to be the one who introduced them to each other. it was after henry's death. sabina came in with our tea and one could almost see an understanding spring up and come to life under one's eyes. they've been wicked, jenny; but such is my hopelessly open mind in the matter of goodness and wickedness, that i often find it harder to forgive some people for doing their duty than others for being wicked. in fact, some do their duty in a way that is perfectly unforgivable, while others fail in such an affecting and attractive manner that they make you all the fonder of them." "i feel so, too, sometimes," she admitted, "but i never dared to confess it. once married, i think raymond would steady down and realise his responsibilities. we must both do what we can to bring the brothers together again. it will take a long time to make daniel forgive this business." "it is just the daniel type who would take it most seriously, even if we are able soon to say 'all's well that ends well.' for that reason, one regrets he heard particulars. however, we must trust and believe the future will set all right and reinstate raymond at the works. for my own part i feel very sure that will happen." "well, i always like to see hope triumphing over experience," she said, "and one need never look further than you for that." "thank yourself," he answered. "your steadfast optimism always awakes an echo in me. if we make up our minds that this is going to be all right, that will at least help on the good cause. we can't do much to make it all right, but we can do something. they are in bridport house-hunting this morning, i hear." "they are; and that reminds me they come to lunch and, i hope, to report progress. of course anything raymond likes, sabina approves; but he isn't easily satisfied. however, they may have found something. daniel, rather fortunately, is from home just now, in the north." "if we could get him to the wedding, it would be a great thing." "i'm afraid we mustn't hope for that; but we can both urge him to come. he may." "i will compose a very special letter to him," said mr. churchouse. "how's your rheumatism?" "better, if anything." chapter xxi the warping mill in the warping shed mercy gale plied her work. it was a separate building adjoining the stores at bridetown mill and, like them, impregnated with the distinctive, fat smell of flax and hemp. under dusty rafters and on a floor of stone the huge warping reels stood. they were light, open frameworks that rose from floor to ceiling and turned upon steel rods. hither came the full bobbins from the spinning machines to be wound off. two dozen of the bobbins hung together on a flat frame or 'creel' and through eyes and slots the yarn ran through a 'hake,' which deftly crossed the strands so that they ran smoothly and freely. the bake box rose and fell and lapped the yarn in perfect spirals round the warping reels as they revolved. the length of a reel of twine varies in different places and countries; but at bridetown, a dorset reel was always measured, and it represented twenty-one thousand, six hundred yards. mercy gale was chaining the warp off the reels in great massive coils which would presently depart to be polished and finished at bridport. all its multiple forms sprang from the simple yarn. it would turn into shop and parcel twines; fishing twines for deep sea lines and nets; and by processes of reduplication, swell to cords and shroud laid ropes, hawsers and mighty cables. a little figure filled the door of the shed and estelle waldron appeared. she shook hands and greeted the worker with friendship, for estelle was now free of the mill and greatly prided herself on personally knowing everybody within them. "good morning, mercy," she said. "i've come to see nancy buckler." "good morning, miss. i know. she's going to run in at dinner time to sing you her song." "it's a wonderful song, i believe," declared estelle, "and very, very old. her grandfather taught it to her before he died, and i want to write it down. do you like poetry, mercy?" "can't say as i do," confessed the warper. she was a fair, tall girl. "i like novels," she added. "i love stories, but i haven't got much use for rhymes." "stories about what?" asked estelle. "i have a sort of an idea to start a library, if i can persuade my father to let me. i believe i could get some books from friends to make a beginning." "stories about adventure," declared mercy. "most of the girls like love stories; but i don't care so much about them. i like stories where big things happen in history." "so do i; and then you know you're reading about what really did happen and about great people who really lived. i think i can lend you some stories like that." mercy thanked her and estelle fell silent considering which book from her limited collection would best meet the other's demand. herself she did not read many novels, but loved her books about plants and her poets. poetry was precious food to her, and mr. churchouse, who also appreciated it, had led her to his special favourites. for the present, therefore, estelle was content with longfellow and cowper and wordsworth. the more dazzling light of keats and shelley and swinburne had yet to dawn for her. nancy buckler arrived presently to sing her song. her looks did not belie nancy. she was sharp of countenance, with thin cheeks and a prominent nose. her voice, too, had a pinch of asperity about it. by nature she was critical of her fellow creatures. no man had desired her, and the fact soured her a little and led to a general contempt of the sex. she smiled for estelle, however, because the ingenuous child had won her friendship. "good morning, miss," she said. "if you've got a pencil and paper, you can take down the words." "but sing them first," begged the listener. "i want to hear you sing them to the old tune, because i expect the tune is as old as the words, nancy." "it's a funny old tune for certain. i can't sing it like grandfather did, for all his age. he croaked it like a machine running, and that seemed the proper way. but i've not got much of a voice." "'tis loud enough, anyway," said mercy, "and that's a virtue." "yes, you can hear what i'm saying," admitted miss buckler, then she sang her song. "when a twister, a twisting, will twist him a twist, with the twisting his twist, he the twine doth entwist; but if one of the twines of the twist doth untwist, the twine that untwisteth, untwisteth the twist, untwisting the twine that entwineth between, he twists with his twister the two in a twine. then, twice having twisted the twines of his twine, he twisteth the twine he had twined in twine. the twain, that in twining before in the twine, as twines were entwisted, he now doth untwine, 'twixt the twain intertwisting a twine more between." nancy gave her remarkable performance in a clear, thin treble. it was a monotonous melody, but suited the words very well. she sang slowly and her face and voice exhibited neither light nor shade. yet her method suited the words in their exceedingly unemotional appeal. "it's the most curious song i ever heard," cried estelle, "and you sing it perfectly, because i heard every word." then she brought out pencil and paper, sat in the deep alcove of the window and transcribed nancy's verse. "you must sing that to my father next time you come up," she said. "it's like no other song in the world, i'm sure." sally groves came in. she had brought estelle the seed of a flower from her garden. "i put it by for you, miss waldron," said the big woman, "because you said you liked it in the fall." they talked together while mercy gale doffed her overall and woollen bonnet. "tell me," said estelle, "of a very good sort of wedding present for mr. ironsyde, when he marries sabina next week." "a new temper, i should think," suggested nancy. "he can't help being rather in a temper," explained estelle, "because they can't find a house." "sabina can find plenty," answered the spinner. "it's him that's so hard to please." sally groves strove to curb nancy's tongue. "you mind your own business," she said. "mr. ironsyde wants everything just so, and why not?" "because it ain't a time to be messing about, i should think," retorted nancy. "and it's for the woman to be considered, not him." then estelle, in all innocence, asked a shattering question. "is it true sabina is going to have a baby? one or two girls in the mill told me she was, but i asked my father, and he seemed to be annoyed and said, of course not. but i hope it's true--it would be lovely for sabina to have a baby to play with." "so it would then," declared sally groves, "but i shouldn't tell nothing about it for the present, miss." "least said, soonest mended," said mercy gale. "it's like this," explained sally groves with clumsy goodness: "they'll want to keep it for a surprise, miss, and i dare say they'd be terrible disappointed if they thought anybody knew anything about it yet." nancy buckler laughed. "i reckon they would," she said. "so don't you name it, miss," continued sally. "don't you name the word yet awhile." estelle nodded. "i won't then," she promised. "i know how sad it is, if you've got a great secret, to find other people know it before you want them to." "beastly sad," said nancy, as she went her way, and the child looked after her puzzled. "i believe nancy's jealous of sabina," she said. then it was sally groves who laughed and her merriment shook the billows of her mighty person. estelle found herself somewhat depressed as she went home. not so much the words as the general spirit of these comments chilled her. after luncheon she visited her father's study and talked to him while he smoked. "what perfectly beautiful thing can i get for ray and sabina for a wedding present?" he cleaned his pipe with one of the crow's feathers estelle was used to collect for him. they stood in vases on the mantel-shelf. "it's a puzzler," confessed arthur waldron. "d'you think ray has grown bad-tempered, father?" "do you?" "no, i'm sure i don't. he is a little different, but that's because he's going to be married. no doubt people do get a little different, then. but nancy buckler at the mill said she thought the best wedding present for him would be a new temper." "that's the sort of insolent things people say, i suppose, behind his back. it's all very unfortunate in my opinion, estelle." "it's frightfully unfortunate ray leaving us, because, after he's married, he must have a house of his own; but it isn't unfortunate his marrying sabina, i'm sure." "i'm not sure at all," confessed her father. his opinion always carried the greatest weight, and she was so much concerned at this announcement that arthur felt sorry he had spoken. "you see, estelle--how can i explain? i think ray in rather too young to marry." "he's well over twenty." "yes, but he's young for his age, and the things that he is keen about are not the things that a girl is keen about. i doubt if he will make sabina happy." "he will if he likes, and i'm sure he will like. he can always make me happy, so, of course, he can make sabina. he's really tremendously clever and knows all sorts of things. oh, don't think it's going to be sad, father. i'm sure they're both much too wise to do anything that's going to be sad. because if ray--" she stopped, for raymond himself came in. he had left early that morning to seek a house with sabina. "what luck?" said waldron. "we've found something that'll do, i think. two miles out towards chidcock. a garden and a decent paddock and a stable. but he'll have to spend some money on the stable. there's a doubt if he will--the landlord, i mean. sabina likes the house, so i hope it will be all right." waldron nodded. "if it's thornton, the horse-dealer, he'll do what you want. he's got houses up there." "it isn't. i haven't seen the man yet." "well," said his friend, "i don't know what the deuce estelle and i are going to do without you. we shall miss you abominably." "what shall i do without you? that's more to the point. you've got each other for pals--i--" he broke off and arthur filled the pregnant pause. "look here--estelle wants to give you a wedding present, old man; and so do i. and as we haven't the remotest idea what would be the likeliest thing, don't stand on ceremony, but tell us." "i don't want anything--except to know i shall always be welcome when i drop in." "we needn't tell you that." "but you must want thousands of things," declared estelle, "everybody does when they're married. and if you don't, i'm sure sabina does--knives and forks and silver tea kettles and pictures for the walls." "married people don't want pictures, estelle; they never look at anything but one another." she laughed. "but the poor walls want pictures if you don't. i believe the walls wouldn't feel comfortable without pictures. besides you and sabina can't sit and look at each other all day." "what about a nice little handy 'jingle' for her to trundle about in?" asked waldron. "as i can't pull it, old chap, it wouldn't be much good. i'm keeping the hunter; but i shan't be able to keep anything else--if that." "how would it be if you sold the hunter and got a nice everyday sort of horse that you could ride, or that sabina could drive?" asked estelle. "no," said waldron firmly. "he doesn't sell his hunter or his guns. these things stand for a link with the outer world and represent sport, which is quite as important as marriage in the general scheme." "i thought to chuck all that and take up golf," said raymond. "there's a lot in golf they tell me." but waldron shook his head. "golf's all right," he admitted, "and a great game. i'm going to take it up myself, and i'm glad it's coming in, because it will add to the usefulness of a lot of us men who have to fall out of cricket. there's a great future for golf, i believe. but no golf for you yet. you won't run any more and you'll drop out of football, as only 'pros.' play much after marriage. but you must shoot as much as possible, and hunt a bit, and play cricket still." this comforting programme soothed raymond. "that's all right, but i've got to find work. i was just beginning to feel keen on work; but now--flit, estelle, my duck. i want to have a yarn with father." the girl departed. "do let it be a 'jingle,' ray," she begged, and then was gone. "it's my damned brother," went on raymond. "he'll come round and ask you to go back, as soon as you're fixed up and everything's all right." "everything won't be all right. everything's confoundedly wrong. think what it is for a proud man to be at the mercy of an aunt, and to look to her for his keep. if anything could make me sick of the whole show, it's that." "i shouldn't feel it so. she's keen on you, and keen on sabina; and she knows you can't live upon air. you may be sure also she knows that it won't last. daniel will come round." "and if he does? it's all the same--taking his money." "you won't be taking it; you'll be earning it." "i hate him, like hell, and i hate the thought of working under him all my life." "you won't be under him. you've often said the time was coming when you'd wipe daniel's eye and show you were the moving spirit of the mill. well now, when you go back, you must work double tides to do it." "he may not take me back, and for many things i'd sooner he didn't. we should never be the same to one another after that row. for two pins, even now, i'd make a bolt, arthur, and disappear altogether and go abroad and carve out my own way." "don't talk rot. you can't do that." but waldron, in spite of his advice and sanguine prophecies, hid a grave doubt at heart whether, so far as raymond's own future was concerned, such a course might not be the wisest. he felt confident, however, that the younger man would keep his engagements. raymond had plenty of pluck and did not lack for a heart, so far as waldron knew. had sabina been no more than engaged, he must strongly have urged raymond to drop her and endure the harsh criticism that would have followed: for an engagement broken appeared a lesser evil than an unhappy mating; but since the position was complicated, he could not feel so and stoutly upheld the marriage on principle, while extremely doubtful of its practical outcome. they talked for two hours to no purpose and then estelle called them to tea. chapter xxii the telegram raymond and sabina spent a long afternoon at the house they had taken; and while he was interested with the stables and garden, she occupied herself indoors. she was very tired before they had finished, and presently, returning to bridport, they called at 'the seven stars' and ordered tea. the famous garden was dismantled now and job legg spent some daily hours in digging there. to-morrow job was to hear what mrs. northover had to say concerning his proposal, and, meantime, the pending decision neither unsettled him nor interfered with his usual placidity and enterprise. nelly northover herself waited upon the engaged couple. she was somewhat abstracted with her own thoughts, but so far banished them that she could show and feel interest in the visitors. raymond described the house, and sabina, glad to see raymond in a cheerful mood, expatiated on the charms of her future home. they delayed somewhat longer than mrs. northover expected and she left them presently, for she had an appointment bearing on the supreme subject of her offer of marriage. mrs. northover was, in fact, going to take another opinion. such indecision seemed foreign to her character, which seldom found her in two minds; but it happened that upon one judgment she had often relied since her husband's death and, before the great problem at present challenging nelly, she believed another view might largely assist her. that she could not decide herself, she felt to be very significant. the fact made her cautious and anxious. she put on her bonnet now, left a maid to settle with the customers and presently stepped across the road to 'the tiger,' for it was richard gurd in whom mrs. northover put her trust. she designed to place job's offer before her friend and invite a candid and unprejudiced criticism. for so doing more reasons than one may have existed; we seldom seek the judgment of a friend without mixed motives; but, at any rate, nelly believed very thoroughly in her neighbour, and if, in reality, it was as much a wish that he should know what had happened, as a desire to learn his opinion upon it, she none the less felt that opinion would be precious and probably decide her. richard was waiting in his office--a small apartment off the bar, to which none had access save himself. "come in here and we shan't be disturbed," he said. "of course, when you tell me you want my advice on a matter of the greatest importance, all else has to stand by. my old friend's wife has a right to come to me, i should hope, and i'm glad you've done so. sit here by the fire." it did not take mrs. northover long to relate the situation, nor was mr. gurd much puzzled to declare his view. in brief words she told him of job legg's greatly increased prosperity and his proposal to wed. having made her statement, she advanced a few words for job. "in fairness and beyond all this, i must tell you, richard, that he's a very uncommon sort of man. that you know, of course, as well as i do. but what you don't know is that when he was away, i badly missed him and found out, for the first time, what an all-round, valuable creature he has become at 'the seven stars.' when he was along with his dying relation, i missed the man a thousand times in every twelve hours and i felt properly astonished to find how he was the prop and stay of my business. that may seem too much to say, seeing i'm a fairly clever woman and know how to run 'the seven stars' in a pretty prosperous way; but there is no doubt legg is very much more than what he seems. he's a very human man and i'll go so far as to say this: i like him. there's great self-respect to him and you feel, under his level temper and unfailing readiness to work at anything and everything, that he's a power for good--in fact a man with high principles--so high as my own, if not higher." "stop there, or you'll over-do it," said richard. "higher than yours his principles won't take him and i refuse to hear you say so. you ask me in plain words if you shall marry job legg, or if you shan't. and before i speak, i may tell you that, as a man of the world, i shan't quarrel with you if you don't take my advice. as a rule i have found that good advice is more often given than taken and, whether or no, the giving of advice nearly always means one thing. and that is that the giver loses a friend. if the advice is bad, it is generally taken, and him that takes it finds out in due course it was bad, and so the giver makes an enemy. and if 'tis good, the same thing happens, for then 'tis not taken and, looking back, the sufferer sees his mistake, and human nature works, and instead of kicking himself, he feels like kicking the wise man that gave him the good advice. but between me and you that won't happen, for there's the ghost of william northover to come between. you and me are high spirited, and i dare say there are some people who would say we are short tempered; but we know better." "that's all true as gospel; and now you tell me if i ought to marry job. or, if 'tis too great a question to decide in a minute, as i find it myself, then leave it till to-morrow and i'll pop in again." "no need to leave it. my mind is used to make itself up swift. first, as to legg. legg's a very good man, indeed, and i'd be the first to praise him. he's all you say--or nearly all--and i've often been very much impressed by him. and if he was anybody's servant but yours, i dare say i'd have tempted him to 'the tiger' before now. but there are some that shine in the lead, like you and me, and some that only show their full worth when they've got to obey. job can obey to perfection; but i'm not so sure if he's fitted to command." "remember," she said, "that if i say 'no' to the man, i lose him. he can't be my right hand no more then, because he'd leave. and my heart sinks at the thought of another potman at my age." "when you say 'potman' you come to the root of the matter, and your age has nothing to do with it," answered richard. "the natural instinct at such times is to advise against, and when man or woman asks a fellow creature as to the wisdom of marrying, they'll always pull a long face and find fifty good reasons why not. but i'm taking this in a larger spirit. there's no reason why you shouldn't marry again, and you'd make another as happy as you did your first, no doubt. but job legg is a potman; he's been a potman for a generation; he thinks like a potman, and his outlook in life is naturally the potman outlook. mind, i'm not saying anything against him as a man when i tell you so; i'm only looking at him now as a husband for you. he's got religion and a good temper, and dollops of sense, and i'll even go so far as to say, seeing that he is now a man of money, that he was within his right to offer, if he did it in a modest manner. but i won't say more than that. he's simple and faithful and a servant worthy of all respect, but that man haven't the parts to rise to mastership. a good stick, but if he was your crutch, he'd fail you. for my part, i'm very sure that people of much greater importance than him would offer for you if they knew you were for a husband." "i wouldn't say i was for a husband, richard. the idea never came into my mind till job legg put it there." "just your modesty. there's no more reason why you shouldn't wed than why i shouldn't. you're a comely and highly marriageable person still, and nobody knows it better than what i do." "you advise against, then?" "in that quarter, yes. i'm thinking of you, and only you, and i don't believe job is quite man enough for the part. leave it, however, for twenty-four hours." "he was to have his answer, to-morrow." "he's used to waiting. tell him you're coming to it and won't keep him much longer. it's too big a thing to be quite sure about, and you were right when you said so. i'll come across and see you in the morning." "i'm obliged to you, richard. and if you'll turn it over, i'll thank you. i wouldn't have come to any other than you, bachelor though you are." "i'll weigh it," he promised, "but i warn you i'm very unlikely to see it different. what you've told me have put other side issues into my head. you'll hunt a rabbit and flush a game bird, sometimes. in fact, great things often come out of little ones." "i know you'll be fair and not let anything influence your judgment," she said. he promised, but with secret uneasiness, for already it seemed that his judgment was being influenced. for that reason he had postponed a final decision until the following day. mrs. northover departed with grateful thanks and left behind her, though she guessed it not, problems far more tremendous than any she had brought. meantime raymond and sabina, on their way to miss ironsyde, were met by mr. neddy motyer. neddy had not seen his friend for some time and now saluted and stopped. it was nearly dark and they stood under a lamp-post. "cheero!" said mr. motyer. "haven't cast an eye on you for a month of sundays, ironsyde." raymond introduced sabina and neddy was gallant and reminded her they had met before at the mill. then, desiring a little masculine society, sabina's betrothed proposed that she should go on and report that he was coming. "aunt jenny will expect us to stop for dinner, so there's no hurry. i'll be up in half an hour." she left them and neddy suggested drinking. "you might as well be dead and buried for all the boys see of you nowadays," he said, as they entered 'the bull' hotel. "i'm busy." "i know, but i hope you'll have a big night off before the deed is done and you take leave of freedom--what?" "i'm not taking leave of freedom. you godless bachelors don't know you're born." "bluff--bluff!" declared neddy. "you can't deceive me, old sport." "you wait till you find the right one." "i shall," promised neddy. "and very well content to wait. nothing is easier than not to be married." "nothing is harder, my dear chap, if you're in love with the right girl." neddy felt the ground delicate. he knew that raymond had knocked down a man for insulting him a week before, so he changed the subject. "i thought you'd be at the fight," he said. "it was a pretty spar--interesting all through. jack buckler won. blades practically let him. not because he wanted to, but because solly blades has got a streak of softness in his make-up. that's fatal in a fighter. if you've got a gentle heart, it don't matter how clever you are: you can't take full advantage of your skill and use the opening when you've won it. blades didn't punish buckler's stupidity, or weakness just when he could have done it. so he lost, because he gave jack time to get strong again; and when blades in his turn went weak, buckler got it over and outed him." "your heart often robs you of what your head won," said another man in the bar. "life's like prize-fighting in that respect. if you don't hit other people when you can, the time will probably come when they'll hit you." it was an ugly philosophy and raymond, looking within, applied to it himself. then he put his own thoughts away. "and how are the gee-gees?" he asked. "as a 'gentleman backer,' i can't say i'm going very strong," confessed neddy. "on the whole, i think it's a mug's game. anyway, i shall chuck it when flat racing comes again. my father's getting restive. i shall have to do something pretty soon." raymond stayed for an hour and was again urged to give a bachelor-supper before he married; but he declined. "shan't chuck away a tenner on a lot of wasters," he said. "got something better to do with it." several men promised to come to church and see the event, now near at hand, but he told them that they might be disappointed. "i'm not too sure about that," he said. "i may put my foot down on that racket and be married at a registrar's. anyway church is no certainty. i've got no use for making a show of my private affairs." on the way to miss ironsyde's he grew moody and gloom settled upon him. a glimpse of the old free and easy life threw into darker colours the new existence ahead. he remembered the sentiments of the strange man in the bar--how weakness is always punished and the heart often robs the head of victory. his heart was robbing his head of freedom; and that meant victory also; for what sort of success can life offer to those who begin it by flinging liberty to the winds? yes, he had been "bluffing," as neddy declared; and to bluff was foreign to his nature. nobody was deceived, for everybody knew the truth, and though none dared laugh at him in public, secretly all his acquaintance were doubtless doing so. sabina saw that he was perturbed when presently he joined miss ironsyde. he had drunk more than enough and proved irritable. he was, however, silent at first, while his aunt discussed the wedding. she took it for granted that it would be in church and reminded raymond of necessary steps. "and certain people should be asked," she said. "have you any friends you particularly wish to be there? mr. churchouse is planning a wedding breakfast--" "no--none of my friends will be there if i can help it. they're not that sort." "have you written to daniel?" "'written to daniel'! good god, no! what should i write to daniel, but to tell him he's the biggest cur and hound on earth?" "you've passed all that. you're not going back again, raymond. you know what you said last time when we talked about it." "if he's ever to be more than a name to me, he must apologise for being a low down brute, first. i've got plenty on my mind without thinking about him. he's going to rue the day he treated me as he has done. i'll bring him and bridetown mill to the gutter, yet." "don't, don't, please. i thought you felt last time we were talking about him--" "drop him--don't mention his name to me--i won't hear it. if you want me to go on with my life with self-respect, then keep his name out of my life. i've cursed him to hell once and for all, so talk of something else!" jenny ironsyde saw that her nephew was in a dark temper, and while at heart she felt indignant and ashamed, more for sabina's sake than his own, she humoured him, spoke of the future and strove to win him back into a cheerful mind. then as they were going to dinner, at half-past seven o'clock, the maid who announced the meal, brought with her a telegram. it was directed to 'ironsyde' only, and, putting on her glasses, jenny read it. daniel had been very seriously injured in a railway accident at york. remorse strikes the young with cruel bitterness. raymond turned pale and staggered. while he had been cursing his brother, the man lay smitten, perhaps at the door of death. his aunt it was who steadied him and turned to the time-table. then she went to her store of ready money. in an hour raymond was on his way. it might be possible for him to catch a midnight train for the north from london and reach york before morning. when he had gone, jenny turned to sabina, who had spoken no word during this scene. "much may come of this," she said. "god works in mysterious ways. i have no fear that raymond will fail in his duty to dear daniel at such a time. come back early to-morrow, sabina. i shall get a telegram, as soon as raymond can despatch it, and shall hold myself in readiness to go at once and stop with daniel. tell mister churchouse what has happened." the lady spent the night in packing. her sufferings and anxieties were allayed by occupation; but the long hours seemed unending. she was ready to start at dawn, but not until ten o'clock came the news from york. mr. churchouse was already with her when the telegram arrived. he had driven from bridetown with sabina. daniel ironsyde was dead and had passed many hours before raymond reached him. sabina went home on hearing this news, and ernest churchouse remained with miss ironsyde. she was prostrated and, for a time, he could not comfort her. but the practical nature of her mind asserted itself between gusts of grief. she despatched a telegram to raymond at york, and begged him to bring back his brother's body as soon as it might be done. concerning the future she also spoke to ernest. "he has made no will," she said, "that i know, because when last we were speaking of raymond, he told me he felt it impossible at present to do so." "then the whole estate belongs to raymond, now?" he asked. "yes, everything is his." chapter xxiii a letter for sabina a human machine, under stress of personal tribulation and lowered vitality, had erred in a signal box five miles from york, with the result that several of his fellow creatures were killed and many injured. daniel ironsyde had only lived long enough to direct the telegram to his home. three days later raymond returned with the body, and once more bridetown crowded to its windows and open spaces, to see the funeral of another master of the mill. to an onlooker the scene might have appeared a repetition in almost every particular of henry ironsyde's obsequies. the spinners crowded on the grassy triangle under the sycamore tree and debated their future. they wondered whether raymond would come to the funeral; and a new note entered into all voices when they spoke his name, for he was master now. mr. churchouse attended the burial, and arthur waldron walked down from north hill house with his daughter. in the churchyard, where daniel's grave waited for him beside his father, old mr. baggs stood and looked down, as he had done when henry ironsyde came to his grave. "life, how short--eternity, how long," he said to john best. ernest churchouse opened the door of the mourning coach as he had done on the previous occasion, and miss ironsyde alighted, followed by raymond. he had come. but he had changed even to the visible eye. the least observing were able to mark differences of voice and manner. raymond's nature had responded to the stroke of circumstance with lightning swiftness. the pressure of his position, thus suddenly relieved, caused a rebound, a liberation of the grinding tension. it remained to be seen what course he might now pursue; yet those who knew him best anticipated no particular reaction. but when he returned it was quickly apparent that tremendous changes had already taken place in the young man's outlook on life and that, whatever his future line of conduct might be, he realised very keenly his altered position. he was now free of all temporal cares; but against that fact he found himself faced with great new responsibilities. remorse hit him hard, but he was through the worst of that, and life had become so tremendous, that he could not for very long keep his thoughts on death. at his brother's funeral he allowed his eye to rest on no familiar face and cast no recognising glance at man or woman. he was haggard and pale, but more than that: a new expression had come into his countenance. already consciousness of possession marked him. he had grasped the fact of the change far quicker than daniel had grasped it after their father's death. he was returning immediately with his aunt to bridport; but mr. churchouse broke through the barrier and spoke to him as he entered the carriage. "won't you see sabina before you go, raymond? you must realise that, even under these terrible conditions, we cannot delay. i understand she wrote to you when you came back; but that you have not answered her letter. as things are it seems to me you might like to be quietly and privately married away from bridetown?" raymond hardly seemed to hear. "i can't talk about that now. a great deal falls upon me at present. i am enormously busy and have to take up the threads of all poor daniel was doing in the north. there is nobody but myself, in my opinion, who can go through with it. i return to london to-night." "but sabina?" raymond answered calmly. "sabina dinnett will hear from me during the next twenty-four hours," he said. ernest gazed aghast. "but, my dear boy, you cannot realise the situation if you talk like that. surely you--" "i realise the situation perfectly well. good-bye, uncle ernest." the coach drove away. miss ironsyde said nothing. she had broken down beside the grave and was still weeping. then came mr. best, where mr. churchouse stood at the lich-gate. he was anxious for information. "did he say anything about his plans?" he asked. "only that he is proceeding with his late brother's business in the north. i perceive a most definite change in the young man, john." "for the better, we'll hope. what's hid in people! you never would have thought mister raymond would have carried himself like that. it wasn't grief at his loss, but a sort of an understanding of the change. he even looked at us differently--even me." "he's overwrought and not himself, probably. i don't think he quite grasps the immediate situation. he seems to be looking far ahead already, whereas the most pressing matter should be a thing of to-morrow." "is the wedding day fixed?" "it is not. he writes to sabina." "writes! isn't he going to see her to-day!" "he returns to london to-night." arthur waldron also asked for news, for raymond had apparently been unconscious of his existence at the funeral. he, too, noted the change in ironsyde's demeanour. "what was it?" he asked, as mr. churchouse walked beside him homeward. "something is altered. it's more his manner than his appearance. of course, he looks played out after his shock, but it's not that. estelle thinks it's his black clothes." "stress of mind and anxiety, no doubt. i spoke to him; but he was rather distant. not unfriendly--he called me 'uncle ernest' as usual--but distant. his mind is entirely preoccupied with business." "what about sabina?" "i asked him. he's writing to her. she wasn't at the funeral. she and her mother kept away at my advice. but i certainly thought he would come and see them afterwards. however, the idea hadn't apparently occurred to him. his mind is full of other things. there was a suggestion of strength--of power--something new." "he must be very strong now," said estelle. "he will have to be strong, because the mill is all his and everything depends upon him. doesn't sabina feel she must be strong, too, mr. churchouse?" "sabina is naturally excited. but she is also puzzled, because it seems strange that anything should come between her and raymond at a time like this--even the terrible death of dear daniel. she has been counting on hearing from him, and to-day she felt quite sure he would see her." "is the wedding put off then?" "i trust not. she is to hear from him to-morrow." * * * * * raymond kept his word and before the end of the following day sabina received a letter. she had alternated, since daniel's sudden death, between fits of depression and elation. she was cast down, because no communication of any kind had reached her since raymond hurried off on the day of the accident; and she was elated, because the future must certainly be much more splendid for raymond now. she explained his silence easily enough, for much work devolved upon him; but when he did not come to see her on the day of the funeral, she was seriously perturbed and grew excited, unstrung and full of forebodings. her mother heard from those who had seen him that raymond appeared to be abstracted and 'kept himself to himself' entirely; which led to anxiety on her part also. the letter defined the position. "my dearest sabina,--a thing like the death of my brother, with all that it means to me, cannot happen without having very far-reaching results. you may have noticed for some time before this occurred that i felt uneasy about the future--not only for your sake, but my own--and i had long felt that we were doing a very doubtful thing to marry. however, as circumstances were such then, that i should have been in the gutter if i did not marry, i was going to do so. there seemed to be no choice, though i felt all the time that i was not doing the fair thing to you, or myself. "now the case is altered and i can do the fair thing to you and myself, because circumstances make it possible. i have got tons of money now, and it is not too much to say that i want you to share it. but not on the old understanding. i hate and loathe matrimony and everything to do with it, and now that it is possible to avoid the institution, i intend to do so. "what you have got to do is to put a lot of stupid, conventional ideas out of your mind, and not worry about other people, and the drivel they talk, or the idiotic things they say. we weren't conventional last year, so why the dickens should we be this? i'm awfully keen about you, sabina, and awfully keen about the child too; but let us be sane and be lovers and not a wretched married couple. "if you will come and be my housekeeper, i shall welcome you with rejoicings, and we can go house-hunting again and find something worthier of us and take bigger views. "don't let this bowl you over and make you savage. it is simply a question of what will keep us the best friends, and wear best. i am perfectly certain that in the long run we shall be happier so, than chained together by a lot of cursed laws, that will put our future relations on a footing that denies freedom of action to us both. let's be pioneers and set a good example to people and help to knock on the head the imbecile marriage laws. "i am, of course, going to put you all right from a worldly point of view and settle a good income upon you, which you will enjoy independently of me; and i also recognise the responsibility of our child. he or she will be my heir, and nothing will be spared for the youngster. "i do hope, my dearest girl, you will see what a sensible idea this is. it means liberty, and you can't have real love without liberty. if we married, i am certain that in a year or two we should hate each other like the devil, and i believe you know that as well as i do. marriage is out-grown--it's a barbaric survival and has a most damnable effect on character. if we are to be close chums and preserve our self-respect, we must steer clear of it. "i am very sure i am right. i've thought a lot about it and heard some very shrewd men in london speak about it. we are up against a sort of battle nowadays. the idea of marriage is the welfare of the community, and the idea of freedom is the welfare of the individual; and i, for one, don't see in the least why the individual should go down for the community. what has the community done for us, that we should become slaves for it? "wealth--at any rate, ample means--does several things for a man. it opens his eyes to the meaning of power. power is a fine thing if it's coupled with sense. already i see what a poor creature i was--owing to the accident of poverty. now you'll find what a huge difference power makes. it changes everything and turns a child into a man. at any rate, i've been a child till now. you've got to be childlike if you're poor. "so i hope you'll take this in the spirit i write, sabina, and trust me, for i'm straight as a line, and my first thought is to make you a happy woman. that i certainly can do, if you'll let me. "i shall be coming home presently; but, for the moment, i must stop here. there is a gigantic deal of work waiting for me; but working for myself and somebody else are two very different things. i don't grudge the work now, since the result of the work means more power. "i hope this is all clear. if it isn't, we must thresh it out when we meet. all i want you to grasp for the moment is that i love you as well as ever--better than anything in the world--and, because i want us to be the dearest friends always, i'm not going to marry you. "your mother and uncle ernest will of course take the conventional line, and my aunt jennie will do the same; but i hope you won't bother about them. your welfare lies with me. don't let them talk you into making a martyr of yourself, or any nonsense of that sort. "always, my dearest sabina, "your faithful pal, "ray." half an hour later mrs. dinnett took the letter in to mr. churchouse. "death," she said. "death is in the air. sabina has gone to bed and i'm going for the doctor. he's broke off the engagement and wants her to be his housekeeper. and this is a christian country, or supposed to be. says it's going to be quite all right and offers her money and a lifetime of sin!" "be calm, mary, be calm. you must have misread the letter. go and get the doctor by all means if sabina has succumbed. and leave the letter with me. i will read it carefully. that is if it is not private." "no, it ain't private. he slaps at us all. we're all conventional people, which means, i suppose, that we fear god and keep the laws. but if my gentleman thinks--" "go and get the doctor, mary. two heads are better than one in a case of this sort. i feel sure you and sabina are making a mistake." "the world shall ring," said mrs. dinnett, "and we'll see if he can show his face among honest men again. we that have abided by the law all our days--now we'll see what the law can do for us against this godless wretch." she went off to the village and ernest cried after her to say nothing at present. he knew, however, as he spoke that it was vain. then he put away his own work and read the letter very carefully twice through. profound sorrow came upon him and his innate optimism was over-clouded. this seemed no longer the raymond ironsyde he had known from childhood. it was not even the raymond of a month ago. he perceived how potential qualities of mind had awakened in the new conditions. he was philosophically interested. so deeply indeed did the psychological features of the change occupy his reflections, that for a time he overlooked their immediate and crushing significance in the affairs of another person. traces of the old raymond remained in the promises of unbounded generosity and assurances of devotion; but mr. churchouse set no store upon them. the word that rang truest was raymond's acute consciousness of power and appreciation thereof. it had, as he said, opened his eyes. under any other conditions than those embracing sabina and right and wrong, as ernest accepted the meaning of right and wrong, he had won great hope from the letter. it was clear that raymond had become a man at a bound and might be expected to develop into a useful man; but that his first step from adolescence was to involve the destruction of a woman and child, soon submerged all lesser considerations in the thinker's mind. righteousness was implicated, and to start his new career with a cold-blooded crime made mr. churchouse tremble for the entire future of the criminal. yet he saw very little hope of changing ironsyde's decision. raymond had evidently considered the matter, and though his argument was abominable in ernest's view, and nothing more than a cowardly evasion of his promises, he suspected that the writer found it satisfy his conscience, since its further education in the consciousness of power. he did not suppose that any whose opinion he respected would alter raymond. it might even be that he was honest in his theories, and believed himself when he said that marriage would end by destroying his love for sabina. but mr. churchouse did not pursue that line of argument. had not mary dinnett just reminded him that this was a christian country? it was, of course, an immoral and selfish letter. ernest knew exactly how it would strike miss ironsyde; but he also knew that many people without principle would view it as reasonable. he had to determine what he was going to do, and soon came back to the attitude he had always taken. an unborn, immortal soul must be considered, and it was idle for raymond to talk about making the coming child his heir. such undertakings were vain. the young man was volatile and his life lay before him. that he could make this offer argued an indifference to sabina's honour which no promises of temporal comfort condoned. for that matter he must surely have known while he wrote that it would be rejected. the outlook appeared exceedingly hopeless. mr. churchouse rose from his desk and looked out of the window. it was a grey and silent morning. only a big magnolia leaf tapped at the casement and dripped rain from its point. and overhead, in her chamber, sabina was lying stricken and speechless. with infinite commiseration mr. churchouse considered what this must mean to her. it was as though mrs. dinnett's hysterical words had come true. indeed, the tender-hearted man felt that death was in his house--death of fair hopes, death of a young and trusting spirit. "the rising generation puts a strain on christianity that i'm sure it was never called to bear in my youth," reflected mr. churchouse. chapter xxiv mrs. northover decides when richard gurd began to consider the case of nelly northover, his mind was very curiously affected. to develop the stages by which he arrived at his startling conclusions might be attractive, but the destination is more important than the journey. after twenty-four hours devoted to this subject alone, richard had not only decided that nelly northover must not marry job legg; he had pushed the problem of his friend far beyond that point and found it already complicated by a greater than job. indeed, the sudden reminder that nelly was a comely and personable woman had affected richard gurd, and the thought that she should contemplate marriage caused him some preliminary uneasiness. he could no more see her married again than he could see himself taking a wife; yet from this attitude, progress was swift, and the longer he thought upon mrs. northover, the more steadily did his mind drive him into an opinion that she might reasonably wed again if she desired to do so. and then he proceeded to the personal concession that there was no radical necessity to remain single himself. because he had reached his present ripe age without a wife, it did not follow he must remain for ever unmarried. he had no objection to marriage, and continued a bachelor merely because he had never found any woman desirable in his eyes. moreover he disliked children. he had reached this stage of the argument before he slept, and when he woke again, he found his mind considerably advanced along the road to nelly. he now came to the deliberate conclusion that he wanted her. the discovery amazed him, but he could not escape it; and in the light of such a surprise he became a little dazzled. sudden soul movements of such force and complexity made richard gurd selfish. it is a fact, that before he went at the appointed time to see the mistress of 'the seven stars,' he had forgotten all about job legg and was entirely concerned with his own tremendous project. full grown and complete at all vital points it sprang from his energetic brain. he had reached the high personal ambition of wanting to marry mrs. northover himself, and their friendship of many years had been so complete, that he felt sanguine from the moment that his great determination dawned. but she spoke and quickly reminded him of what she was expecting. "and how d'you think about it? shall it be, or shan't it, richard?" they were in the private parlour. "leave that," he said. "i can assure you that little affair is already a thing of the past. in fact, my mind has moved such a long way since you came to see me yesterday, that i'd forgot what you came about. but, after all, that was the starting point. now a very curious thing has fallen out, and looking back, i can only say that the wonder is it didn't fall out long years ago." "it did, so far as he was concerned," explained mrs. northover. "mr. legg has been hoping for this for years." "the lord often chooses a fool to light the road of the wise, my dear. not that job's a fool, and a more self-respecting man you won't find. in fact i shall always feel kindly to your potman, for, in a manner of speaking, you may say he's helped to show me my own duty." "i dare say he has; he's a lesson to us all." "he is, but, all the same, it's confounding class with class to think of him as a husband for you. not that i've got any class prejudice myself. you can't keep a hotel year in, year out, and allow yourself the luxury of class prejudice; but be that as it may, legg, though he adorns his class, wouldn't adorn ours in my opinion. and yet i'll say this: i believe it was put to him by providence to offer for you, so that you might be lifted to higher things." "speak english, my dear man. i don't exactly know what you're talking about. but i suppose you mean i'd better not?" mrs. northover was a little disappointed and richard perceived it. "be calm, and don't let me sweep you off your feet as i've been swept off mine," he answered. "since i discovered marriage was a possibility in your mind, i am obliged to confess that it's grown up to be a possibility in mine. and why not?" "no reason at all. 'twas the wonder of bridport, you might say for years, why you remained single." "well, this i'll tell you, nelly; i'm not going to have you marrying any dick, tom or harry that's daring enough to lift his eyes to you and cheeky enough to offer. and when the thought came in my mind, i very soon found that this event rose up ideas that might have slumbered till eternity, but for job legg. and that's why i say providence is in it. i've felt a great admiration for your judgment, and good sense, and fine appearance, ever since the blow fell and your husband was taken. and we know each other pretty close and have got no secrets from each other. and now you may say i've suddenly seen the light; and if you've got half the opinion of me that i have of you, no doubt you'll thank your god to hear what i'm saying and answer according." "good powers! you want to marry me yourself?" gasped mrs. northover. "by all your 'seven stars' i do," he said. "in fact, i want for 'the tiger' to swallow the 'seven stars,' in a poetical way of speaking. i'm a downright man and never take ten minutes where five's enough, so there it is. it came over me last night as a thing that must be--like the conversion of paul. and i'll go further; i won't have you beat about the bush, nelly. you're the sort of woman that can make up your mind in a big thing as quick as you can in a small thing. i consider there's been a good deal of a delicate and tender nature going on between us, though we were too busy to notice it; but now the bud have burst into flower, and i see amazing clear we were made for each other. in fact, i ain't going to take 'no' for an answer, my dear. i've never asked a female to marry me until this hour; and i have not waited into greyness and ripeness to hear a negative. i'm sure of myself, naturally, and i well know that you'd only be a thought less fortunate than i shall be." "stop!" she said, "and let me think. i'm terrible flattered at this, and i'll go so far as to say there's rhyme and reason in it, richard. but you run on so. i feel my will power fairly oozing out of me." "not at all," he answered. "your will power's what i rely upon. you're a forceful person yourself and you naturally approve of forcefulness in others. there's no reason why you shouldn't love me as well as i love you; and, for that matter, you do." "well, i must have time. i must drop legg civilly and break it to him gradual." "i'll meet you there. you needn't tell him you're going to be married all in a minute. he'll find that out for himself very quick. so will everybody. if a thing's worth doing, try to do it--that's my motto. but, for the moment, you can say that your affections are given in another quarter." "of course, it's a great thing for me, richard. i'm very proud of it." "and so am i. and job legg was the dumb instrument, so i am the last to quarrel with him. just tell him, that failing another, you might have thought on him; but that the die is cast; and when he hears his fate, he'll naturally want to know who 'tis. and then the great secret must come out. i should reckon after easter would be a very good time for us to wed." "i can't believe my senses," she said. "you will in a week," he assured her; "and, meanwhile, i shall do my best to help you. in a week the joyful tidings go out to the people." he kissed her, shook her hand and squeezed it. then he departed leaving mrs. northover in the extremity of bewilderment. but pleasure and great pride formed no small part of her mingled emotions. one paramount necessity darkened all, however. nelly felt a very sharp pang when she thought upon mr. legg, and her sufferings increased as the day advanced until they quite mastered the situation and clouded the brightness of conquest. other difficulties and doubts also obtruded as she began to estimate the immensity of the thing that mr. gurd's ardour had prompted her to do; but job was the primal problem and she knew that she could not sleep until she had made her peace with him. she determined to leave him in no doubt concerning his successful rival. the confession would indeed make it easier for them both. at least she hoped it might do so. he came for keys after closing time and she bade him sit down in the chair which richard gurd had that morning filled. one notes trifles at the supremest moments of life, and the trifles often stick, while the great events which accompany them fade into the past. mrs. northover observed that while richard gurd had filled the chair--and overflowed, mr. legg by no means did so. he occupied but the centre of the spacious seat. there seemed a significance in that. "sit down, job, and listen. i've got to say something that will hurt you, my dear man. i've made my choice, after a good bit of deep thought i assure you, and i've--i've chosen the other, job." he stared and his thin jaws worked. his nostrils also twitched. "i didn't know there was another." "more didn't i," answered she. "i'm nothing if not honest, and i tell you frankly that i didn't know it either till he offered. he was a lifelong friend, and i asked him about what i ought to be doing, and then it came out he had already thought of me as a wife and was biding his time. he had nought but praise for you, as all men have; but there it is--richard gurd is very wishful to marry me; and you must understand this clearly, job. if it had been any lesser man than him, or any other man in the world, for that matter, i wouldn't have taken him. i'm very fond of you, and a finer character i've never known; but when richard offered--well, you're among the clever ones and i'm sure you'd be the last to put yourself up against a man of his standing and fame. and my first husband's lifelong friend, you must remember. and though, after all these years, it may seem strange to a great many people, it won't seem strange to you, i hope." "it's a very ill-convenient time to hear this," said mr. legg mildly. then he stopped and regarded her with his little, shrewd eyes. he seemed less occupied with the tremendous present than the future. presently he went on again, while mrs. northover stared at him with an expression of genuine sadness. "all i can say is that i wish gurd had offered sooner, and not led me into this tremendous misfortune. of course, him and me aren't in the same street and i won't pretend it, for none would be deceived if i did. but i say again it's very unfortunate he hung fire till he heard that i had made my offer. for if he'd spoke first, i should have held my peace and gone on my appointed way and stopped at 'the seven stars.' but now, if this happens, all is over and the course of my life is changed. in fact, it is not too much to say i shall leave bridport, though how any person can live comfortably away from bridport, i don't know." mrs. northover felt relief that he should thus fasten on such a minor issue, and never liked him better than at that moment. "thank god, he's took it, lying down!" she thought, then spoke. "don't you leave, my dear man. bridport won't be bridport without you, and you've always been a true and valued friend to me, and such a helpful and sensible creature that i shall only know in the next world all i owe you. and between us, i don't see no reason at all why you shouldn't go on as my potman and--more than that--why shouldn't you marry a nice woman yourself and bring her here, if you've got a mind to it!" he expressed no indignation. again, it seemed that the future was his sole concern and that he designed to waste no warmth on his disappointment. "there never was but one woman for me and never will be; and as to stopping here, i might, or i might not, for i've always had my feelings under very nice control and shouldn't break the rule of a lifetime. but you won't be at 'the seven stars' yourself much longer, and i certainly don't serve under any other but you. in fact this house and garden would only be a deserted wilderness to my view, if you wasn't reigning over 'em." he spoke in his usual emotionless voice, but he woke very active phenomena in mrs. northover. her face grew troubled and she looked into his eyes with a frown. "me gone! what do you mean, legg? me leave 'the seven stars' after thirty-four years?" "no doubt your first would turn in his grave if you did," he admitted; "but what about it? when you're mistress of 'the tiger'--well, then you're mistress of 'the tiger,' and you can't be in two places at once--clever as you are." he had given her something to think about. the possibility of guile in mr. legg had never struck the least, or greatest, of his admirers. he was held a simple soul of transparent probity, yet, for a moment, it almost seemed as though his last remark carried an inner meaning. nelly dismissed the suspicion as unworthy of job; but none the less, though he had doubtless spoken without any sinister purpose, his opinions gave her pause. indeed, they shook her. she had been too much excited to look ahead. now she was called to do so. mr. legg removed the bunch of keys from its nail and prepared to go on his way. she felt weak. "to play second fiddle for the rest of your life after playing first for a quarter of a century is a far-reaching thought," she said. "without a doubt it would be," he admitted. "of course, with some men you wouldn't be called to do it. with richard gurd, you would." "to leave 'the seven stars'! somehow i'd always regarded our place as a higher class establishment than 'the tiger'--along of the tea-gardens and pleasure ground and the class of company." "and quite right to do so. but that's only your opinion, and mine. it won't be his. good night." he left her deep in thought, then five minutes afterwards thrust his long nose round the door again. "the english of it is you can't have anything for nothing--not in this weary world," he said. then he disappeared. a week later sarah northover came to see her aunt and congratulate her on the great news. "now people know it," said sarah, "they all wonder how ever 'twas you and mister gurd didn't marry long ago." "we've been wondering the same, for that matter, and richard takes the blame--naturally, since i couldn't say the word before he asked the question. but for your ear and only yours, sarah, i can whisper that this thing didn't go by rule. and in sober honesty i do believe if he hadn't heard another man wanted me, mister gurd would never have found out he did. but such are the strange things that happen in human nature, no doubt." "another!" said sarah. "they're making up for lost time, seemingly." "another, and a good man," declared her aunt; "but his name is sacred, and you mustn't ask to know it." sarah related events at bridetown. "you've heard, of course, about the goings on? mister ironsyde don't marry sabina, and her mother wants to have the law against him; but though sabina's in a sad state and got to be watched, she won't have the law. we only hear scraps about it, because nancy buckler, her great friend, is under oath of secrecy. but if he shows his face at bridetown, it's very likely he'll be man-handled. then, against that, there's rumours in the air he'll make great changes at the mill, and may put up all our money. in that case, i don't think he'd be treated very rough, because, as my mister roberts says, 'self-preservation is the first law of nature,' and always have been; and if he's going to better us it will mean a lot." "don't you be too hopeful, however," warned mrs. northover. "there's a deal of difference between holding the reins yourself and saying sharp things against them who are. he's hard, and last time he was in this house but one, he got as drunk as a lord and legg helped him to bed. and he quarrelled very sharp with mister gurd for giving him good advice; and richard says the young man is iron painted to look like wood. and he's rarely mistook." "but he always did tell us we never got enough money for our work," argued sarah. "and if anything comes of it and nicholas and me earn five bob more a week between us, it means marriage. so i'm in a twitter." "what does john best say?" "nought. we can't get a word out of him. all we know is we're cruel busy and orders flow in like a river. but that was poor mister daniel's work, no doubt." "marriage is in the air, seemingly," reflected nelly. "it mightn't be altogether a bad thing if you and me went to the altar together, sarah. 'twas always understood you'd be married from 'the seven stars,' and the sight of a young bride and bridegroom would soften the ceremony a bit and distract the eye from me and richard." "good lord!" answered the girl. "there won't be no eyes for small folks like us on the day you take mister gurd. 'twould be one expense without a doubt; but i'm certain positive he wouldn't like for us little people to be mixed up with it. 'twould lessen the blaze from his point of view, and a man such as him wouldn't approve of that." "perhaps you're right," admitted her aunt, with a massive sigh. "he's a masterful piece, and the affair will be carried out as he wills." "i can't see you away from 'the seven stars,' somehow, aunt nelly." "that's what everybody says. more can't i see myself away for that matter. but richard said 'the tiger' would swallow 'the seven stars,' and i know what he meant now." chapter xxv the woman's darkness the blood of sabina dinnett was poisoned through an ordeal of her life when it should have run at its purest and sweetest. that the man who had promised to marry her, had exhausted the vocabulary of love for her, should thus cast her off, struck her into a frantic calenture which, for a season, threatened her existence. the surprise of his decision was not absolute and utter, otherwise such a shock might indeed have killed her; but there lacked not many previous signs to show that raymond ironsyde had strayed from his old enthusiasm and found the approach of marriage finally quench love. the wronged girl could look back and see a thousand such warnings, while she remembered also a dark dread in her heart as to what might possibly overtake her on the death of daniel. true the shadow had lasted but a moment; she banished it, as unworthy, and preferred to dwell on the increased happiness and prosperity that must accrue to raymond; but the passing fear had touched her first, and she could look back now and mark how deeply doubt tinctured all her waking hours since the necessity arose for raymond to wed. for a few days she raged and was only comforted with difficulty. mr. churchouse and jenny ironsyde both visited sabina and bade her control herself and keep calm, lest worst things should happen to her. ernest was still sanguine that the young man would regret his suggestions; but jenny quenched this hope. "it is all of a piece," she said, "and, looking back, i see it. his instinct and will are against any such binding thing as marriage. he wants to make her happy; but if to do so is to make himself miserable, then she must go unhappy. some bad girls might accept his offer; but sabina, of course, cannot. she is not made of the stuff to sink to this, and it was only because he always insisted on the vital need for her to complete his life, that she forgot her wisdom in the past and believed they were really the complement of each other. as if a woman ever was, or ever will be, the real complement of a man, or a man, the complement of a woman! they are only complementary as meat and drink to the hungry." after some days sabina read raymond's letter again and it now awoke a new passion. at first she had hated herself and talked of doing herself an injury; but this was hysteria bred of suffering, since she had not the temperament to commit self-destruction. now her rage burned against the child that she was doomed to bring into the world, and she brooded secretly on how its end might be accomplished. she knew the peril to herself of any such attempt; but while she could not have committed suicide, she faced the thought of the necessary risks. if the child lived, the hateful link must exist forever, if it perished, she would be free. so she argued. full of this idea, she rose from her bed, went about and found some little consolation in the sympathy of her friends. they cursed the man until they heard what he had written to her. then a change came over their criticism, for they were not tuned to sabina's pitch, and it seemed to them, from their more modest standards of education, combined with the diminished self-respect where ignorance obtains, that raymond's offer was fair--even handsome. some, indeed, still mourned with her and shared her fierce indignation; some simulated anger to please her; but most confessed to themselves that she had not much to grumble at. a wise woman warned her against any attempt to tamper with the child. it was too late and the danger far too serious. so she passed through the second phase of her sufferings and went from hatred of herself and loathing of her load, to acute detestation of the man who had destroyed her. his offer seemed to her more villainous than his desertion. his ignorance of her true self, the insolence and contempt that prompted such a proposal, the view of her--these thoughts lashed her into fury. she longed for some one to help her against him and treat him as he deserved to be treated. she felt equal to making any sacrifice, if only he might be debased and scorned and pointed at as he deserved to be. she felt that her emotions must be shared by every honourable woman and decent man. her spirit hungered for a great revenge. at first she dreamed of a personal action. she longed to tear him with her nails, outrage him in people's eyes and make him suffer in his flesh; but that passed: she knew she could not do it. a man was needed to extort punishment from raymond. but no man existed who would undertake the task. she must then find such a man. she even sought him. but she did not find him. the search led to bitter discoveries. if women could forgive her betrayer; if women could say, as presently they said, that she did not know her luck, men were still more indifferent. the attitude of the world to her sufferings horrified sabina. she had none to love her--none, at least, to show his love by assaulting and injuring her enemy. only a certain number even took up the cudgels for her in speech. of these levi baggs, the hackler, was the strongest. but his misanthropy embraced her also. he had said harsh things of his new master; but neither had he spared the victim. upon these three great periods, of rage, futile passion, and hate, there followed a lethargy from which ernest churchouse tried in vain to rouse sabina. he apprehended worse results from this coma of mind and body than from the flux of her natural indignation. he spent much time with her and bade her hope that raymond might still reconsider his future. none had yet seen him since his brother's funeral, and his aunt received no answer to a very strenuous plea. he wrote to her, indeed, about affairs, and even asked her for advice upon certain matters; but they affected the past and daniel rather than the future and himself. she could not fail to notice the supreme change that power had brought with it; his very handwriting seemed to have acquired a firmer line; while his diction certainly showed more strength of purpose. could power modify character? it seemed impossible. she supposed, rather, that character, latent till this sudden change of fortune, had been revealed by power. her first fears for the future of the business abated; but with increasing respect for raymond, the former affection perished. she was firm in her moral standards, and to find his first use of power an evasion of solemn and sacred promises, made miss ironsyde raymond's enemy. that he ignored her appeals to his manhood and honesty did not modify her changed attitude. she found herself much wounded by his callous conduct, and while his past weakness had been forgiven, his new strength proved unforgivable. her appeal was, however, indirectly acknowledged, for sabina received another letter from raymond in which he mentioned miss ironsyde's communication. "my aunt," he wrote, "does not realise the situation, or appreciate the fact that love may remain a much more enduring and lively emotion outside marriage than inside it. there are, of course, people who find chains bearable enough, and even grow to like them, as convicts were said to do; but you are not such a craven, no more am i. we must think of the future, not the past, and i feel very sure that if we married, the result would be death to our friendship. we had a splendid time, and we might still have a splendid time, if you could be unconventional and realise how many other women are also. but probably you have decided against my suggestions, or i should have heard from you. so i suppose you hate me, and i'm awfully sorry to think it. you won't come to me, then. but that doesn't lessen my obligations, and i'm going to take every possible care of you and your child, sabina, whether you come or not. he is my child, too, and i shan't forget it. if you would like to see me you shall when i return to bridport, pretty soon now; but if you would rather not do so, then let me know who represents you, and i will hear what you and your mother would wish." she wrote several answers to this and destroyed them. they were bitter and contemptuous, and as each was finished she realised its futility. she could but sting; she could not seriously hurt. even her sting would not trouble him much, for a man who had done what he had done, was proof against the scorn and hate of a woman. only greater power than his own could make him feel. her powerlessness maddened her--her powerlessness contrasted with his remorseless strength. but he used his strength like a coward. some of her friends urged her to take legal action against raymond ironsyde and demand mighty damages. "you can hurt him there, if you can't anywhere else," said nancy buckler. "you say you're too weak to hurt him, but you're not. knock his money out of him; you ought to get thousands." her mother, for a time, was of the same opinion. it seemed a right and reasonable thing that sabina should not be called upon to face her ruined life without some compensation, but she found herself averse from this. the thought of touching his money, or availing herself of it in any way, was horrible to her. she knew, moreover, that such an arrangement would go far to soothe raymond's conscience; and the more he paid, probably the happier he would feel. for other causes also she declined to take any legal steps against him, and in this decision ernest churchouse supported her. he had been her prime consolation indeed, and though, at first, his line of argument only left sabina impatient, by degrees--by very slow degrees--she inclined to him and suffered herself to hope he might not be mistaken. he urged patience and silence. he held that raymond ironsyde would presently return to that better and worthier self, which could not be denied him. his own abounding charity, where humanity was concerned, honestly induced ernest to hope and almost believe that the son of henry ironsyde had made these proposals under excitation of mind; that he was thrown off his balance by the pressure of events; and that, presently, when he had time to remember the facts concerning sabina, he would be heartily ashamed of himself and make the only adequate amends. it was not unnatural that the girl should find in this theory her highest consolation. she clung to it desperately, though few but mr. churchouse himself accounted it of any consequence. him, however, she had been accustomed to consider the fountain of wisdom, and though, with womanhood, she had lived to see his opinions mistaken and his trust often abused, yet disappointments did not change a sanguine belief in his fellow creatures. so, thankful to repose her mind on another, sabina for a while came to standing-ground in her storm-stricken journey. each day was an eternity, but she strove to be patient. and, meantime, she wrote and posted a letter to her old lover. it was not angry, or even petulant. indeed, she made her appeal with dignity and good choice of words. before all she insisted on the welfare of the child, and reminded him of the cruelty inflicted from birth on any baby unlawfully born in england. mr. churchouse had instructed her in this matter, and she asked raymond if he could find it in his heart to allow the child of their common love and worship to come into the world unrecognised by the world, deprived of recognition and human rights. he answered the letter vaguely and mr. churchouse read a gleam of hope into his words, but neither sabina nor her mother were able to do so. for he spoke only of recognising his responsibilities and paternal duty. he bade her fear nothing for the child, or herself, and assured her that her future would be his care and first obligation as long as he lived. in these assertions mr. churchouse saw a wakening dawn, but mary dinnett declared otherwise. the man was widening the gap; his original idea, that sabina should live with him, had dearly been abandoned. then the contradictions of human nature appeared, and mary, who had been the first to declare her deep indignation at raymond's cynical proposal, began to weaken and even wonder if sabina had done wisely not to discuss that matter. "not that ever you should have done it," she hastened to add; "but if you'd been a bit crafty and not ruled it out altogether, you might have built on it and got friendly again and gradually worked him back to his duty." then mr. churchouse protested, in the name of righteousness, while she argued that god helps those that help themselves, and that wickedness should be opposed with craft. sabina listened to them helplessly and her last hope died out. chapter xxvi of human nature nicholas roberts drove his lathes in a lofty chamber separated by wooden walls from the great central activities of the spinning mill. despite the flying sparks from his emery wheels, he always kept a portrait of sarah northover before him; and certain pictures of notable sportsmen also hung with sarah above the benches whereon nicholas pursued his task. his work was to put a fresh face on the wooden reels and rollers that formed a part of the machines; for running hemp or flax will groove the toughest wood in time, and so ruin the control of the rollers and spoil the thread. the wood curled away like paper before the teeth of the lathes, and the chisels of these, in their turn, had often to be set upon spinning stones. it was noisy work, and nicholas now stopped his grindstone that he might hear his own voice and that of mr. best, who came suddenly into the shop. the foreman spoke of some new wood for roller turning. "it should be here this week," he said. "i told them we were running short. you may expect a good batch of plane and beech by thursday." they discussed the work of roberts and presently turned to the paramount question in every mind at the mill. all naturally desired to know when raymond ironsyde would make his appearance and what would happen when he did so; but while some, having regard for his conduct, felt he would not dare to appear again himself, others believed that one so insensible to honesty and decency would be indifferent to all opinions entertained of him. such suspected that the criticisms of bridetown would be too unimportant to trouble the new master. and it seemed that they were right, for now came ernest churchouse seeking mr. best. he looked into the turning-shop, saw john and entered. "he's coming next week, but perhaps you know it," he began. "and if you haven't heard, be sure you will at any moment." "then our fate is in store," declared nicholas. "some hope nothing, but, seeing that with all his faults he's a sportsman, i do hope a bit. there's plenty beside me who remember his words very well, and they pointed to an all-around rise for men and women alike." "there was a rumour of violence against him. you don't apprehend anything of that sort, i hope?" asked ernest of best. "a few--more women than men--had a plot, i believe, but i haven't heard any more about it. baggs is the ringleader; but if there was any talk of raising the money, he'd find himself deserted. he's very bitter just now, however, and as he's got the pleasant experience of being right for once, you may be sure he's making the most of it." "i'll see him," said mr. churchouse. "i always find him the most difficult character possible; but he must know that to answer violence with violence is vain. patience may yet find the solution. i have by no means given up hope that right will be done." "come and tell levi, then. him and me are out for the moment, because i won't join him in calling down evil on mister ironsyde's head. but what's the sense of losing your temper in other people's quarrels? better keep it for your own, i say." they found levi baggs grumbling to himself over a mass of badly scutched flax; but when he heard that raymond ironsyde was coming, he grew philosophic. "if we could only learn from what we work in," he said, "we'd have the lawless young dog at our mercy. but, of course, we shall not. why don't the yarn teach us a lesson? why don't it show us that, though the thread is nought, and you can break it, same as raymond ironsyde can break me or you, yet when you get to the twist, and the doubling and the trebling, then it's strong enough to defy anything. and if we combined as we ought, we shouldn't be waiting here to listen to what he's got to say; we should be waiting here to tell him what we've got to say. if we had the wit and understanding to twist our threads into one rope against the wickedness of the world, then we should have it all our own way." "yes--all your own way to do your own wickedness," declared best. "we know very well what your idea of fairness is. you look upon capital as a natural enemy, and if raymond ironsyde was an angel with wings, you'd still feel to him that he was a foe and not a friend." "the tradition is in the blood," declared levi. "capital is our natural enemy, as you say. our fathers knew it, and we know it, and our children will know it." "your fathers had a great deal more sense than you have, baggs," declared mr. churchouse. "and if you only remember the past a little, you wouldn't grumble quite so loudly at the present. but labour has a short memory and no gratitude, unfortunately. you're always shouting out what must be done for you; you never spare a thought on what has been done. you never look back at the working-class drudgery of bygone days--to the 'forties' of last century, when your fathers went to work at the curfew bell and earned eighteen-pence a week as apprentices, and two shillings a week and a penny for themselves after they had learned their business. a good spinner in those days might earn five shillings a week, levi--and that out of doors in fair weather. in foul, he, or she, wouldn't do so well. if you had told your fathers seventy years ago that all the spinning walks would be done away with and the population better off notwithstanding, they would never have believed it." "that's the way to look at the subject, levi," declared john best. "think what the men of the past would have said to our luck--and our education." "machinery brought the spinning indoors," continued ernest. "i can remember forty spinning walks in st. michael's lane alone. and with small wages and long hours, remember the price of things, levi; remember the fearful price of bare necessities. clothes were so dear that many a labourer went to church in his smock frock all his life. many never donned broadcloth from their cradle to their grave. and tea five shillings a pound, levi baggs! they used to buy it by the ounce and brew it over and over again. think of the little children, too, and how they were made to work. think of them and feel your heart ache." "my heart aches for myself," answered the hackler, "because i very well remember what my own childhood was. and i'm not saying the times don't better. i'm saying we must keep at 'em, or they'll soon slip back again into the old, bad ways. capital's always pulling against labour and would get back its evil mastery to-morrow if it could. so we need to keep awake, to see we don't lose what we've won, but add to it. now here's a man that's a servant by instinct, and it's in his blood to knuckle under." he pointed to best. "i'm for no man more than another," answered john. "i stand not for man or woman in particular. i'm for the mill first and last and always. i think of what is best for the mill and put it above the welfare of the individual, whatever he represents--capital or labour." "that's where you're wrong. the people are the mill and only the people," declared baggs. "the rest is iron and steel and flax and hemp and steam--dead things all. we are the mill, not the stuff in it, or the man that happens to be the new master." "mr. raymond has expressed admirable sentiments in my hearing," declared ernest churchouse. "for so young a man, he has a considerable grasp of the situation and progressive ideas. you might be in worse hands." "might we? how worse? what can be worse than a man that lies to women and seduces an innocent girl under promise of marriage? what can be worse than a coward and traitor, who does a thing like that, and when he finds he's strong enough to escape the consequences, escapes them?" "heaven knows i'm not condoning his conduct, levi. he has behaved as badly as a young man could, and not a word of extenuation will you hear from me. i'm not speaking of him as a part of the social order; i'm speaking of him as master of the mill. as master here he may be a successful man and you'll do well to bear in mind that he must be judged by results. morally, he's a failure, and you are right to condemn him; but don't let that make you an enemy to him as owner of the works. be just, and don't be prejudiced against him in one capacity because he's failed in another." "a bad man is a bad man," answered baggs stoutly, "and a blackguard's a blackguard. and if you are equal to doing one dirty trick, your fellow man has a right to distrust you all through. you've got to look at a question through your own spectacles, and i won't hear no nonsense about the welfare of the mill, because the welfare of the mill means to me--levi baggs--my welfare--and, no doubt, it means to that godless rip, his welfare. you mark me--a man that can ruin one girl won't be very tender about fifty girls and women. and if you think raymond ironsyde will take any steps to better the workers at the expense of the master, you're wrong, and don't know nothing about human nature." john best looked at mr. churchouse doubtfully. "there's sense in that, i'm fearing," he said. "when you say 'human nature,' levi, you sum the whole situation," answered ernest mildly. "because human nature is like the sea--you never know when you put a net into it what you'll drag up to the light of day. human nature is never exhausted, and it abounds in contradictions. you cannot make hard and fast laws for it, and you cannot, if you are philosophically inclined, presume to argue about it as though it were a consistent and unchanging factor. history is full of examples of men defeating their own characters, of falling away from their own ideals, yet struggling back to them. careers have dawned in beauty and promise and set in blood and failure; and, again, you find people who make a bad start, yet manage to retrieve the situation. in a word, you cannot argue from the past to the future, where human nature is concerned. it is a series of surprises, some gratifying and some very much the reverse. there's always room for hope with the worst and fear with the best of us." "it's easy for you to talk," growled mr. baggs. "but talk don't take the place of facts. i say a blackguard's always a blackguard and defy any man to disprove it." "if you want facts, you can have them," replied ernest. "my researches into history have made me sanguine in this respect. many have been vicious in youth and proved stout enemies to vice at a later time. themistocles did much evil. his father disowned him--and he drove his mother to take her own life for grief at his sins. yet, presently, the ugly bud put forth a noble flower. nicholas west was utterly wicked in his youth and committed such crimes that he was driven from college after burning his master's dwelling-house. yet light dawned for this young man and he ended his days as bishop of ely. titus vespasianus emulated nero in his early rascalities; but having donned the imperial purple, he cast away his evil companions and was accounted good as well as great. henry v. of england was another such man, who reformed himself to admiration. augustine began badly, and declared as a jest that he would rather have his lust satisfied than extinguished. yet this man ended as a saint of christ. i could give you many other examples, levi." "then we'll hope for the best," said john. but mr. baggs only sneered. "we hear of the converted sinners," he said; "but we don't hear of the victims that suffered their wickedness before they turned into saints. let raymond ironsyde be twenty saints rolled into one, that won't make sabina dinnett an honest woman, or her child a lawful child." "never jump to conclusions," advised ernest. "even that may come right. nothing is impossible." "that's a great thought--that nothing's impossible," declared mr. best. they argued, each according to his character and bent of mind, and, while the meliorists cheered each other, mr. baggs laughed at them and held their aspirations vain. chapter xxvii the master of the mill raymond ironsyde came to bridetown. he rode in from bridport, and met john best by appointment early on a march morning. with the words of ernest churchouse still in his ears, the foreman felt profound interest to learn what might be learned considering the changes in his master's character. he found a new raymond, yet as the older writing of a parchment palimpsest will sometimes make itself apparent behind the new, glimpses of his earlier self did not lack. the things many remembered and hoped that ironsyde would remember were not forgotten by him. but instead of the old, vague generalities and misty assurance of goodwill, he now declared definite plans based on knowledge. he came armed with figures and facts, and his method of expression had changed from ideas to intentions. his very manner chimed with his new power. he was decisive, and quite devoid of sentimentality. he feared none, but his attitude to all had changed. they spoke in mr. best's office and he marked how the works came first in raymond's regard. "i've been putting in a lot of time on the machine question," he said. "as you know, that always interested me most before i thought i should have much say in the matter. well, there's no manner of doubt we're badly behind the times. you can't deny it, john. you know better than anybody what we want, and it must be your work to go on with what you began to do for my brother. i don't want to rush at changes and then find i've wasted capital without fair results; but it's clear to me that a good many of our earlier operations are not done as well and swiftly as they might be." "that's true. the carder is out of date and the spreader certainly is." "the thing is to get the best substitutes in the market. you'll have to go round again in a larger spirit. i'm not frightened of risks. is there anybody here who can take your place for a month or six weeks?" mr. best shook his head. "there certainly is not," he said. "then we must look round bridport for a man. i'm prepared to put money into the changes, provided i have you behind me. i can trust you absolutely to know; but i advocate a more sporting policy than my poor brother did. after that we come to the people. i've got my business at my fingers' ends now and i found i was better at figures than i thought. there must be some changes. there are two problems: time and money. either one or other; or probably both must be bettered--that's what i am faced with." "it wants careful thinking out, sir." "well, you are a great deal more to me than my foreman, and you know it. i look to you and only you to help me run the show at bridetown, henceforth. and, before everything, i want my people to be keen and feel my good is their good and their good is mine. anyway, i have based changes on a fair calculation of future profits, plus necessary losses and need to make up wear and tear." "and remember, raw products tend to rise in price all the time." "as to that, i'm none too sure we've been buying in the best market. when i know more about it, i may travel a bit myself. meantime, i'm changing two of our travellers." mr. best nodded. "that's to the good," he said. "i know which. poor mr. daniel would keep them, because his father had told him they were all they ought to be. but least said, soonest mended." "as to the staff, it's summed up in a word. i mean for them a little less time and a little more money. some would like longer hours and much higher wages; some would be content with a little more money; some only talked about shorter time. i heard them all air their opinions in the past. but i've concluded for somewhat shorter hours and somewhat better money. you must rub it into them that new machinery will indirectly help them, too, and make the work lighter and the results better." "that's undoubtedly true, but it's no good saying so. you'll never make them feel that new machinery helps them. but they'll be very glad of a little more money." "we must enlarge their minds and make them understand that the better the machinery, the better their prospects. as i go up--and i mean to--so they shall go up. but our hope of success lies in the mechanical means we employ. they must grasp that intelligently, and be patient, and not expect me to put them before the mill. if the works succeed, then they succeed and i succeed. if the works hang fire and get behindhand, then they will suffer. we're all the servants of the machinery. i want them to grasp that." "it's difficult for them; but no doubt they'll get to see it," answered john. "they must. that's the way to success in my opinion. it's a very interesting subject--the most interesting to me--always was. the machinery, i mean. i may go to america, presently. of course, they can give us a start and a beating at machinery there." "we must remember the driving power," said best. "the driving power can be raised, like everything else. if we haven't got enough power, we must increase it. i've thought of that, too, as a matter of fact." "you can't increase what the river will do; but, of course, you can get a stronger steam engine." "not so sure about the river. there's a new thing--american, of course--called a turbine. but no hurry for that. we've got all the power we want for the minute. that's one virtue of some of the new machinery: it doesn't demand so much power in some cases." but best was very sceptical on this point. they discussed other matters and raymond detailed his ideas as to the alteration of hours and wages. for the most part his foreman had no objections to offer, and when he did question the figures, he was overruled. but he felt constrained to praise. "it's wonderful how you've gone into it," he said. "i never should have thought you'd have had such a head for detail, mister raymond." "no more should i, john. i surprised myself. but when you are working for another person--that's one thing; when you are working for yourself--that's another thing. not much virtue in what i've done, as it is for myself in the long run. when you tell them, explain that i'm not a philanthropist--only a man of business in future. but before all things fair and straight. i mean to be fair to them and to the machinery, too. and to the machinery i look to make all our fortunes. i should have done a little more to start with--for the people i mean; but the death duties are the devil. in fact, i start crippled by them. tell them that and make them understand what they mean on an enterprise of this sort." they went through the works together presently and it was clear that the new owner fixed a gulf between the past and the future. his old easy manner had vanished--and, while friendly enough, he made it quite clear that a vast alteration had come into his mind and manners. it seemed incredible that six months before raymond was chaffing the girls and bringing them fruit. he called them by their names as of yore; but they knew in a moment he had moved with his fortunes and their own manner instinctively altered. he was kind and pleasant, but far more interested in their work than them; and they drew conclusions from the fact. they judged his attitude with gloom and were the more agreeably surprised when they learned what advantages had been planned for them. levi baggs and benny cogle, the engineman, grumbled that more was not done; but the women, who judged raymond from his treatment of sabina and hoped nothing from his old promises, were gratified and astonished at what they heard. an improved sentiment towards the new master was manifest. the instinct to judge people at your own tribunal awoke, and while sally groves and old mrs. chick held out for morals, the other women did not. already they had realised that the idle youth they could answer was gone. and with him had gone the young man who amused himself with a spinner. of course, he could not be expected to marry sabina. such things did not happen out of story books; and if you tried to be too clever for your situation, this was the sort of thing that befell you. so argued nancy buckler and mercy gale; nor did sarah northover much differ from them. none had been fiercer for sabina than nancy, yet her opinion, before the spectacle of raymond himself and after she heard his intentions, was modified. to see him so alert, so aloof from the girls, translated to a higher interest, had altered nancy. despite her asperity and apparent independence of thought, her mind was servile, as the ignorant mind is bound to be. she paid the unconscious deference of weakness to power. raymond lunched at north hill house--now his property. he had not seen waldron since the great change in his fortunes and arthur, with the rest, was quick to perceive the difference. they met in friendship and estelle kissed raymond as she was accustomed to do; but the alteration in him, while missed by her, was soon apparent to her father. it took the shape of a more direct and definite method of thinking. raymond no longer uttered his opinions inconsiderately, as though confessing they were worthless even while he spoke them. he weighed his words, jested far less often, and did not turn serious subjects into laughter. waldron suggested certain things to his new landlord that he desired should be done; but he was amused in secret that some work raymond had blamed daniel for not doing, he now refused to do himself. "i've no objection, old chap--none at all. the other points you raise i shall carry out at my own expense; but the french window in the drawing-room, while an excellent addition to the room, is not a necessity. so you must do that yourself." thus he spoke and arthur agreed. estelle only found him unchanged. before her he was always jovial and happy. he liked to hear her talk and listen to her budding theories of life and pretty dreams of what the world ought to be, if people would only take a little more trouble for other people. but estelle was painfully direct. she thought for herself and had not yet learned to hide her ideas, modify their shapes, or muffle their outlines when presenting them to another person. mr. churchouse and her father were responsible for this. they encouraged her directness and, while knowing that she outraged opinion sometimes, could not bring themselves to warn her, or stain the frankness of her views, with the caution that good manners require thought should not go nude. now the peril of estelle's principles appeared when lunch was finished and the servants had withdrawn. "i didn't speak before lucy and agnes," she said, "because they might talk about it afterwards." "bless me! how cunning she's getting!" laughed raymond. but he did not laugh long. estelle handed him his coffee and lit a match for his cigar; while arthur, guessing what was coming, resigned himself helplessly to the storm. "sabina is fearfully unhappy, ray. she loves you so much, and i hope you will change your mind and marry her after all, because if you do, she'll love her baby, too, and look forward to it very much. but if you don't, she'll hate her baby. and it would be a dreadful thing for the poor little baby to come into the world hated." to waldron's intense relief raymond showed no annoyance whatever. he was gentle and smiled at estelle. "so it would, chicky--it would be a dreadful thing for a baby to come into the world hated. but don't you worry. nobody's going to hate it." "i'll tell sabina that. sabina's sure to have a nice baby, because she's so nice herself." "sure to. and i shall be a very good friend to the baby without marrying sabina." "if she knows that, it ought to comfort her," declared estelle. "and i shall be a great friend to it, too." her father bade the child be off on an errand presently and expressed his regrets to the guest when she was gone. "awfully sorry, old chap, but she's so unearthly and simple; and though i've often told myself to preach to her, i never can quite do it." "never do. she'll learn to hide her thoughts soon enough. nothing she can say would annoy me. for that matter she's only saying what a great many other people are thinking and haven't the pluck to say. the truth is this, arthur; when i was a poor man i was a weak man, and i should have married sabina and we should both have had a hell of a life, no doubt. now the death of daniel has made me a strong man, and i'm not doing wrong as the result; i'm doing right. i can afford to do right and not mind the consequences. and the truth about life is that half the people who do wrong, only do it because they can't afford to do right." "that's a comforting doctrine--for the poor." "it's like this. sabina is a very dear girl, and i loved her tremendously, and if she'd gone on being the same afterwards, i should have married her. but she changed, and i saw that we could never be really happy together as man and wife. there are things in her that would have ruined my temper, and there are things in me she would have got to hate more and more. as a matter of brutal fact, arthur, she got to dislike me long before things came to a climax. she had to hide it, because, from her standpoint and her silly mother's, marriage is the only sort of salvation. whereas for us it would have been damnation. it's very simple; she's got to think as i think and then she'll be all right." "you can't make people think your way, if they prefer to think their own." "it's merely the line of least resistance and what will pay her best. i want you to grasp the fact that she had ceased to like me before there was any reason why she should cease to like me. i'll swear she had. my first thought and intention, when i heard what had happened, was to marry her right away. and what changed my feeling about it, and showed me devilish clear it would be a mistake, was sabina herself. we needn't go over that. but i'm not going to marry her now under any circumstances whatever, while recognising very clearly my duty to her and the child. and though you may say it's humbug, i'm thinking quite as much for her as myself when i say this." "i don't presume to judge. you're not a humbug--no good sportsman is in my experience. if you do everything right for the child, i suppose the world has no reason to criticise." "as long as i'm right with myself, i don't care one button what the world says, arthur. there's nothing quicker opens your eyes, or helps you to take larger views, than independence." "i see that." "all the same, it's a steadying thing if you're honest and have got brains in your head. people thought i was a shallow, easy, good-natured and good-for-nothing fool six months ago. well, they thought wrong. but don't think i'm pleased with myself, or any nonsense of that sort. only a fool is pleased with himself. i've wasted my life till now, because i had no ambition. now i'm beginning it and trying to get things into their proper perspective. when i had no responsibilities, i was irresponsible. now they've come, i'm stringing myself up to meet them." "life's given you your chance." "exactly; and i hope to show i can take it. but i'm not going to start by making an ass of myself to please a few old women." "where shall you live?" "nowhere in particular for the minute. i shall roam and see all that's being done in my business and take john best with me for a while. then it depends. perhaps, if things go as i expect about machinery, i shall ask you for a corner again in the autumn." mr. waldron nodded; but he was not finding himself in complete agreement with raymond. "always welcome," he said. "perhaps you'd rather not? well--see how things go. estelle may bar me. i'm at bridport to-night and return to london to-morrow. but i shall be back again in a week." "shall you play any cricket this summer?" "i should like to if i have time; but it's very improbable. i'm not going to chuck sport though. next year i may have more leisure." "you're at 'the seven stars,' i hear--haven't forgiven dick gurd he tells me." "did we quarrel? i forget. seems funny to think i had enough time on my hands to wrangle with an innkeeper. but i like missis northover's. it's quiet." "shall i come in and dine this evening?" "wait till i'm back again. i've got to talk to my aunt jenny to-night. she's one of the old brigade, but i'm hoping to make her see sense." "when sense clashes with religion, old man, nobody sees sense. i'm afraid your opinions won't entirely commend themselves to miss ironsyde." "probably not. i quite realise that i shall have to exercise the virtue of patience at bridport and bridetown for a year or two. but while i've got you for a friend, arthur, i'm not going to bother." waldron marked the imperious changes and felt somewhat bewildered. raymond left him not a little to think about, and when the younger had ridden off, arthur strolled afield with his thoughts and strove to bring order into them. he felt in a vague sort of way that he had been talking to a stranger, and his hope, if he experienced a hope, was that the new master of the mill might not take himself too seriously. "people who do that are invariably one-sided," thought waldron. upon ironsyde's attitude and intentions with regard to sabina, he also reflected uneasily. what raymond had declared sounded all right, yet arthur could not break with old rooted opinions and the general view of conduct embodied in his favourite word. was it "sporting"? and more important still, was it true? had ironsyde arrived at his determination from honest conviction, or thanks to the force of changed circumstances? mr. waldron gave his friend the benefit of the doubt. "one must remember that he is a good sportsman," he reflected, "and he can't have enough brains to make him a bad sportsman." for the thinker had found within his experience, that those who despised sport, too often despised also the simple ethics that he associated with sportsmanship. in fact, arthur, after one or two painful experiences, had explicitly declared that big brains often went hand in hand with a doubtful sense of honour. he had also, of course, known numerous examples of another sort of dangerous people who assumed the name and distinction of "sportsman" as a garment to hide their true activities and unworthy selves. chapter xxviii clash of opinions mr. job legg, with a persistence inspired by private purpose, continued to impress upon nelly northover the radical truth that in this world you cannot have anything for nothing. he varied the precept sometimes, and reminded her that we must not hope to have our cake and eat it too; and closer relations with richard gurd served to impress upon mrs. northover the value of these verities. nor did she resent them from mr. legg. he had preserved an attitude of manly resignation under his supreme disappointment. he was patient, uncomplaining and self-controlled. he did not immediately give notice of departure, but, for the present, continued to do his duty with customary thoroughness. he showed himself a most tactful man. new virtues were manifested in the light of the misfortune that had overtaken him. affliction and reverse seemed to make him shine the brighter. nelly could hardly understand it. had she not regarded his character as one of obvious simplicity and incapable of guile, she might have felt suspicious of any male who behaved with such exemplary distinction under the circumstances. it was, of course, clear that the mistress of 'the seven stars' could not become mr. gurd's partner and continue to reign over her own constellation as of old. yet nelly did not readily accept a fact so obvious, even under mr. legg's reiterated admonitions. she felt wayward--almost wilful about it: and there came an evening when richard dropped in for his usual half hour of courting to find her in such a frame of mind. humour on his part had saved the situation; but he lacked humour, and while nelly, even as she spoke, knew she was talking nonsense and only waited his reminder of the inevitable in a friendly spirit, yet, when the reminder came, it was couched in words so forcible and so direct, that for a parlous moment her own sense of humour broke down. the initial error was mr. gurd's. the elasticity of youth, both mental and physical, had departed from him, and he took her remarks, uttered more in mischief than in earnest, with too much gravity, not perceiving that nelly herself was in a woman's mood and merely uttering absurdities that he might contradict her. she was ready enough to climb down from her impossible attitude; but richard abruptly threw her down; which unchivalrous action wounded mrs. northover to the quick and begat in her an obstinate and rebellious determination to climb up again. "i'm looking on ahead," she began, while they sat in her parlour together. "this is a great upheaval, richard, and i'm just beginning to feel how great. i'm wondering all manner of things. will you be so happy and comfortable along with me, at 'the seven stars,' as you are at 'the tiger'? you must put that to yourself, you know." it was so absurd an assumption, that she expected his laughter; and if he had laughed and answered with inspiration, no harm could have come of it. but richard felt annoyed rather than amused. the suggestion seemed to show that mrs. northover was a fool--the last thing he bargained for. he exhibited contempt. indeed, he snorted in a manner almost insulting. "woman comes to man, i believe, not man to woman," he said. "that is so," she admitted with a touch of colour in her cheeks at his attitude, "but you must think all round it--which you haven't done yet, seemingly." then richard laughed--too late; for a laugh may lose all its value if the right moment be missed. "where's the fun?" she asked. "i thought, of course, that you'd be business-like as well as lover-like and would see 'the seven stars' had got more to it than 'the tiger.'" even now the situation might have been saved. the very immensity of her claim rendered it ridiculous; but richard was too astonished to guess an utterance so hyperbolic had been made to offer him an easy victory. "you thought that, nelly? 'the seven stars' more to it than 'the tiger'?" "surely!" "because you get a few tea-parties and old women at nine-pence a head on your little bit of grass?" a counter so terrific destroyed the last glimmering hope of a peaceful situation, and mrs. northover perceived this first. "it's war then?" she said. "so perhaps you'll tell me what you mean by my little bit of grass. not the finest pleasure gardens in bridport, i suppose?" "be damned if this ain't the funniest thing i've ever heard," he answered. "you never was one to see a joke, we all know; and if that's the funniest thing you ever heard, you ain't heard many. and you'll forgive me, please, if i tell you there's nothing funny in my speaking about my pleasure gardens, though it does sound a bit funny to hear 'em called 'a bit of grass' by a man that's got nothing but a few apple trees, past bearing, and a strip of potatoes and weeds, and a fowl-run. but, as you've got no use for a garden, perhaps you'll remember the inn yard, and how many hosses you can put up, and how many i can." "it's the number of hosses that comes--not the number you put up," he answered; "and if you want to tell me you've often obliged with a spare space in your yard, perhaps i may remind you that you generally got quite as good as you gave. but be that as it will, the point lies in one simple question, and i ask you if you really thought, as a woman nearer sixty than fifty and with credit for sense, that i was going to chuck 'the tiger' and coming over to your shop. did you really think that?" not for an instant had she thought it; but the time was inappropriate for saying so. she might have confessed the truth in the past; she might confess the truth in the future; she was not going to do so at present. he should have a stab for his stab. "you've often told me i was the sensiblest woman in dorset, richard, and being that, i naturally thought you'd drop your bar-loafers' place and come over to me--and glad to come." "good god!" he said, and stared at her with open nostrils, from which indignant air exploded in gusts. she began to make peace from that moment, feeling that the limit had been reached. indeed she was rather anxious. the thrust appeared to be mortal. mr. gurd rolled in his chair, and after his oath, could find no further words. she declared sorrow. "there--forgive me--i didn't mean to say that. 'tis a crying shame to see two old people dressing one another down this way. i'm sorry if i hurt your feelings, but don't forget you've properly trampled on mine. my pleasure grounds are my lifeblood you might say; and you knew it." "you needn't apologise now. 'the tiger' a bar-loafers' place! the centre of all high-class sport in the district a bar-loafers' place! well, well! no wonder you thought i'd be glad to come and live at 'the seven stars'!" "i didn't really," she confessed. "i knew very well you wouldn't; but i had to say it. the words just flashed out. and if i'd remembered a joke was nothing to you, i might have thought twice." "i laughed, however." "yes, you laughed, i grant--what you can do in that direction, which ain't much." mr. gurd rose to his full height. "well, that lets me out," he said. "we'd better turn this over in a forgiving spirit; and since you say you're sorry, i won't be behind you, though my words was whips to your scorpions and you can't deny it." "we'll meet again in a week," said mrs. northover. "make it a fortnight," he suggested. "no--say a month," she answered--"or six weeks." then it was richard's turn to feel the future in danger. but he had no intention to eat humble pie that evening. "a month then. but one point i wish to make bitter clear, nelly. if you marry me, you come to 'the tiger.'" "so it seems." "yes--bar-loafers, or no bar-loafers." "i'll bear it in mind, richard." the leave-taking lacked affection and they parted with full hearts. each was smarting under consciousness of the other's failure in nice feeling; each was amazed as at a revelation. richard kept his mouth shut concerning this interview, for he was proud and did not like to confess even to himself that he stood on the verge of disaster; but mrs. northover held a familiar within her gates, and she did not hesitate to lay the course of the adventure before job legg. "the world is full of surprises," said nelly, "and you never know, when you begin talking, where the gift of speech will land you. and if you're dealing with a man who can't take a bit of fun and can't keep his eyes on his tongue and his temper at the same time, trouble will often happen." she told the story with honesty and did not exaggerate; but mr. legg supported her and held that such a self-respecting woman could have done and said no less. he declared that richard gurd had brought the misfortune on himself, and feared that the innkeeper's display revealed a poor understanding of female nature. "it isn't as if you was a difficult and notorious sort of woman," explained job; "for then the man might have reason on his side; but to misunderstand you and overlook your playful touch--that shows he's got a low order of brain; because you always speak clearly. your word is as good as your bond and none can question your judgment." he proceeded to examine the argument earnestly and had just proved that mrs. northover was well within her right to set 'the seven stars' above 'the tiger,' when raymond ironsyde entered. he returned from dining with his aunt, and an interview now concluded was of very painful and far-reaching significance. for they had not agreed, and miss ironsyde proved no more able to convince her nephew than was he, to make her see his purpose combined truest wisdom and humanity. they talked after dinner and she invited him to justify his conduct if he could, before hearing her opinions and intentions. he replied at once and she found his arguments and reasons all arrayed and ready to his tongue. he spoke clearly and stated his case in very lucid language; but he irritated her by showing that his mind was entirely closed to argument and that he was not prepared to be influenced in any sort of way. her power had vanished now and she saw how only her power, not her persuasion, had won raymond before his brother's death. he spoke with utmost plainness and did not spare himself in the least. "i've been wrong," he said, "but i'm going to try and be right in the future. i did a foolish thing and fell in love with a good and clever girl. once in love, of course, everything was bent and deflected to be seen through that medium and i believed that nothing else mattered or ever would. then came the sequel, and being powerless to resist, i was going to marry. for some cowardly reason i funked poverty, and the thought of escaping it made me agree to marry sabina, knowing all the time it must prove a failure. that was my second big mistake, and the third was asking her to come and live with me without marrying her. i suggested that, because i wanted her and felt very keen about the child. i ought not to have thought of such a thing. it wasn't fair to her--i quite see that." "can anything be fair to her short of marriage?" "not from her point of view, aunt jenny." "and what other point of view, in keeping with honour and religion, exists?" "as to religion, i'm without it and so much the freer. i don't want to pretend anything i don't feel. i shall always be very sorry, indeed, for what i did; but i'm not going to wreck my life by marrying sabina." "what about her life?" "if she will trust her life to me, i shall do all in my power to make it a happy and easy life. i want the child to be a success. i know it will grow up a reproach to me and all that sort of thing in the opinion of many people; but that won't trouble me half as much as my own regrets. i've not done anything that puts me beyond the, pale of humanity--nor has sabina; and if she can keep her nerve and go on with her life, it ought to be all right for her, presently." "a very cynical attitude and i wish i could change it, raymond. you've lost your self-respect and you know you've done a wrong thing. can't you see that you'll always suffer it if you take no steps to right it? you are a man of feeling, and power can't lessen your feeling. every time you see that child, you will know that you have brought a living soul into the world cruelly handicapped by your deliberate will." "that's not a fair argument," he answered. "if our rotten laws handicap the baby, it will be my object to nullify the handicap to the best of my ability. the laws won't come between me and my child, any more than they came between me and my passion. i'm not the sort to hide behind the mean english law of the natural child. but i'm not going to let that law bully me into marriage with sabina. i've got to think of myself as well as other people. i won't say, what's true--that if sabina married me she wouldn't be happy in the long run; but i will say that i know i shouldn't be, and i'm not prepared to pay any penalty whatever for what i did, beyond the penalty of my own regrets." "if you rule religion out and think you can escape and keep your honour, i don't know what to say," she answered. "for my part i believe sabina would make you a very good and loving wife. and don't fancy, if you refuse her what faithfully you promised her, she will be content with less." "that's her look out. you won't be wise, aunt jenny, to influence her against a fair and generous offer. i want her to live a good life, and i don't want our past love-making to ruin that life, or our child to ruin that life. if she's going to pose as a martyr, i can't help it. that's the side of her that wrecked the show, as a matter of fact, and made it very clear to me that we shouldn't be a happy married couple." "self-preservation is a law of nature. she only did what any girl would have done in trying to find friends to save her from threatened disaster." "well, i dare say it was natural to her to take that line, and it was equally natural to me to resent it. at any rate we know where we stand now. tell me if there's anything else." "i only warn you that she will accept no benefits of any kind from you, raymond. and who shall blame her?" "that's entirely her affair, of course. i can't do more than admit my responsibilities and declare my interest in her future." "she will throw your interest back in your face and teach her child to despise you, as she does." "how d'you know that, aunt jenny?" "because she's a proud woman. and because she would lose the friendship of all proud women and clean thinking men if she condoned what you intend to do. it's horrible to see you turned from a simple, stupid, but honourable boy, into a hard, selfish, irreligious man--and all the result of being rich. i should never have thought it could have made such a dreadful difference so quickly. but i have not changed, raymond. and i tell you this: if you don't marry sabina; if you don't see that only so can you hold up your head as an honest man and a respectable member of society, worthy of your class and your family, then, i, for one, can have no more to do with you. i mean it." "i'm sorry you say that. you've been my guardian angel in a way and i've a million things to thank you for from my childhood. it would be a great grief to me, aunt jenny, if you allowed a difference of opinion to make you take such a line. i hope you'll think differently." "i shall not," she said. "i have not told you this on the spur of the moment, or before i had thought it out very fully and very painfully. but if you do this outrageous thing, i will never be your aunt any more, raymond, and never wish to see you again as long as i live. you know me; i'm not hysterical, or silly, or even sentimental; but i'm jealous for your father's name--and your brother's. you know where duty and honour and solemn obligation point. there is no reason whatever why you should shirk your duty, or sully your honour; but if you do, i decline to have any further dealings with you." he rose to go. "that's definite and clear. good-bye, aunt jenny." "good-bye," she said. "and may god guide you to recall that 'good-bye,' nephew." then he went back to 'the seven stars,' and wondered as he walked, how the new outlook had shrunk up this old woman too, and made one, who bulked so largely in his life of old, now appear as of no account whatever. he was heartily sorry she should have taken so unreasonable a course; but he grieved more for her sake than his own. she was growing old. she would lack his company in the time to come, and her heart was too warm to endure this alienation without much pain. he suspected that if sabina's future course of action satisfied miss ironsyde, she would be friendly to her and the child and, in time, possibly win some pleasure from them. chapter xxix the bunch of grapes raymond proceeded with his business at bridetown oblivious of persons and personalities. he puzzled those who were prepared to be his enemies, for it seemed he was becoming as impersonal as the spinning machines, and one cannot quarrel with a machine. it appeared that he was to be numbered with those who begin badly and retrieve the situation afterwards. so, at least, hoped ernest churchouse, yet, since the old man was called to witness and endure a part of the sorrows of sabina and her mother, it demanded large faith on his part to anticipate brighter times. he clung to it that raymond would yet marry sabina, and he regretted that when the young man actually offered to see sabina, she refused to see him. for this happened. he came to stop at north hill house for two months, while certain experts were inspecting the works, and during this time he wished to visit 'the magnolias' and talk with sabina, but she declined. the very active hate that he had awakened sank gradually to smouldering fires of bitter resentment and contempt. she spoke openly of destroying their babe when it should be born. then the event happened and sabina became the mother of a man child. raymond was still with arthur waldron when estelle brought the news, and the men discussed it. "i hope she'll be reasonable now," said ironsyde. "it bothered me when she refused to see me, because you can't oppose reason to stupidity of that sort. if she's going to take my aunt's line, of course, i'm done, and shall be powerless to help her. i spoke to uncle ernest about it two days ago. he says that it will have to be marriage, or nothing, and seemed to think that would move me to marriage! some people can't understand plain english. but why should she cut off her nose to spite her face and refuse my friendship and help because i won't marry her?" "she's that sort, i suppose. of course, plenty of women would do the same." "i'm not convinced it's sabina really who is doing this. that's why i wanted to see her. very likely aunt jenny is inspiring such a silly attitude, or her mother. they may think if she's firm i may yield. they don't seem to realise that love's as dead as a doornail now. but my duty is clear enough and they can't prevent me from doing it, i imagine." "you want to be sporting to the child, of course." "and to the mother of the child. damn it all, i'm made of flesh and blood. i'm not a fiend. but with women, if you have a grain of common-sense and reasoning power, you become a fiend the moment there's a row. i want sabina and my child to have a good show in the world, arthur." "well, you must let her know it." "i'll see her, presently. i'll take no denial about that. it may be a pious plot really, for religious people don't care how they intrigue, if they can bring off what they want to happen. it was very strange she refused to see me. perhaps they never told her that i offered to come." "yes, they did, because estelle heard churchouse tell her. estelle was with her at the time, and she said she was so sorry when sabina refused. it may have been because she was ill, of course." "i must see her before i go away, anyway. if they've been poisoning her mind against me, i must put it right." "you're a rum 'un! can't you see what this means to her? you talk as if she'd no grievance, and as though it was all a matter of course and an everyday thing." "so it is, for that matter. however, there's no reason for you to bother about it. i quite recognise what it is to be a father, and the obligations. but because i happen to be a father, is no reason why i should be asked to do impossibilities. because you've made a fool of yourself once is no reason why you should again. by good chance i've had unexpected luck in life and things have fallen out amazingly well--and i'm very willing indeed that other people should share my good luck and good fortune. i mean that they shall. but i'm not going to negative my good fortune by doing an imbecile thing." "as long as you're sporting i've got no quarrel with you," declared waldron. "i'm not very clever myself, but i can see that if they won't let you do what you want to do, it's not your fault. if they refuse to let you play the game--but, of course, you must grant the game looks different from their point of view. no doubt they think you're not playing the game. a woman's naturally not such a sporting animal as a man, and what we think is straight, she often doesn't appreciate, and what she thinks is straight we often know is crooked. women, in fact, are more like the other nations which, with all their excellent qualities, don't know what 'sporting' means." "i mean to do right," answered raymond, "and probably i'm strong enough to make them see it and wear them down, presently. i'm really only concerned about sabina and her child. the rest, and what they think and what they don't think, matter nothing. she may listen to reason when she's well again." two days later raymond received a box from london and showed estelle an amazing bunch of muscat grapes, destined for sabina. "she always liked grapes," he said, "and these are as good as any in the world at this moment." on his way to the mill he left the grapes at 'the magnolias,' and spoke a moment with mr. churchouse. "she is making an excellent recovery," said ernest, "and i am hoping that, presently, the maternal instinct will assert itself. i do everything to encourage it. but, of course, when conditions are abnormal, results must be abnormal. she's a very fine and brave woman and worthy of supreme admiration. and worthy of far better and more manly treatment than she has received from you. but you know that very well, raymond. owing to the complexities created by civilisation clashing with nature, we get much needless pain in the world. but a reasonable being should have recognised the situation, as you did not, and realise that we have no right to obey nature if we know at the same time we are flouting civilisation. you think you're doing right by considering sabina's future. you are a gross materialist, raymond, and the end of that is always dust and ashes and defeated hopes. i won't bring religion into it, because that wouldn't carry weight with you; but i bring justice into it and your debt to the social order, that has made you what you are and to which you owe everything. you have done a grave and wicked wrong to the new-born atom of life in this house, and though it is now too late wholly to right that wrong, much might yet be done. i blame you, but i hope for you--i still hope for you." he took the grapes, and raymond, somewhat staggered by this challenge, found himself not ready to answer it. "we'll have a talk some evening, uncle ernest," he answered. "i don't expect your generation to see this thing from my point of view. it's reasonable you shouldn't, because you can't change; and it's also reasonable that i shouldn't see it from your point of view. if i'm material, i'm built so; and that won't prevent me from doing my duty." "i would talk the hands round the clock if i thought i could help you to see your duty with other eyes than your own," replied the old man. "i am quite ready to speak when you are to listen. and i shall begin by reminding you that you are a father. you expect sabina to be a mother in the full meaning of that beautiful word; but a child must have a father also." "i am willing to be a father." "yes, on your own values, which ignore the welfare of the community, justice to the next generation, and the respect you should entertain for yourself." "well, we'll thresh it out another time. you know i respect you very much, uncle ernest; and i'm sure you'll weigh my point of view and not let aunt jenny influence you." "i have a series of duties before me," answered mr. churchouse; "and not least among them is to reconcile you and your aunt. that you should have broken with your sole remaining relative is heart-breaking." "i'd be friends to-morrow; but you know her." he went away to the works and ernest took the grapes to mrs. dinnett. "you'd better not let her have them, however, unless the doctor permits it," said mr. churchouse, whereupon, mary, not trusting herself to speak, took the grapes and departed. the affront embodied in the fruit affected a mind much overwrought of late. she took the present to sabina's room. "there," she said. "he's sunk to sending that. i'd like to fling them in his face." "take them away. i can't touch them." "touch them! and poisoned as likely as not. a man that's committed his crimes would stick at nothing." "he uses poison enough," said the young mother; "but only the poison he can use safely. it matters nothing to him if i live or die. no doubt he'd will me dead, and this child too, if he could; but seeing he can't, he cares nothing. he'll heap insult on injury, no doubt. he's made of clay coarse enough to do it. but when i'm well, i'll see him and make it clear, once for all." "you say that now. but i hope you'll never see him, or breathe the same air with him." "once--when i'm strong. i don't want him to go on living his life without knowing what i'm thinking of him. i don't want him to think he can pose as a decent man again. i want him to know that the road-menders and road-sweepers are high above him." "don't you get in a passion. he knows all that well enough. he isn't deceiving himself any more than anybody else. all honest people know what he is--foul wretch. yes, he's poisoned three lives, if no more, and they are yours and mine and that sleeping child's." "he's ruined his aunt's life, too. she's thrown him over." "that won't trouble him. war against women is what you'd expect. but please god, he'll be up against a man some day--then we shall see a different result. may the almighty let me live long enough to see him in the gutter, where he belongs. i ask no more." they poured their bitterness upon raymond ironsyde; then a thought came into mary dinnett's mind and she left sabina. judging the time, she put on her bonnet presently and walked out to the road whence raymond would return from his work at the luncheon hour. she stood beside the road at a stile that led into the fields, and as raymond, deep in thought, passed her without looking up, he saw something cast at his feet and for a moment stood still. with a soft thud his bunch of grapes fell ruined in the dust before him and, starting back, he looked at the stile and saw sabina's mother gazing at him red-faced and furious. neither spoke. the woman's countenance told her hatred and loathing; the man shrugged his shoulders and, after one swift glance at her, proceeded on his way without quickening or slackening his stride. he heard her spit behind him and found time to regret that a woman of mary's calibre should be at sabina's side. such concentrated hate astonished him a little. there was no reason in it; nothing could be gained by it. this senseless act of a fool merely made him impatient. but he smiled before he reached north hill house to think that but for the interposition of chance and fortune, this brainless old woman might have become his mother-in-law. chapter xxx a triumph of reason mrs. northover took care that her interrupted conversation with job legg should be completed; and he, too, was anxious, that she should know his position. but he realised the danger very fully and was circumspect in his criticism of richard gurd's attitude toward 'the seven stars.' "for my part," said job on the evening that preceded a very important event, "i still repeat that you have a right to consider we're higher class than 'the tiger'; and to speak of the renowned garden as a 'bit of grass' was going much too far. it shows a wrong disposition, and it wasn't a gentlemanly thing, and if it weren't such a wicked falsehood, you might laugh at it for jealousy." "who ever would have thought the man jealous?" she asked. "these failings will out," declared mr. legg. "and seeing you mean to take him, it is as well you know it." she nodded rather gloomily. "your choice of words is above praise, i'm sure, job," she said. "for such a simple and straightforward man, you've a wonderful knowledge of the human heart." "through tribulation i've come to it," he answered. "however, i'm here to help you, not talk about my own bitter disappointments. and very willing i am to help you when it can be done." "d'you think you could speak to richard for me, and put out the truth concerning 'the seven stars'?" she asked. but mr. legg, simple though he might be, was not as simple as that. "no," he replied. "there's few things i wouldn't do for you, on the earth or in the waters under the earth, and i say that, even though you've turned me down after lifting the light of hope. but for me to see gurd on this subject is impossible. it's far too delicate. another man might, but not me, because he knows that i stand in the unfortunate position of the cast out. so if there's one man that can't go to gurd and demand reparation on your account, i'm that man. in a calmer moment, you'll be the first to see it." "i suppose that is so. he'd think, if you talked sense to him, you had an axe to grind and treat you according. you've suffered enough." "i have without a doubt, and shall continue to do so," he answered her. "i think just as much of you as ever i did notwithstanding," said mrs. northover. "and i'll go so far as to say that your simple goodness and calm sense under all circumstances might wear better in the long run than richard's overbearing way and cruel conceit. be honest, job. do you yourself think 'the tiger' is a finer house and more famous than my place?" mr. legg perceived very accurately where nelly suffered most. "this house," he declared, "have got the natural advantages and gurd have got the pull in the matter of capital. my candid opinion, what i've come to after many years of careful thought on the subject, is that if we--i say 'we' from force of habit, though i'm in the outer darkness now--if we had a few hundred pounds spending on us and an advertisement to holiday people in the papers sometimes, then in six months we shouldn't hear any more about 'the tiger.' cash, spent by the hand of a master on 'the seven stars,' would lift us into a different house and we should soon be known to cater for a class that wouldn't recognise 'the tiger.' what we want is a bit of gold and white paint before next summer and all those delicate marks about the place that women understand and value. i've often thought that a new sign for example, with seven golden stars on a sky blue background, and perhaps even a flagstaff in the pleasure grounds, with our own flag flying upon it, would, as it were, widen the gulf between him and you. but, of course, that was before these things happened, and when i was thinking, day and night you may say, how to catch the custom." mrs. northover sighed. "in another man, it would be craft to say such clever things," she answered; "but, in you, i know it's just simple goodness of heart and christian fellowship. 'tis amazing how we think alike." "not now," he corrected her. "too late now. i wish to god we had thought alike; for then, instead of looking at my money as i'd look at a pile of road scrapings, i should see it with very different eyes. my windfall would have been poured out here in such a fashion that the people would have wondered. this place is my life, in a manner of speaking. my earthly life, i mean; which you may say is ended now. i was, in my own opinion, as much a part of 'the seven stars,' as the beer engine. and when uncle died this was my first thought. or i should say my second, because in the natural course of events, you were the first." she sighed again and mr. legg left this delicate ground. "if the man can only be brought to see he's wrong about his fanciful opinion of 'the tiger,' all may go right for you," he continued. "i don't care for his feelings over-much, but your peace of mind i do consider. at present he dares to think you're a silly woman whose goose is a swan. that's very disorderly coming from the man who's going to marry you. therefore you must get some clear-sighted person to open his eyes, and make it bitter clear to him that 'the tiger' never was and never will be a place to draw nice minds and the female element like us." "there's nobody could put it to him better than you," she said. "at another time, perhaps--not now. i'm not clever, nelly; but i'm too clever to edge in between a man like gurd and his future wife. if we stood different, then nobody would open his mouth quicker than me." "we may stand different yet," she answered. "there was a good deal of passion when we met, and not the sort of passion you expect between lovers, either." "if that is so," he answered, "then we can only leave it for the future. but this i'll certainly say: if you tell me presently that you're free to the nation once more and have changed your mind about richard, then i'd very soon let him know there's a gulf fixed between 'the tiger' and 'the seven stars'; and if you said the word, he'd see that gulf getting broader and broader under his living eyes." "i'd have overlooked most anything but what he actually said," she declared. "but to strike at the garden--however, i'll see him, and if i find he's feeling like what i am, it's quite in human reason that we may undo the past before it's too late." "and always remember it's his own will you shall live at 'the tiger,'" warned job. "excuse my bluntness in reminding you of his words; which, no doubt, you committed to memory long before you told me about 'em; but the point lies there. you can't be in two places at once, and so sure as you sign yourself 'gurd,' you'll sell, or sublet 'the seven stars.' in fact, even a simple brain like mine can see you'll sell, for richard will never be content to let you serve two masters; and where the treasure is, there will the heart be also. and to one of your delicate feelings, to know strange hands are in this house, and strange things being done, and liberties taken with the edifice and the garden, very likely. but i don't want to paint any such dreadful picture as that, and, of course, if you honestly love richard, though you're the first woman that ever could--then enough said." "the question is whether he loves me. however, i'll turn it over; and no doubt he will," she answered. "i see him to-morrow." "and don't leave anything uncertain, if i may advise," concluded mr. legg. "i speak as a child in these matters; but, if he's looking at this thing same as you are, and if you both feel you'd be finer ornaments of society apart, than married, all i say is don't let any false manhood on his part, or modesty on yours, keep you to it. better be good neighbours than bad partners. and if i've said too much, god forgive me." fired by these opinions nelly went to her meeting with richard and the first words uttered by mr. gurd sent a ray of warmth to her heart, for it seemed he also had reviewed the situation in a manner worthy of his high intelligence. but he approached the subject uneasily and mrs. northover was too much a woman to rescue him at once. she had been through a good deal and felt it fair that the master of 'the tiger' should also suffer. "it's borne in upon me," he said, after some generalities and vague hopes that nelly was well, "that, perhaps, there's no smoke without fire, as the saying is." "meaning what?" asked she. "meaning, that though we flared up a bit and forgot what we owe to ourselves, there must have been a reason for so much feeling." "there certainly was." "we needn't go back over the details; but you may be sure there must have lurked more behind our row than just a difference of opinion. people don't get properly hot with each other unless there's a reason, nelly, and i'm beginning to fear that the reason lies deeper than we thought." he waited for her to speak; but she did not. "you mustn't think me shifty, or anything of that kind; but i do feel, where there was such a lot of smoke and us separated all these weeks, and none the worse for separation apparently, that, if we was to take the step--in a word, it's come over me stronger and stronger that we might do well to weigh what we're going to do in the balance before we do it." her delight knew no bounds. but still she did not reply, and mr. gurd began to grow red. "if, by your silence, you mean that i'm cutting a poor figure before you, and you think i want to be off our bargain, you're wrong," he said. "your mind ought to move quicker and i don't mind telling you so. i'm not off my bargain, because i'm a man of honour, and my word, given to man, woman or child, is kept. and if you don't know that, you're the only party in bridport that don't. but i say again, there's two sides to it, and look before you leap, though not a maxim women are very addicted to following, is a good rule for all that. so i'll ask you how the land lies, if you please. you've turned this over same as me; and i'll be obliged if you'll tell me how you're viewing it." "in other words you've changed your mind?" "my mind can wait. i may have done so, or i may not; but to change my mind ain't to change my word, so you need have no anxiety on that account." "far from being anxious," answered mrs. northover, "i never felt so light-hearted since i was a girl, richard. for why? my name for honest dealing is as high as yours, i believe, and if you'd come back to me and asked for bygones to be bygones, i should have struggled with it, same as you meant to do. but, seeing you're shaken, i'm pleased to tell, that i'm shaken also. in fact, 'shaken' isn't a strong enough word. i'm thankful to heaven you don't want to go on with it, because, more don't i." "if anything could make me still wish to take you, it's to hear such wisdom," declared mr. gurd, after a noisy expiration of thanksgiving. "i might have known you wasn't behind me in brain power, and i might have felt you'd be bound to see this quite as quick as me, if not quicker. and i'm sure nothing could make me think higher of you than to hear these comforting words." mrs. northover used an aphorism from mr. legg. "our only fault was not to see each other's cleverness," she said, "or to think for a moment, after what passed between us, we could marry without loss of self-respect. it's a lot better, richard, to be good neighbours than bad partners. and good neighbours we always have been and shall be; and whether we'd be good partners or not is no matter; we won't run the risk." "god bless you!" he answered. "then we part true friends, and if anything could make me feel more friendly than i always have felt, it is your high-mindedness, nelly. for high-mindedness there never was your equal. and if many and many a young couple, that flies together and then feels the call to fly apart again, could only approach the tender subject with your fair sight and high reasoning powers, it would be a happier world." "there's only one thing left," concluded mrs. northover, "and that's to let the public know we've changed our minds. with small people, that wouldn't matter; but with us, we can't forget we've been on the centre of the stage lately; and it would never do to let the people suppose that we had quarrelled, or sunk to anything vulgar." "leave it to me," he answered. "it only calls for a light hand. i shall pass it off with one of my jokes, and then people will treat it in a laughing spirit and not brood over it. folk are quick to take a man's own view on everything concerning himself if he's got the art to convince." "we'll say that more marriages are made on the tongues of outsiders than ever come to be celebrated in church," suggested mrs. northover, "and then people will begin to doubt if it wasn't all nonsense from the first." "and they won't be far wrong if they do. it was nonsense; and if we say so in the public ear, none will dare to doubt it." chapter xxxi the offer declined estelle talked to raymond and endeavoured to interest him in sabina's child. "everybody who understands babies says that he's a lovely and perfect one," declared estelle. "i hope you're going to look at him before you go away, because he's yours. and i believe he will be like you, some day. do the colours of babies' eyes change, like kittens' eyes, ray?" "haven't the slightest idea," he answered. "you may be quite sure i shall take care of it, estelle, and see that it has everything it wants." "somehow they're not pleased with you all the same," she answered. "i don't understand about it, but they evidently feel that you ought to have married sabina. i suppose you're not properly his father if you don't marry her?" "that's nonsense, estelle. i'm quite properly his father, and i'm going to be a jolly good father too. but i don't want to be married. i don't believe in it." "if sabina knew you were going to love him and be good to him, she would be happier, i hope." "i'm going to see her presently," he said. "and see the baby?" "plenty of time for that." "there's time, of course, ray. but he's changing. he's five weeks old to-morrow, and i can see great changes. he can just begin to laugh now. things amuse him we don't know. i expect babies are like dogs and can see what we can't." "i'll look at him if sabina likes." "of course she'll like. it's rather horrid of you, in a way, being able to go on with your work for so many weeks without looking at him. it's really rather a slight on sabina, ray. if i'd had a baby, and his father wouldn't look at him for week after week, i should be vexed. and so is sabina." "next time you see her, ask her to name a day and i'll go whenever she likes." estelle was delighted. "that's lovely of you and it will cheer her up very much, for certain," she answered. then she ran away, for to arrange such a meeting seemed the most desirable thing in the world to her at that moment. to sabina she went as fast as her legs could take her, and appreciating that he had sent this guileless messenger to ensure a meeting without preliminaries and without prejudice, sabina hid her feelings and specified a time on the following day. "if he'll come to see me to-morrow in the dinner-hour, that will be best. i'll be alone after twelve o'clock." "you'll show him the baby, won't you, sabina?" "he won't want to see it." "why not?" "does he want to?" "honestly he doesn't seem to understand how wonderful the baby is," explained the child. "ray's going to be a splendid father to him, sabina. he's quite interested; only men are different from us. perhaps they never feel much interest till babies can talk to them. my father says he wasn't much interested in me till i could talk, so it may be a general thing. but when ray sees him, he'll be tremendously proud of him." sabina said no more, and when raymond arrived to see her at the time she appointed, he found her waiting near the entrance of 'the magnolias.' she wore a black dress and was looking very well and very handsome. but the expression in her eyes had changed. he put out his hand, but she did not take it. "mister churchouse has kindly said we can talk in the study, mister ironsyde." he followed her, and when they had come to the room, hoped that she was quite well again. then he sat in a chair by the table and she took a seat opposite him. she did not reply to his wish for her good health, but waited for him to speak. she was not sulky, but apparently indifferent. her fret and fume were smothered of late. now that the supreme injury was inflicted and she had borne a child out of wedlock, sabina's frenzies were over. the battle was lost. life held no further promises, and the denial of the great promise that it had offered and taken back again, numbed her. she was weary of the subject of herself and the child. she could even ask mr. churchouse for books to occupy her mind during convalescence. yet the slumbering storm in her soul awoke in full fury before the man had spoken a dozen words. she looked at raymond with tired eyes, and he felt that, like himself, she was older, wiser, different. he measured the extent of her experiences and felt sorry for her. "sabina," he said. "i must apologise for one mistake. when i asked you to come back to me and live with me, i did a caddish thing. it wasn't worthy of me, or you. i'm awfully sorry. i forgot myself there." she flushed. "can that worry you?" she asked. "i should have thought, after what you'd already done, such an added trifle wouldn't have made you think twice. to ruin a woman body and soul--to lie to her and steal all she's got to give under pretence of marriage--that wasn't caddish, i suppose--that wasn't anything to make you less pleased with yourself. that was what we may expect from men of honour and right bringing up?" "don't take this line, or we shan't get on. if, after certain things happened, i had still felt we--" "stop," she said, "and hear me. you're making my blood burn and my fingers itch to do something. my hands are strong and quick--they're trained to be quick. i thought i could come to this meeting calm and patient enough. i didn't know i'd got any hate left in me--for you, or the world. but i have--you've mighty soon woke it again; and i'm not going to hear you maul the past into your pattern and explain everything away and tell me how you came gradually to see we shouldn't be happy together and all the usual dirty, little lies. tell yourself falsehoods if you like--you needn't waste time telling them to me. i'll tell you the truth; and that is that you're a low, mean coward and bully--a creature to sicken the air for any honest man or woman. and you know it behind your big talk. what did you do? you seduced me under promise of marriage, and when your brother heard what you'd done and flung you out of the mill, you ran to your aunt. and she said, 'choose between ruin and no money, and sabina and money from me.' and so you agreed to marry me--to keep yourself in cash. and then, when all was changed and you found yourself a rich man, you lied again and deserted me, and wronged your child--ruined us both. that's what you did, and what you are." "if you really believe that's the one and only version, i'm afraid we shan't come to an understanding," he said quietly. "you mustn't think so badly of me as that, sabina." "your aunt does. that's how she sees it, being an honest woman." "i must try to show you you're wrong--in time. for the moment i'm only concerned to do everything in my power to make your future secure and calm your mind." "are you? then marry me. that's the only way you can make my future secure, and you well know it." "i can't marry you. i shall never marry. i am very firmly convinced that to marry a woman is to do her a great injury nine times out of ten." "worse than seducing her and leaving her alone in the world with a bastard child, i suppose?" "you're not alone in the world, and your child is my child, and i recognise the fullest obligations to you both." "liar! if you'd recognised your obligations, you wouldn't have let it come into the world nameless and fatherless." she rose. "you want everything your own way, and you think you can bend everything to your own way. but you'll not bend me no more. you've broke me, and you've broke your child. we're rubbish--rubbish on the world's rubbish heap--flung there by you. i, that was so proud of myself! we'll go to the grave shamed and outcast--failures for people to laugh at or preach over. your child's doomed now. the state and the church both turn their backs on such as him. you can't make him your lawful son now." "i can do for him all any father can do for a son." "you shall do nought for him! he's part of me--not you. if you hold back from me, you hold back from him. god's my judge he shan't receive a crust from your hands. you've given him enough. he's got you to thank for a ruined life. he shan't have anything more from you while i can stand between. don't you trouble for him. you go on from strength to strength and the people will praise your hard work and your goodness to the workers--such a pattern master as you'll be." "may time make you feel differently, sabina," he answered. "i've deserved this--all of it. i'm quite ready to grant i've done wrong. but i'm not going to do more if i can help it. i want to be your friend in the highest and worthiest sense possible. i want to atone to you for the past, and i want to stand up for your child through thick and thin, and bear the reproach that he must be to me as long as i live. i've weighed all that. but power can challenge the indifference of the state and the cowardice of the church. the dirty laws will be blotted out by public opinion some day. the child can grow up to be my son and heir, as he will be my first care and thought. everything that is mine can be his and yours--" "that's all one now," she said. "he touches nothing of yours while i touch nothing of yours. there's only one way to bring me and the child into your life, raymond ironsyde, and that's by marrying me. without that we'll not acknowledge you. i'd rather go on the streets than do it. i'd rather tie a brick round your child's neck and drown him like an unwanted dog than let him have comfort from you. and god judge me if i'll depart from that if i live to be a hundred." "you're being badly advised, sabina. i never thought to hear you talk like this. perhaps it's the fact that i'm here myself annoys you. will you let my lawyer see you?" "marry me--marry me--you that loved me. all less than that is insult." "we must leave it, then. would you like me to see my child?" "see him! why? you'll never see him if i can help it. you'd blast his little, trusting eyes. but i won't drown him--you needn't fear that. i'll fight for him, and find friends for him. there's a few clean people left who won't make him suffer for your sins. he'll live to spit on your grave yet." then she left the room, and he got up and went from the house. book ii estelle chapter i the flying years but little can even the most complete biography furnish of a man's days. it is argued that essentials are all that matter, and that since one year is often like another, and life merely a matter of occasional mountain peaks in flat country, the outstanding events alone need be chronicled with any excuse. but who knows the essential, since biographists must perforce omit the spade work of life on character, the gradual attrition or upbuilding of principles under experience, and the strain and stress, that, sooner or later, bear fruit in action? even autobiography, as all other history, needs must be incomplete, since no man himself exactly appreciated the vital experiences that made him what he is, or turns him from what he was; while even if the secret belongs to the protagonist, and intellect and understanding have enabled him to grasp the reality of his progress, or retrogression, he will be jealous to guard such truths and, for pride, or modesty, conceal the real fountains of inspiration that were responsible for progress, or the temptations to error that found his weakest spots, blocked his advance, and rendered futile his highest hopes. the man who knows his inner defeats will not declare them honestly, even if egotism induces an autobiography; while the biographist, being ignorant of his hero's real, psychological existence, secret life, and those thousand hidden influences that have touched him and caused him to react, cannot, with all the will in the world to be true, relate more than superficial truths concerning him. ten years may only be recorded as lengthening the lives of raymond ironsyde, sabina dinnett and their son, together with those interested in them. time, the supreme solvent, flows over existence, submerging here, lifting there, altering the relative attitudes of husband and wife, parent and child, friend and enemy. for no human relation is static. the ebb and flow forget not the closest or remotest connection between members of the human family; not a friendship or interest stands still, and not a love or a hate. time operates upon every human emotion as it operates upon physical life; and ten years left no single situation at bridetown or bridport unchallenged. death cut few knots; since accident willed that one alone fell among those with whom we are concerned. for the rest, years brought their palliatives and corrosives, soothed here, fretted there; here buried old griefs and healed old sores; here calloused troubles, so that they only throbbed intermittently; here built up new enthusiasms, awakened new loves, barbed new enmities. things that looked impossible on the day that ironsyde heard sabina scorn him, happened. threats evaporated, danger signals disappeared; but, in other cases, while the jagged edges and peaks of bitterness and contempt were worn away by a decade of years, the solid rocks from which they sprang persisted and the massive reasons for emotion were not moved, albeit their sharpest expressions vanished. some loves faded into likings, and their raptures to a placid contentment, built as much on the convenience of habit as the memories of a passionate past; other affections, less fortunate, perished and left nothing but remains unlovely. hates also, with their sharpest bristles rubbed down, were modified to bluntness, and left a mere lumpish aversion of mind. some dislikes altogether perished and gave place to indifference; some persisted as the shadow of their former selves; some were kept alive by absurd pride in those who pretended, for their credit's sake, a steadfastness they were not really built to feel. sabina, for example, was constitutionally unequal to any supreme and all-controlling passion unless it had been love; yet still she preserved that inimical attitude to raymond ironsyde she had promised to entertain; though in reality the fire was gone and the ashes cold. she knew it, but was willing to rekindle the flame if material offered, as now it threatened to do. ernest churchouse had published his book upon 'the bells of dorset' and, feeling that it represented his life work, declared himself content. he had grown still less active, but found abundant interests in literature and friendship. he undertook the instruction of sabina's son and, from time to time, reported upon the child. his first friend was now estelle waldron, who, at this stage of her development, found the old and childlike man chime with her hopes and aspirations. estelle was passing through the phase not uncommon to one of her nature. for a time her early womanhood found food in poetry, and her mind, apparently fashioned to advance the world's welfare and add to human happiness, reposed as it seemed on an interlude of reading and the pursuit of beauty. she developed fast to a point--the point whereat she had established a library and common room for the mill hands; the point at which the girls called her 'our lady,' and very honestly loved her for herself as well as for the good she brought them. now, however, her activities were turned inward and she sought to atone for an education incomplete. she had never gone to school, and her governesses, while able and sufficient, could not do for her what only school life can do. this experience, though held needless and doubtful in many opinions, estelle felt to miss and her conscience prompted her to go to london and mix with other people, while her inclination tempted her to stop with her father. she went to london for two years and worked upon a woman's newspaper. then she fell ill and came home and spent her time with arthur waldron, with raymond ironsyde, and with ernest churchouse. a girl friend or two from london also came to visit her. she recovered perfect health, and having contracted a great new worship for poetry in her convalescence, retained it afterwards. ernest was her ally, for he loved poetry--an understanding denied to her other friends. so estelle passed through a period of dreaming, while her intellect grew larger and her human sympathy no less. she had developed into a handsome woman with regular features, a large and almost stately presence and a direct, undraped manner not shadowed as yet by any ray of sex instinct. nature, with her many endowments, chose to withhold the feminine challenge. she was as stark and pure as the moon. young men, drawn by her smile, fled from her self. her father's friends regarded her much as he did: with a sort of uneasy admiration. the people were fond of her, and older women declared that she would never marry. of such was miss jenny ironsyde. "estelle's children will be good works," she told raymond. for she and her nephew were friends again. the steady tides of time had washed away her prophecy of eternal enmity, and increasing infirmity made her seek companionship where she could find it. moreover, she remembered a word that she had spoken to raymond in the past, when she told him how a grudge entertained by one human being against another poisons character and ruins the steadfast outlook upon life. she escaped that danger. it is a quality of small minds rather than of great to remain unchanged. they fossilise more quickly, are more concentrated, have a power to freeze into a mould and preserve it against the teeth of time, or the wit and wisdom of the world. the result is ugly or beautiful, according to the emotion thus for ever embalmed. the loves of such people are intuitive--shared with instinct and above, or below, reason; their hate is similarly impenetrable--preserved in a vacuum. for only a vacuum can hold the sweet for ever untainted, or the bitter for ever unalloyed. mary dinnett belonged to this order. she was now dead, and concerning the legacy of her unchanging attitude more will presently appear. as for nelly northover, she had long been the wife of mr. job legg. that pertinacious man achieved his end at last, and what his few enemies declared was guile, and his many friends held to be tact, won nelly to him a year after her adventure with mr. gurd. none congratulated them more heartily than the master of 'the tiger.' indeed, when 'the seven stars' blazed out anew on an azure firmament--the least of many changes that refreshed and invigorated that famous house--'the tiger' also shone forth in savage splendour and his black and orange stripes blazed again from a mass of tropical vegetation. and beneath the inn signs prosperity continued to obtain. mr. gurd grew less energetic than of yore, while mrs. legg put on much flesh and daily perceived her wisdom in linking job for ever to the enterprise for which she lived. he became thinner, if anything, and time toiled after him in vain. immense success rewarded his innovations, and the tea-gardens of 'the seven stars' had long become a feature of bridport's social life. people hinted that mr. legg was not the meek and mild spirit of ancient opinion and that nelly knew it; but this suggestion may be held no more than the penalty of fame--an activity of the baser sort, who ever drop vinegar of detraction into the oil of content. john best still reigned at the mill, though he had himself already chosen the young man destined to wear his mantle in process of time. to leave the works meant to leave his garden; and that he was unprepared to do until failing energies made it necessary. a decade saw changes among the workers, but not many. sally groves had retired to braid for the firm at home, and old mrs. chick was also gone; but the other hands remained and the staff had slightly increased. nancy buckler was chief spinner now; sarah roberts still minded the spreader, and nicholas continued at the lathes. benny cogle had a new otto gas engine to look after, and mercy gale, now married to him, still worked in the warping chamber. levi baggs would not retire, and since he hackled with his old master, the untameable man, now more than sixty years old, still kept his place, still flouted the accepted order, still read sinister motives into every human activity. new machinery had increased the prosperity of the enterprise, but to no considerable extent. competition continued keen as ever, and each year saw the workers winning slightly increased power through the advance of labour interests. raymond ironsyde was satisfied and remained largely unchanged. he had hardened in opinion and increased in knowledge. he lacked imagination and, as of old, trusted to the machine; but he was rational and proved a capable, second class man of sound judgment and trustworthy in all his undertakings. sport continued to be a living interest of his life, and since he had no ties that involved an establishment, he gladly accepted arthur waldron's offer of a permanent home. it came to him after he had travelled largely and been for three years master of the works. arthur was delighted when raymond accepted his suggestion and made his abode at north hill. they hunted and shot together; and waldron, who now judged that the time for golf had come in his case, devoted the moiety of his life to that pastime. ironsyde worked hard and was held in respect. the circumstance of his child had long been accepted and understood. he exhausted his energy and patience in endeavours to maintain and advance the boy; and those justified in so doing lost no opportunity to urge on sabina dinnett the justice of his demand; but here nothing could change her. she refused to recognise raymond, or receive from him any assistance in the education and nurture of his son. she had called him abel, and as abel dinnett the lad was known. he resembled her in that he was dark and of an excitable and uneven temperament. he might be easily elated and as easily cast down. raymond, who kept a secret eye upon the child, trusted that in a few years his turn would come, though at present denied. at first he resented the resolution that shut him out of his son's life; but the matter had long since sunk to unimportance and he believed that when abel came to years of understanding, he would recognise his own interests and blame those responsible for ignoring them in his childhood. upon this opinion hinged the future of not a few persons. it developed into a conviction permanently established at the back of his mind; but since sabina and others came between, he was content to let them do so and relied upon his son's intelligence in time to come. for years he did not again seek the child's acquaintance after a rebuff, and made no attempt to interfere with the operations of abel's grandmother and mother--to keep them wholly apart. thus, after all, the gratification of their purpose was devoid of savour and ironsyde's indifferent acquiescence robbed their will of its triumph. he had told mary dinnett, through ernest churchouse, that she and her daughter must proceed as they thought fit and that, in any case, the last word would be with him. here, however, he misvalued the strength of the forces arrayed against him, and only the future proved whether the seed sowed in abel dinnett's youthful heart was fertile or barren--whether, by the blood in his own veins, he would offer soil of character to develop enmity to the man who got him, or reveal a nature slow to anger and impatient of wrath. for ernest churchouse these problems offered occupation and he stood as an intermediary between the interests that clashed in the child. he made himself responsible for a measure of the boy's education and, sometimes, reported to estelle such development of character as he perceived. in secret, inspired by the rival claims of heredity and environment, ernest strove to cast a scientific horoscope of little abel's probable future. but to-day contradicted yesterday, and to-morrow proved both untrustworthy. the child was always changing, developing new ideas, indicating new possibilities. it appeared too soon yet to say what he would be, or predict his character and force of purpose. thus he grew, and when he was eight years old, his first friend and ally--his grandmother--died. mr. churchouse, who had long deplored her influence for abel's sake, was hopeful that this departure might prove a blessing. now sabina had taken her mother's place and she looked after ernest well enough. he always hoped that she would marry, and she had been asked to do so more than once, but felt tempted to no such step. thus, then, things stood, and any change of focus and altered outlook in these people, that may serve to suggest discontinuity with their past, must be explained by the passage of ten years. such a period had renewed all physically--a fact full of subtle connotations. it had sharpened the youthful and matured the adult mind; it had dimmed the senses sinking upon nature's night time and strengthened the dawning will and opening intellect. for as a ship furls her spread of sail on entering harbour, so age reduces the scope of the mind and its energies to catch every fresh ripple of the breeze that blows out of progress and change. the centre of the stage, too, gradually reveals new performers; the gaze of manhood is turned on new figures; the limelight of human interest throws up the coming forces of activity and intellect; while those who yesterday shone supreme, slowly pass into the penumbra that heralds eclipse. and who bulk big enough to arrest the eternal march, delay their own progress from light to darkness, or stay the eager young feet tramping outward of the dayspring to take their places in the day? life moves so fast that many a man lives to see the dust thick on his own name in the scroll of merit and taste a regret that only reason can allay. fate had denied sabina dinnett her brief apotheosis. from dark to dark she had gone; yet time had purged her mind of any large bitterness. she looked on and watched raymond's sojourn in the light from a standpoint negative and indifferent. the future for her held interest, for she could not cease to be interested in him, though she knew that he had long since ceased to be interested in her. from the cool cloisters of her obscurity she watched and was only strong in opinion at one point. she dreamed of her son making his way and succeeding in the world; she welcomed mr. churchouse's assurance as to the lad's mental progress and promise; but she was determined as ever that not, if she could help it, should abel enter terms of friendship with his father. thus the relations subsisted, while, strange to record, in practice they had long been accepted as part of the order of things at bridetown. they ceased even to form matter for gossip. for raymond ironsyde was greater here than the lord of the manor, or any other force. the mill continued to be the heart of the village. through the mill the lifeblood circulated; by the mill the prosperity of the people was regulated; and since the master saw that on his own prosperity reposed the prosperity of those whom he employed, there was none to decry him, or echo a disordered past in the ear of the well-ordered present. chapter ii the sea garden bride river still flowed her old way to her work and came, by goldilocks and grasses, by reedmace and angelica, to the mill-race and water-wheel. but now, where the old wheel thundered, there yawned a gap, for the river's power was about to be conserved to better purpose than of old, and as the new machines now demanded greater forces to drive them, so human skill found a way to increase the applied strength of a streamlet. against the outer wall of the mill now hung a turbine and raymond, estelle and others had assembled to see it in operation for the first time. bride was bottled here, and instead of flashing and foaming over the water wheel as of yore, now vanished into the turbine and presently appeared again below it. raymond explained the machine with gusto, and estelle mourned the wheel, yet as one who knew its departure was inevitable. it was summer time, and after john best had displayed the significance of the turbine and the increased powers generated thereby, raymond strolled down the valley beside the river at estelle's invitation. she had something to show him at the mouth of the stream--a sea garden, now in all its beauty and precious to her. for though her mind had winged far beyond the joys of childhood and was occupied with greater matters than field botany, still she loved the wild flowers and welcomed them again in their seasons. their speech drifted to the people, and he told how some welcomed the new appliance and some doubted. then raymond spoke of sabina dinnett in sympathetic ears. for now estelle understood the past; but she had never wavered in her friendship with sabina, any more than had diminished her sister-like attachment to raymond. now, as often, he regretted the attitude his child preserved towards him and expressed sorrow that he could not break down abel's distrust. "more than distrust, in fact, for the kid dislikes me," he said. "you know he does, chicky. but i never can understand why, because he's always with his mother and uncle ernest, and sabina doesn't bear me any malice now, to my knowledge. surely the child must come round sooner or later?" "when he's old enough to understand, i expect he will," she said. "but you'll have to be patient, ray." "oh, yes--that's my strong suit nowadays." "he's a clever little chap, so sabina says; but he's difficult and wayward. he won't be friends with me." raymond changed the subject and praised the valley as it opened to the sea. "what a jolly place! i believe there are scores of delightful spots at bridetown within a walk, and i'm always too busy to see them." "that's certain. i could show you scores." "i ought to know the place i live in, better. i don't even know the soil i walk on--awful ignorance." "the soil is oolite and clay, and the subsoil, which you see in the cliffs, is yellow sandstone--the loveliest, goldenest soil in the world," declared estelle. "the colour of a bath sponge," he said, and she pretended despair. "oh dear! and i really thought i had seen the dawning of poetry in you, ray." "merely reflected from yourself, chicky. still i'm improving. the turbine has a poetic side, don't you think?" "i suppose it has. science is poetic--at any rate, the history of science is full of poetry--if you know what poetry means." "i wish i had more time for such things," he said. "perhaps i shall have some day. to be in trade is rather deadening though. there seems so little to show for all my activities--only hundreds of thousands of miles of string. in weak moments i sometimes ask myself if, after all, it is good enough." "they must be very weak moments, indeed," said estelle. "perhaps you'll tell me how the world could get on without string?" "i don't know. but you, with all your love of beautiful things, ought to understand me instead of jumping on me. what is beauty? no two people feel the same about it, surely? you'd say a poem was beautiful; i'd say a square cut for four, just out of reach of cover point, was beautiful. your father would say, a book on shooting high pheasants was beautiful, if he agreed with it; john best would say a good sample of shop twine was beautiful." "we should all be right, beauty is in all those things. i can see that. i can even see that shooting birds with great skill, as father does, is beautiful--not the slaughter of the bird, which can't be beautiful, but the way it's done. but those are small things. with the workers you want to begin at the beginning and show them--what mister best knows--that the beauty of the thing they make depends on it being well and truly made." "they're restless." "yes; they're reaching out for more happiness, like everybody else." "i wouldn't back the next generation of capitalists to hold the fort against labour." "perhaps the next generation won't want to," she said. "perhaps by that time we shall be educated up to the idea that rich people are quite as anti-social as poor people. then we shall do away with both poverty and riches. to us, educated on the old values, it would come as a shock, but the generation that is born into such a world would accept it as a matter of course and not grumble." he laughed. "don't believe it, chicky. every generation has its own hawks and eagles as well as its sheep. the strong will always want the fulness of the earth and always try to inspire the weak to help them get it. with great leadership you must have equivalent rewards." "why? cannot you imagine men big enough to work for humanity without reward? have there not been plenty of such men--before christ, as well as since?" "power is reward," he answered. "no man is so great that he is indifferent to power, for his greatness depends upon it; and if power was dissipated to-morrow and diluted until none could call himself a leader, we should have a reaction at once and the sheep would grow frightened and bleat for a shepherd. and the shepherd would very soon appear." they stood where the cliffs broke and bride ended her journey at the sea. she came gently without any splendid nuptials to the lover of rivers. her brief course run, her last silver loop wound through the meadows, she ended in a placid pool amid the sand ridges above high-water mark. the yellow cliffs climbed up again on either side, and near the chalice in the grey beach whence, invisible, the river sank away to win the sea by stealth, spread estelle's sea garden--an expanse of stone and sand enriched by many flowers that seemed to crown the river pool with a garland, or weave a wreath for bride's grave in the sand. here were pale gold of poppies, red gold of lotus and rich lichens that made the sea-worn pebbles shine. sea thistle spread glaucous foliage and lifted its blue blossoms; stone-crops and thrifts, tiny trefoils and couch grasses were woven into the sand, and pink storks-bill and silvery convolvulus brought cool colour to this harmony spread beside the purple sea. the day was one of shadow and sunshine mingled, and from time to time, through passages of grey that lowered the glory of estelle's sea garden, a sunburst came to set all glittering once more, to flash upon the river, lighten the masses of distant elm, and throw up the red roofs and grey church tower of bridetown and her encircling hills. "what a jolly place it is," he said taking out his cigar case. then they sat in the shadow of a fishing boat, drawn up here, and raymond lamented the unlovely end of the river. while he did so, the girl regarded him with affection and a secret interest and entertainment. for it amused her often to hear him echo thoughts that had come to her in the past. in a lesser degree her father did the like; but he belonged to a still older generation, and it was with raymond that she found herself chiefly concerned, when he announced, as original, ideas and discoveries that reflected her own dreams in the past. sometimes she thought he was catching up; sometimes, again, she distanced him and felt herself grown up and raymond still a boy. then, sometimes, he would flush a covey of ideas outside her reflections, and so remind her of the things that interested men, in which, as yet, women took no interest. when he spoke of such things, she strove to learn all that he could teach concerning them. but soon she found that was not much. he did not think deeply and she quickly caught him up, if she desired to do so. now he uttered just the same, trivial lament that she had uttered when she was a child. she was pleased, for she rather loved to feel herself older in mind than raymond. it added a lustre to friendship and made her happy--why, she knew not. "what a wretched end--to be choked up in the shingle like that," he said, "instead of dashing out gloriously and losing yourself in the sea!" she smiled gently to herself. "i thought that once, then i was ever so sorry for poor little bride." "a bride without a wedding," he said. "no. she steals to him; she wins his salt kisses and finds them sweet enough. they mate down deep out of sight of all eyes. so you needn't be sorry for her really." "it's like watching people try ever so hard to do something and never bring it off." "yes--even more like than you think, ray; because we feel sad at such apparent failures, and yet what we are looking at may be a victory really, only our dull eyes miss it." "i daresay many people are succeeding who don't appear to be," he admitted. "goodness can't be wasted. it may be poured into the sand all unseen and unsung; but it conquers somehow and does something worth doing, even though no eye can see what. plenty of good things happen in the world--good and helpful things--that are never recorded, or even recognised." "like a stonewaller in a cricket match. the people cuss him, but he may determine who is going to win." she laughed at the simile. they went homeward presently, estelle quietly content to have shown raymond the flower-sprinkled strand, and he well pleased to have pleasured her. chapter iii a twist frame raymond ironsyde grumbled sometimes at the factory act and protested against grandmotherly legislation. yet in some directions he anticipated it. he went, for example, beyond the flax mill ventilation regulations. he loved fresh air himself, and took vast pains to make his works sweet and wholesome for those who breathed therein. even levi baggs could not grumble, for the exhaust draught in his hackling shop was stronger than the law demanded, and the new cyclone separators in the main buildings served to keep the air far purer than of old. ironsyde had established also the kestner system of atomising water, to regulate temperature and counteract the electrical effects of east wind, or frost, on the light slivers. he was always on the lookout for new automatic means to regulate the drags on the bobbins. he had installed an automatic doffing apparatus, and made a departure from the usual dry spinning in a demi-sec, or half-dry, spinning frame, which was new at that time, and had offered excellent results and spun a beautifully smooth yarn. these things all served to assist and relieve the workers in varying degree, but, as raymond often pointed out, they were taken for granted and, sometimes, in his gloomier moments, he accused his people of lacking gratitude. they, for their part, were being gradually caught up in the growing movements of labour. the unintelligent forgot to credit the master with his consideration; while those who could think, were often soured by suspicion. these ignorant spirits doubted not that he was seeking to win their friendship against the rainy days in store for capital. ironsyde came to the works one morning to watch a new twist frame and a new operator. the single strand yarn for material from the spinners was coming to the twist frame to be turned into twines and fishing lines. four full bobbins from the spinning machine went to each spindle of the twist frame, and from it emerged a strong 'four-ply.' it was a machine more complicated than the spinner; and, as only a good billiard player can appreciate the cleverness of a great player, so only a spinner might have admired the rare technical skill of the woman who controlled the twist frame. the soul of the works persisted, though the people and the machines were changed. the old photographs and old verses had gone, but new pictures and poems took their places in the workers' corners; and new fashion-plates hung where the old ones used to hang. the drawers, and the rovers, the spreaders and the spinners still, like bower-birds, adorned the scenes of their toil. a valentine or two and the portrait of a gamekeeper and his dog hung beside the carding machine; for sally groves had retired and a younger woman was in her place. she, too, fed the card by hand, but not so perfectly as sally was wont to do. estelle had come to see the twist frame. she cared much for the mill women and spent a good portion of her hours with them. a very genuine friendship, little tainted with time-serving, or self-interest, obtained for her in the works. on her side, she valued the goodwill of the workers as her best possession, and found among them a field for study in human nature and, in their work, matter for poetry and art. for were not all three fates to be seen at their eternal business here? clotho attended the spread board; the can-minders coiling away the sliver, stood for lachesis; while in the spinners, who cut the thread when the bobbin was full, estelle found atropos, the goddess of the shears. mr. best, grown grizzled, but active still and with no immediate thoughts of retirement, observed the operations of the new spinner at the twist frame. she was a woman from bridport, lured to bridetown by increase of wages. john, who was a man of enthusiasms, turned to estelle. "the best spinner that ever came to bridetown," he whispered. "better than sabina dinnett?" she asked; and best declared that she was. so passage of time soon deadens the outline of all achievement, and living events that happen under our eyes, offer a statement of the quick and real with which beautiful dead things, embalmed in the amber of memory, cannot cope. "sabina, at her best, never touched her, miss waldron." "sabina braids still in her spare time. nobody makes better nets." "this is a cousin of sarah roberts," explained the foreman. "spinning runs in the northover family, and though sarah is a spreader and never will be anything else, there have been wondrous good spinners in the clan. this girl is called milly morton, and her mother and grandmother spun before her. her father was jack morton, one of the last of the old hand spinners. to see him walking backwards from his wheel, and paying out fibre from his waist with one hand and holding up the yarn with the other, was a very good sight. he'd spin very nearly a hundred pounds of hemp in a ten hours' day, and turn out seven or eight miles of yarn, and walk every yard of it, of course. the rope makers swore by him." "i'm sure spinning runs in the blood!" agreed estelle. "both sarah's little girls are longing for the time when they can come into the mill and mind cans; and, of course, the boy wants to do his father's work and be a lathe hand." best nodded. "you've hit it," he declared. "it runs in the blood in a very strange fashion. take sabina's child. by all accounts, his old grandmother did everything in her power to poison his mind against the mill as well as the master. she was a lot bitterer than sabina herself, as the years went on; and if you could look back and uncover the past, you'd find it was her secret work to make that child what he is. but the mill draws him like cheese draws a mouse. i'll find him here a dozen times in a month--just popping in when my back's turned. why he comes i couldn't say; but i think it is because his mother was a spinner and the feeling for the craft is in him." "his father is a spinner, too, for that matter," suggested estelle. "in the larger sense of ownership, yes; but it isn't that that draws him. his father's got no great part in him by all accounts. it's the mother in him that brings him here. not that she knows he comes so often, and i dare say she'd be a good deal put about if she did." "why shouldn't he come, john?" he shrugged his shoulders. "i see no reason against. one gets so used to the situation that its strangeness passes off, but it's very awkward, so to say, that nothing can be done for abel by his father. sabina's wrong to hold out there, and so i've told her." "she doesn't influence abel one way or the other. the child seems to hate mister ironsyde." "well, he loves the mill, though you'd think he might hate that for his father's sake." "he's hard for a little creature of ten years old," said estelle. "he won't make friends with me, but holds off and regards me--just as rabbits and things regard one, before they finally run away. i pretend i don't notice it. he'll listen and even talk if i meet him with his mother; but if i meet him alone, he flies. he generally bolts through a hole in the hedge, or somewhere." "he links you up with mister raymond," explained mr. best. "he knows you live at north hill house, and so he's suspicious. you can disarm him, however, for he's got reasoning parts quite up to the average if not above. he's the sort of boy that if you don't want him to steal your apples, you've only got to give him a few now and then; and then he rises to the situation and feels in honour bound to be straight, because you've lifted him to be your equal." "i call that a very good character." "it might be a lot worse, no doubt." "i wanted him to come to our outing, but he won't do that, though his mother asked him to go." the outing, an annual whole holiday, was won for the mill by estelle, and for the past four years she had taken all who cared to come for a long day by the sea. they always went to weymouth, where amusement offered to suit every taste. "more than ever are coming this year," john told her. "in fact, i believe pretty well everybody's going but levi baggs." "i'm glad. we'll have the two wagonettes from 'the seven stars' as usual. if you are going into bridport you might tell missis legg." "the two big ones we shall want, and they must be here sharp at six o'clock," declared mr. best. "there's nothing like getting off early. i'll speak to job legg about it and tell him to start 'em off earlier. you can trust it to job as to the wagonettes being opened or covered. he's a very weather-wise person and always smells rain twelve hours in advance." chapter iv the red hand the mill had a fascination for all bridetown children and they would trespass boldly and brave all perils to get a glimpse of the machinery. the thunder of the engines drew them, and there were all manner of interesting fragments to be picked up round and about. that they were not permitted within the radius of the works was also a sound reason for being there, and many boys could tell of great adventures and hairbreadth escapes from mr. best, mr. benny cogle and, above all, mr. baggs. for mr. baggs, to the mind of youth, exhibited ogre-like qualities. they knew him as a deadly enemy, for which reason there was no part of the works that possessed a greater or more horrid fascination than the hackling shop. to have entered the den of mr. baggs marked a bridetown lad as worthy of highest respect in his circle. but proofs were always demanded of such a high achievement. when levi caught the adventurer, as sometimes happened, proofs were invariably apparent and a posterior evidence never lacked of a reverse for the offensive; but youth will be served, even though age sometimes serves it rather harshly, and the boys were untiring. unless levi locked the shop, when he went home at noon to dinner, there was always the chance of a raid with a strick or two possibly missing as proof of success. sabina had told abel that he must keep away from the works, but he ignored her direction and often revolved about them at moments of liberty. he was a past master in the art of scouting and evading danger, yet loved danger, and the mill offered him daily possibilities of both courting and escaping peril. together with other little boys nourished on a penny journal, abel had joined the 'band of the red hand.' they did no harm, but hoped some day, when they grew older, to make a more' painful impression on bridetown. at present their modest ambition was to leave the mark of their secret society in every unexpected spot possible. on private walls, in church and chapel, or the house-places of the farms, it was their joy to write with chalk, 'the red hand has been here.' then followed a circle and a cross--the dark symbol of the brotherhood. once a former chief of the gang had left his mark in the hackling shop and more than one member had similarly adorned the interior of the mill; but the old chief had gone to sea at the age of thirteen, and, though younger than some of the present members, abel was now appointed leader and always felt the demand to attempt things that should be worthy of so high a state. they were not the everyday boys who thus combined, but a sort of child less common, yet not uncommon. such lads scent one another out by parity of taste and care less for gregarious games than isolated or lonely adventures. they would rather go trespassing than play cricket; they would organise a secret raid before a public pastime. intuitively they desire romance, and feeling that law and order is opposed to romance, find the need to flout law and order in measure of their strength, and, of course, applaud the successful companion who does so with most complete results. now 'the old adam'--a comprehensive term for independence of view and unpreparedness to accept the tried values of pastors and masters--was strong in abel dinnett. he loved life, but hated discipline, and for him the mill possessed far more significance than it could offer to any lesser member of the band, since his father owned it. for that much abel apprehended, though the meaning of paternity was as yet hidden from him. that raymond ironsyde was his father he understood, and that he must hate him heartily he also understood: his dead grandmother had poured this precept into his young mind at its most receptive period. for the present he was still too youthful to rise beyond this general principle, and he was far too busy with his own adventures to find leisure to hate any one more than fitfully. he told the red handers that some day he designed a terrific attack on raymond ironsyde; and they promised to assist and support him; but they all recognised their greater manifestations must be left until they attained more weight in the cosmic and social schemes, and, for the moment, their endeavour rose little higher than to set their fatal sign where least it might be expected. to this end came dark-eyed abel to the mill at an hour when he should have been at his dinner. ere long his activities might be curtailed, for he was threatened with a preparatory school in the autumn; but before that happened, the red hand must be set in certain high places, and the hackling shop of levi baggs was first among them. abel wore knickerbockers and his feet and legs were bare, for he had just waded across the river beyond the mill, and meant to retreat by the same road. he had hidden in a may bush till the people were all gone to their meal, and then crossed the stream into the works. that the door of the hackler's would be open he did not expect, for levi locked it when he went home; but there was a little window, and abel, who had a theory that where his head could go, his body could follow, believed that by the window it would be possible to make his entrance. the contrary of what he expected happened, however, for the window was shut and the door on the latch. fate willed that on the very day of abel's attack, mr. baggs should be spending the dinner-hour in his shop. his sister, who looked after him, was from home until the evening, and levi had brought his dinner to the works. he was eating it when the boy very cautiously opened the door, and since mr. baggs sat exactly behind the door, this action served to conceal him. the intruder therefore thought the place empty, and proceeded with his operations while levi made no sound, but watched him. taking a piece of chalk from his pocket abel wrote the words of terror, 'the red hand has been here,' and set down the circle and cross. then he picked up one of the bright stricks, that lay beside the hackling board, and was just about to depart in triumph, when mr. baggs banged the door and revealed himself. thus discomfited, abel grew pale and then flushed. mr. baggs was a very big and strong man and the culprit knew that he must now prepare for the pangs that attended failure. but he bore pain well. he had been operated upon for faulty tendons when he was five and proved a spartan patient. he stood now waiting for mr. baggs. other victims had reported that it was levi's custom to use a strap from his own waist when he beat a boy, and abel, even at this tense moment, wondered whether he would now do so. "it's you, is it?" said mr. baggs. "and the red hand has been here, has it? and perhaps the red something else will go away from here. you're a darned young thief--that's what you are." "i ain't yet," argued abel. his voice fluttered, for his heart was beating very fast. "you're as good, however, for you was going to take my strick. the will was there, though i prevented the deed." "i had to show the band as i'd been here." "why did you come? what sense is there to it?" abel regarded mr. baggs doubtfully and did not reply. "just to show you're a bit out of the common, perhaps?" abel clutched at the suggestion. his eyes looked sideways slyly at mr. baggs. the ogre seemed inclined to talk, and through speech might come salvation, for he had acted rather than talked on previous occasions. "we want to be different from common boys," said the marauder. "well, you are, for one, and there's no need to trouble in your case. you was born different, and different you've got to be. i suppose you've been told often enough who your father is?" "yes, i have." "small wonder then that you've got your knife into the world at large, i reckon. what thinking man, or boy, has not for that matter? so you're up against the laws and out for the liberties? well, i don't quarrel with that. only you're too young yet to understand what a lot you've got to grumble at. some day you will." abel said nothing. he hardly listened, and thought far less of what mr. baggs was saying than of what he himself would say to his companions after this great adventure. to make friends with the ogre was no mean feat, even for a member of the red hand. what motiveless malignity actuated levi baggs meanwhile, who can say? he was now a man in sight of seventy, yet his crabbed soul would exude gall under pressure as of yore. none was ever cheered or heartened by anything he might say; but to cast a neighbour down, or make a confident and contented man doubtful and discontented, affected mr. baggs favourably and rendered him as cheerful as his chronic pessimism ever permitted him to be. he bade the child sit and gave him his portion of currant dumpling. "put that down your neck," he said, "and don't you think so bad of me in future. i treat other people same as they treat me, and that's a rule that works out pretty fair in practice, if you've got the power to follow it. but some folks are too weak to treat other people as they are treated--you, for example. you're one of the unlucky ones, you are, abel dinnett." abel enjoyed the pudding; and still his mind dwelt more on future narration of this great incident than on the incident itself. with unconscious art, he felt that the moment when this tale was told, would be far greater for him than the moment when it happened. "i ain't unlucky, mister baggs. i would have been unlucky if you'd beat me; but you've give me your pudding, and i'm on your side till death now." "well, that's something. i ain't got many my side, i believe. the fearless thinker never has. you can come and see me when you mind to, because i'm sorry for you, owing to your bad fortune. you've been handicapped out of winning the race, abel. you know what a handicap is in a race? well, you won't have no chance of winning now, because your father won't own you." "i won't own him," said the boy. "granny always told me he was my bitterest enemy, and she knew, and i won't trust him--never." "i should think not--nor any other wise chap wouldn't trust him. he's a bad lot. he only believes in machines, not humans." the boy began to be receptive. "he wants to be friends, but i won't be his friend, because i hate him. only i don't tell mother, because she don't hate him so much as me." "more fool her, then. she ought to hate him. she's got first cause. do you know who ought to own these works when your father dies?" "no, mister baggs." "you. yes, they did ought to belong to you in justice, because you are his eldest son. everything ought to be yours, if the world were run by right and fairness and honour. but it's all took from you and you can't lift a finger to better yourself, because you're only his natural son, and nature may go to hell every time for all the law and the church care. church and law both hate nature. so that's why i say you're an unlucky boy; and that's why i say that, despite your father's money and fame and being popular and well thought on and all that, he's a cruel rogue." abel was puzzled but interested. "if i'm his boy, why ain't my mother his wife, like all the other chaps' fathers have got wives?" "why ain't your mother his wife? yes, why? after ten years he'll find that question as hard to answer as it was before you were born, i reckon. and the answer to the question is the same as the answer to many questions about raymond ironsyde. and that is, that he is a crooked man who pretends to be a straight one; in a word, a hypocrite. and you'll grow up to understand these things and see what should be yours taken from you and given to other people." "when i grow up, i'll have it out with him," said abel. "no, you won't. because he's strong and you're weak. you're weak and poor and nobody, with no father to fight for you and give you a show in the world. and you'll always be the same, so you'll never stand any chance against him." the boy flushed and showed anger. "i won't be weak and poor always." "against him you will. suppose you went so far as to let him befriend you, could he ever make up for not marrying your mother? can he ever make you anything but a bastard and an outcast? no, he can't; and he only wants to educate you and give you a bit of money and decent clothes for the sake of his own conscience. he'll come to you hat in hand some day--not because he cares a damn for you, but that he may stand well in the eyes of the world." abel now panted with anger, and mr. baggs was mildly amused to see how easily the child could be played upon. "i'll grow up and then--" "don't you worry. you must take life as you find it, and as you haven't found it a very kind thing, you must put up with it. most people draw blanks, and that's why it's better to stop out of the world than in it. and if we could see into the bottom of every heart, we should very likely find that all draw blanks, and even what looks like prizes are not." levi laughed after this sweeping announcement. it appeared to put him in a good temper. he even relaxed in the gravity of his prophecies. "however, life is on the side of youth," he said, "and you may come to the front some day, if you've got enough brains. brains is the only thing that'll save you. your mother's clever and your father's crafty, so perhaps you'll go one better than either. perhaps, some day, if you wait long enough, you'll get back on your father, after all." "i will wait long enough," declared abel. "i don't care how long i wait, but i'll best him, mister baggs." "you keep in that righteous spirit and you'll breed a bit of trouble for him some day, i daresay. and now be off, and if you want to come and see me at work and learn about hackling and the business that ought to be yours but won't be, then you can drop in again when you mind to." "thank you, sir," said abel. "i will come, and if i say you let me, nobody can stop me." "that's right. i like brave boys that ain't frightened of their betters--so called." then abel went off, crossed bride among the sedges and put on his shoes and stockings again. he had a great deal to think about, and this brief conversation played its part in his growing brain to alter old opinions and waken new ideas. that he had successfully stormed the hackling shop and found the ogre friendly was, of course, good; but already, and long before he could retail the incident, it began to lose its rare savour. he perceived this himself dimly, and it made him uncomfortable and troubled. something had happened to him; he knew not what, but it dwarfed the operations of the red hand, and it even made his personal triumph look smaller than it appeared a little while before. abel stared at the mill while he pulled on his stockings and listened to the bell calling the people back to work. by right, then, all these wonders should be his some day; but his father would never give them to him now. he vaguely remembered that his grandmother had said something like this; but it remained for mr. baggs to rekindle the impression until abel became oppressed with its greatness. he considered the problem gloomily for a long time and decided to talk to his mother about it. but he did not. it was characteristic of him that he seldom went to sabina for any light on his difficulties. indeed he attached more importance to mr. churchouse's opinions than his mother's. he determined to see levi baggs again and, meantime, he let a sense of wrong sink into him. here the band of the red hand offered comfort. it seemed proper to his dawning intelligence that one who had been so badly treated as he, should become the head of the red hand. yet, as the possible development of the movement occurred to abel, the child began to share the uneasiness of all conspiracy and feel a weakness inherent in the band. seen from that modest standard of evil-doing which belonged to tommy and billy keep, amos whittle and jacky gale, the red handers appeared a futile organisation even in abel's eyes. he felt, as greater than he have felt, that an ideal society should embrace one member only: himself. there were far too many brothers of the red hand, and before he reached home he even contemplated resignation. he liked better the thought of playing his own hand, and keeping both its colour and its purpose secret from everybody else in the world. his head was, for the moment, full of unsocial thoughts; but whether the impressions created by mr. baggs were likely to persist in a mind so young, looked doubtful. he told his mother nothing, as usual. indeed, had she guessed half that went on in abel's brains, she might have sooner undertaken what presently was indicated, and removed herself and her son to a district far beyond their native village. but the necessity did not exist in her thoughts, and when she recognised it, since the inspiration came from without, she was moved to resent rather than accept it. chapter v an accident there was a cricket luncheon at 'the tiger' when bridport played its last match for the season against axminster. the western township had won the first encounter, and bridport much desired to cry quits over the second. raymond played on this occasion, and though he failed, the credit of bridetown was worthily upheld by nicholas roberts, the lathe-worker. he did not bowl as fast as of yore, but he bowled better, and since axminster was out for one hundred and thirty in their first innings, while bridport had made seventy for two wickets before luncheon, the issue promised well. job legg still helped richard gurd at great moments as he was wont to do, for prosperity had not modified job's activity, or diminished his native goodwill. gurd carved, while job looked after the bottles. arthur waldron, who umpired for bridport, sat beside raymond at lunch and condoled with him, because the younger, who had gone in second wicket down, had played himself in very carefully before the interval. "now you'll have to begin all over again," said waldron. "i always say luncheon may be worth anything to the bowlers. it rests them, but it puts the batsman's eye out." "seeing how short of practice you are this year, you were jolly steady, ray," declared neddy motyer, who sat on the other side of ironsyde. "you stopped some very hot ones." neddy preserved his old interest in sport, but was now a responsible member of society. he had married and joined his father, a harness-maker, in a prosperous business. "i can't time 'em, like i could. that fast chap will get me, i expect." and raymond proved a true prophet. indeed far worse happened than he anticipated. estelle came to watch the cricket after luncheon. she had driven into bridport with her father and raymond in the morning and gone on to jenny ironsyde for the midday meal. now she arrived in time to witness a catastrophe. a very fast bowler went on immediately after lunch. he was a tall and powerful youth with a sinister reputation for bowling at the man rather than the wicket. at any rate he pitched them short and with his lofty delivery bumped them very steeply on a lively pitch. now, in his second over, he sent down a short one at tremendous speed, and the batsman, failing to get out of the way, was hit on the point of the jaw. he fell as though shot and proved to be quite unconscious when picked up. they carried him to the pavilion, and it was not until twenty minutes had passed that raymond came round and the game went on. but ironsyde could take no further part. there was concussion of doubtful severity and he found himself half blind and suffering great pain in the neck and head. estelle came to him and advised that he should go to his aunt's house, which was close at hand. he could not speak, but signified agreement, and they took him there in an ambulance, while the girl ran on to advise his aunt of the accident. a doctor came with him and helped to get him to bed. his mind seemed affected and he wandered in his speech. but he recognised estelle and begged her not to leave him. she sat near him, therefore, in a darkened room and miss ironsyde also came. waldron dropped in before dusk with the news that bridport had won, by a smaller margin than promised, on the first innings. but he found raymond sleeping and did not waken him. estelle believed the injured man would want her when he woke again. the doctor could say nothing till some hours had passed, so she went home, but returned a few hours later to stop the night and help, if need be, to nurse the patient. a professional nurse shared the vigil; but their duties amounted to nothing, for raymond slept through the greater part of the night and declared himself better in the morning. he had to stop with his aunt, however, for two or three days, and while estelle, her ministration ended, was going away after the doctor pronounced raymond on the road to recovery, the patient begged her to remain. he appeared in a sentimental vein, and the experience of being nursed was so novel that ironsyde endured it without a murmur. to estelle, who did not guess he was rather enjoying it, the spectacle of his patience under pain awoke admiration. indeed, she thought him most heroic and he made no effort to undeceive her. incidentally, during his brief convalescence the man saw more of his aunt than he had seen for many days. she also must needs nurse him and exhaust her ingenuity to pass the time. the room was kept dark for eight-and-forty hours, so her method of entertaining her nephew consisted chiefly in conversation. of late years raymond seldom let a week elapse without seeing miss ironsyde if only for half an hour. her waning health occupied him on these occasions and, at his suggestion, she had gone to bath to fight the arthritis that slowly gained upon her. but during his present sojourn at bridport as her guest, raymond let her lead their talk as she would, indeed, he himself sometimes led it into channels of the past, where she would not have ventured to go. life had made an immense difference to the man and he was old for his age now, even as until his brother's death he had been young for his age. she could not fail to note the steadfastness of his mind, despite its limitations. as estelle had often done, she perceived how he set his faith on material things--the steel and steam--to bring about a new order and advance the happiness of mankind; but he was interested in social questions far more than of old time, and she felt no little surprise to hear him talk about the future. "the air is full of change," she said, on one occasion. "it always is," he answered. "there is always movement, although the breath of advance and progress seems to sink to nothing, sometimes. now it's blowing a stiff breeze and may rise to a hurricane in a few years." "it is for the stable, solid backbone of the nation--we of the middle-class--to withstand such storms," she declared, and he agreed. "if you've got a stake in the world, you must certainly see its foundations are driven deep and look to the stake itself, that it's not rotting. some stakes are certainly not made of stuff stout enough to stand against the storms ahead. education is the great, vital thing. i often feel mad to think how i wasted my own time at school, and came to man's work a raw, ignorant fool. we talk of the education of the masses and what i see is this: they will soon be better educated than we ourselves; for we bring any amount of sense and modern ideas to work on their teaching, while our own prehistorical methods are left severely alone. i believe the boys who come to working age now are better taught than i was at my grammar school. i wish i knew more." "yet we see education may run us into great dangers," said jenny ironsyde. "it can be pushed to a perilous point. one even hears a murmur against the bible in the schools. it makes my blood run cold. and we need not look farther than dear estelle to see the peril." "what do you think of estelle?" he asked. "i almost welcome this stupid collapse, nuisance though it is, because it's made a sort of resting-place and brought me nearer to you and estelle. you've both been so kind. a man such as i am, is so busy and absorbed that he forgets all about women; then suddenly lying on his back--done for and useless--he finds they don't forget all about him." "you ask what i think about estelle?" she said. "i never think about estelle--no more than i do about the sunshine, or my comfortable bed, or my tea. she's just one of the precious things i take for granted. i love her. she is a great deal to me, and the hours she spends with a rather old-fashioned and cross-grained woman are the happiest hours i know." "i'm like her father," he said. "i give estelle best. nothing can spoil her, because she's so utterly uninterested in herself. another thing: she's so fair--almost morbidly fair. the only thing that makes her savage is injustice. if she sees an injustice, she won't leave it alone if it's in her power to alter it. that's her father in her. what he calls 'sporting,' she calls 'justice.' and, of course, the essence of sport is justice, if you think it out." "i don't know anything about sport, but i suppose i have to thank cricket for your company at present. as for estelle. i think she has a great idea of your judgment and opinion." he laughed. "if she does, it's probably because i generally agree with her. besides--" he broke off and lighted a cigarette. "'besides' what?" asked the lady. "well--oh i hardly know. i'm tremendously fond of her. perhaps i've taken her too much as you say we take the sun and our meat and drink--as a matter of course. yes, like the sun, and as unapproachable." miss ironsyde considered. "i suppose you're right. i can well imagine that to the average man a 'una,' such as estelle, may seem rather unapproachable." "we're very good friends, though how good i never quite guessed till this catastrophe. she seemed to come and help look after me as a matter of course. didn't think it a bit strange." "she's simple, but in a very noble way. i've only one quarrel with her--the faith of her fathers--" "leave it. you'll only put your foot into it, aunt jenny." "never," she said. "i shall never put my foot into it where right and wrong are concerned--with estelle or you, or anybody else. i'm nearly seventy, remember, raymond, and one knows what is imperishable and to be trusted at that age." thus she negatived mr. churchouse's dictum--that mere age demanded no particular reverence, since many years are as liable to error as few. her nephew was doubtful. "right and wrong are a never-ending puzzle," he said. "they vary so from the point of view. and if you once grant there are more view points than one, where are you?" "right and wrong are not doubtful," she assured him, "and all the science in the world can't turn one into the other--any more than light can turn into darkness." "light can turn into darkness easily enough. i've learned that during the last three days," he answered. "if you fill this room with light, i can't see. if you keep it dark, i can." estelle came to tea and read some notes that mr. best had prepared for raymond. they satisfied him, and the meal was merry, for he found himself free of pain and in the best spirits. estelle, too, had some gossip that amused him. her father was already practising at clay pigeons to get his eye in for the first of september; and he wished to inform raymond that he was shooting well and hoped for a better season than the last. he had also seen a vixen and three cubs on north hill at five o'clock in the morning of the preceding day. "in fact, it's the best of all possible worlds so far as father is concerned," said estelle, "and now he hears you're coming home early next week, he will go to church on sunday with a thankful heart. he said yesterday that raymond's accident had a bright side. d'you know what it is? ray meant to give up cricket altogether after this year; but father points out that he cannot do so now. because it is morally impossible for ray to stop playing until he stands up again to that bowler who hurt him so badly. 'morally impossible,' is what father said." "he's quite right too," declared the patient. "till i've knocked that beggar out of his own ground for six, i certainly shan't chuck cricket. we must meet again next season, if we're both alive. everybody can see that." chapter vi the gathering problem sabina dinnett found that her mind was not so indifferent to her fortunes as she supposed. upon examining it, with respect to the problem of leaving bridetown for abel's sake, which ernest had now raised, she discovered a very keen disinclination to depart. here was the only home that she, or her child, had ever known, and though that mattered nothing, she shrank from beginning a new life away from 'the magnolias' under the increased responsibility of sole control where abel was concerned. moreover, mr. churchouse had more power with abel than anybody. the boy liked him and must surely win sense and knowledge from him, as sabina herself had won them in the past. she knew that these considerations were superficial and the vital point in reason was to separate the son from the father; so that abel's existing animus might perish. both estelle and ernest churchouse had impressed the view upon her; but here crept in the personal factor, and sabina found that she had no real desire to mend the relationship. considerations of her child's future pointed to more self-denial, but only that abel might in time come to be reconciled to raymond and accept good at his hands. and when sabina thought upon this, she soon saw that her own indifference, where ironsyde was concerned, did not extend to the future of the boy. she could still feel, and still suffer, and still resent certain possibilities. she trusted that in time to come, when mr. churchouse and miss ironsyde were gone, the measure of her son's welfare would be hers. she was content to see herself depending upon him; but not if his own prosperity came from his father. she preferred to picture abel as making his way without obligations to that source. she might have married and made her own home, but that alternative never tempted her, since it would have thrust her off the pedestal which she occupied, as one faithful to the faithless, one bitterly wronged, a reproach to the good name--perhaps, even a threat to the sustained prosperity of raymond ironsyde. she could feel all this at some moments. she determined now to let the matter rest, and when ernest churchouse ventured to remind her of the subject and to repeat the opinion that it might be wise for sabina to take the boy away from bridetown, she postponed decision. "i've thought upon it," she said, "and i feel it can very well be left to the spring, if you see nothing against. i've promised to do some braiding in my spare time this winter for a firm at bridport that wants netting in large quantities. they are giving it out to those who can do it; and as for abel, he'll go to his day-school through the winter. and it means a great deal to me, mister churchouse, that you are as good and helpful to him as you were to me when i was young. i don't want to lose that." "i wish i'd been more helpful, my dear." "you taught me a great many things valuable to know. i should have been in my grave years ago, but for you, i reckon. and the child's only a child still. if you work upon him, you'll make him meek and mild in time." "he'll never be meek and mild, sabina--any more than you were. he has plenty of character; he's good material--excellent stuff to be moulded into a fine pattern, i hope. but a little leaven leavens the whole lump of a child, and what i can do is not enough to outweigh other influences." "i don't fear for him. he's got to face facts, and as he grows he must use his own wits and get his own living." "the fear is that he may be spoiled and come to settled, rooted prejudices, too hard to break down afterwards. he is a very interesting boy, just as you were a very interesting girl, sabina. he often reminds me of you. there are the possibilities of beauty in his character. he is sentimental about some things and strangely indifferent about others. he is a mixture of exaggerated kindness in some directions and utter callousness in others. sentimental people often are. he will pick a caterpillar out of the road to save it from death, and he will stone a dog if he has a grudge against it. his attitude to peter grim is one of devotion. he actually told me that it was very sad that peter had now grown too old to catch mice. again, he always brings me the first primrose and spares no pains to find it. such little acts argue a kindly nature. but against them, you have to set his unreasoning dislike of human beings and a certain--shall i say buccaneering spirit." "he feels, and so he'll suffer--as i did. the more you feel, the more you suffer." "and it is therefore our duty to prevent him from feeling mistakenly and wanting to make others suffer. he may sometimes catch allusions in his quick ears that cause him doubt and even pain. and it is certain that the sight of his father does wake wrong thoughts. removed from here, the best part of him would develop, and when the larger questions of his future begin to be considered in a few years time, he might then approach them with an open mind." "there can be no harm in leaving it till the spring. he'd hate going away from here." "i don't think so. the young welcome a change of environment. there is nothing more healthy for their minds as a rule than to travel about. however, we will get him used to the idea of going and think about it again in the spring." so the subject was left, and when the suggestion of departing from bridetown came to abel, he belied the prophecy of mr. churchouse and declared a strong objection to the thought of going. his mother influenced him in this. during the autumn he had a misfortune, for, with two other members of the 'red hand,' he was caught stealing apples at the time of cider-making. three strokes of a birch rod fell on each revolutionary, and not ernest churchouse nor his mother could console abel for this reverse. he gleaned his sole comfort at a dangerous source, and while the kindly ignored the event and the unkindly dwelt upon it, only levi baggs applauded abel and preached privi-conspiracy and rebellion. raymond ironsyde was much perturbed at the adventure, but his friend waldron held the event desirable. as a justice of the peace, it was arthur who prescribed the punishment and trusted in it. thus he, too, incurred abel's enmity. the company of the 'red hand' was disbanded to meet no more, and if his fellow sufferers gained by their chastisement, it was certain that sabina's son did not. insensate law fits the punishment to the crime rather than to the criminal, as though a doctor should only treat disease, without thought of the patient enduring it. neither did abel's mother take the reverse with philosophy. she resented it as cruel cowardice; but it reminded her of the advantages to be gained by leaving her old home. then fell an unexpected disaster and mr. churchouse was called to suffer a dangerous attack of bronchitis. the illness seemed to banish all other considerations from sabina's mind and, while the issue remained in doubt, she planned various courses of action. incidentally, she saw more of estelle and miss ironsyde than of late, for mr. churchouse, whose first pleasure on earth was now estelle, craved her presence during convalescence, as raymond in like case had done; and miss ironsyde also drove to see him on several occasions. the event filled all with concern, for ernest had a trick to make friends and, what is more rare, an art to keep them. many beyond his own circle were relieved and thankful when he weathered danger and began to build up again with the lengthening days of the new year. abel had been very solicitous on his behalf, and he praised the child to jenny and estelle, when they came to drink tea with him on a day in early spring. "i believe there are great possibilities in him and, when i am stronger, i shall resume my attack on sabina to go away," he said. "the boy's mind is being poisoned and we might prevent it." "it's a most unfortunate state of affairs," declared miss ironsyde. "yet it was bound to happen in a little place like this. raymond is not sensitive, or he would feel it far more than he does." "he can't do more and he does feel it a great deal," declared estelle. "i think sabina sees it clearly enough, but it's very hard on her too, to have to go from mister churchouse and her home." "nothing is more mysterious than the sowing and germination of spiritual seed," said the old man. "the enemy sowed tares by night, and what can be more devilish than sowing the tares of evil on virgin soil? it was done long ago. one hesitates to censure the dead, though i daresay, if we could hear them talking in another world, we should find they didn't feel nearly so nice about us and speak their minds quite plainly. we know plenty of people who must be criticising. but truth will out, and the truth is that mary dinnett planted evil thoughts and prejudices in abel. he was not too young, unfortunately, to give them room. a very curious woman--obstinate and almost malignant if vexed and quite incapable of keeping silence even when it was most demanded. if you are going to give people confidences, you must have a good memory. mary would confide all sorts of secrets to me and then, perhaps six months afterwards, be quite furious to find i knew them! she came to me for advice on one occasion and i reminded her of certain circumstances she had confided to me in the past, and she lost her temper entirely. yet a woman of most excellent qualities and most charitable in other people's affairs." "the question is abel, and i have told sabina she must decide about him," said jenny. "we are all of one mind, and raymond himself thinks it would be most desirable. as soon as you are well again, sabina must go." "i shall miss her very much. to find anybody who will fall into my ways may be difficult. when i was younger, i used to like training a domestic. i found it was better to rule by love than fear. you may lose here and there, but you gain more than you lose. human character is really not so profoundly difficult, if you resolutely try to see life from the other person's standpoint. that done, you can help them--and yourself through them." "people who show you their edges, instead of their rounds, are not at all agreeable," said miss ironsyde. "to conquer the salients of character is often a very formidable task." "it is," he admitted, "yet i have found the comfortable, convex and concave characters often really more difficult in the long run. you must have some hard and durable rock on which to found understanding and security. the soft, crumbling people may be lovable; but they are useless as sand at a crisis. they are always slipping away and threatening to smother their best friends with the debris." he chattered on until a fit of coughing stopped him. "you mustn't talk so much," warned estelle. "it's lovely to hear you talking again; but it isn't good for you, yet." then she turned to miss ironsyde. "the first time i came in and found him reading a book catalogue, i knew he was going to be all right." "by the same token another gift has reached me," he answered; "a book on the bells of devon, which i have long wanted to possess." "i'm sure it is not such a perfect book as yours." "indeed it is--very excellently done. the bell mottoes in devonshire are worthy of all admiration. but a great many of the bells in ancient bell-chambers are crazed--a grave number. people don't think as much of a ring of bells in a parish as they used to do." miss ironsyde brought the conversation back to abel; but ernest was tired of this. he viewed sabina's departure with great personal regret. "things will be as they will, my dears," he told them, "and i have such respect for sabina's good sense that i shall be quite content to leave decision with her. it would not become me to dictate or command in such a delicate matter. to return to the bells, i have received a rather encouraging statement from the publishers. four copies of my book have been sold during the last six months." chapter vii the walk home upon a bank holiday sabina took abel to west haven for a long day on the beach and pier. he enjoyed himself very thoroughly, ate, drank and played to his heart's content. but his amusements brought more pleasure to the child than his mother, for he found the wonderful old stores and discovered therein far more entertaining occupation than either sea or shore could offer. the place was deserted to-day, and while sabina sat outside in a corner of the courtyard and occupied herself with the future, abel explored the mysteries of the ancient building and found all manner of strange nooks and mysterious passages. he wove dreams and magnified the least incident into an adventure. he inhabited the dark corners and sombre, subterranean places with enemies that wanted to catch him; he most potently believed that hidden treasures awaited him under the hollow-echoing floors. once he had a rare fright, for a bat hanging asleep in its folded wings, was wakened by him and suddenly flew into his face. he climbed and crawled and crept about, stole a lump of putty and rejoiced at the discovery of some paint pots and a brush. the 'red hand' no longer existed; but the opportunity once more to set up its sinister symbol was too good to resist. he painted it on the walls in several places and then called his mother to look at the achievement. she climbed up a long flight of stone steps that led to the lofts, and suffered a strange experience presently, for the child was playing in the chamber sacred to her surrender. she stood where twelve years before she had come with raymond ironsyde after their day at golden cap. light fell through a window let into the roof. it was broken and fringed with cobwebs. the pile of fishermen's nets had vanished and a carpenter's bench had taken its place. on the walls and timbers were scrawled names and initials of holiday folk, who had explored the old stores through many years. sabina, perceiving where she stood, closed her eyes and took an involuntary step backward. abel called attention to his sign upon the walls. "the carpenter will shiver when he sees that," he said. then he rambled off, whistling, and she sat down and stared round her. she told herself that deep thoughts must surely wake under this sudden experience and the fountains of long sealed emotion bubble upwards, to drown her before them. instead she merely found herself incapable of thinking. a dull, stale, almost stagnant mood crept over her. her mind could neither walk nor fly. after the first thrill of recognition, the light went out and she found herself absolutely indifferent. not anger touched her, nor pain. that the child of that perished passion should play here, and laugh and be merry was poignant, but it did not move her and she felt a sort of surprise that it should not. there was a time when such an experience must have shaken her to the depths, plunged her into some deep pang of soul and left indelible wounds; now, no such thing happened. she gazed mildly about her and almost smiled. then she rose from her seat on the carpenter's bench, went out and descended the staircase again. when she called him to a promised tea at an inn, abel came at once. he was weary and well content. "i shall often come here," he said. "it's the best place i know--better than the old kiln on north hill. i could hide there and nobody find me, and you could bring me food at night." "what do you want to hide for, pretty?" she asked. "i might," he answered and looked at her cautiously for a moment he seemed inclined to say more, but did not. after tea they set out for home, and the fate, which, through the incident of the old store, had subtly prepared and paved a way to something of greater import, sent raymond ironsyde. they had passed the point at which the road from west haven converges into that from bridport, and a man on horseback overtook them. they were all going in the same direction and abel, as soon as he saw who approached, left his mother, went over a convenient gate upon their right and hastened up a hedge. thus he always avoided his father, and when blamed for so doing, would silently endure the blame without explanation or any offer of excuse. raymond had seen him thus escape on more than one occasion, and the incident, clashing at this moment upon his own thoughts, prompted him to a definite and unusual thing. the opportunity was good; sabina walked alone, and if she rebuffed him, he could endure the rebuff. he determined to speak to her and break a silence of many years. the result he could not guess, but since he was actuated by friendly motives alone, he hoped the sudden inspiration might prove fertile of good. at worse she could only decline his advance and refuse to speak with him. their thoughts that day, unknown to each, had been upon the other and there was some emotion in the man's voice when he spoke, though none in hers when she answered. for to him that chance meeting came as a surprise and prompted him to a sudden approach he might not have ventured on maturer consideration; to her it seemed to carry on the experience of the day and, unguessed by raymond, brought less amazement than he imagined. she was a fatalist--perhaps, had always been so, as her mother before her; yet she knew it not. they had passed and repassed many times during the vanished years; but since the moment that she had dismissed him with scorn and hoped her child would live to insult his grave, they had never spoken. he inquired now if he might address her. "may i say a few words to you?" he asked. not knowing what was in her mind, he felt surprised at her conventional reply. "i suppose so, if you wish to do so." her voice seemed to roll back time. yet he guessed her to be less indifferent than her words implied. he dismounted and walked beside her. "i dare say you can understand a little what i feel, when i see that child run away whenever he sets eyes on me," he began; but she did not help him. his voice to her ear was changed. it had grown deeper and hardened. it was more monotonous and did not rise and fall as swiftly as of old. "i don't know at all what you feel about him. i didn't know that you felt anything about him." this was a false note and he felt pained. "indeed, sabina, you know very well i want his friendship--i need it even. before anything i wish to befriend him." "you can't help him. he's a very affectionate child and loves me dearly. you wouldn't understand him. he's all heart." he marked now the great change in sabina. her voice was cold and indifferent. but a cynic fate willed this mood. had she not spent the day at west haven and stood in the old store, it is possible she might have listened to him in another spirit. "i know he's a clever boy, with plenty of charm about him. and i do think, whatever you may feel, sabina, it is doubtfully wise of you to stand between him and me." "if you fancy that, it is a good thing you spoke," she answered. "because nothing further from the truth could be. i don't stand between him and you. i've never influenced him against you. he's heard nothing but the fact that you're his father from me. i've been careful to leave it at that, and i've never answered more than the truth to his many questions." "it is a very great sorrow to me, and it will largely ruin my life if i cannot win his friendship and plan his future." "a child's friendship is easily won. if he denies it, you may be sure it is for a natural instinct." "such an instinct is most unnatural. he has had nothing but friendly words and friendly challenges from me." she felt herself growing impatient. it was clear that he had spoken out of interest for the child alone, and any shadowy suspicion that he designed to declare interest in herself departed from sabina's mind. "well, what's that to me? i can't alter him. i can't make him regard you as a hero and a father to be proud of. he's not hard-hearted or anything of that. he's pretty much like other boys of his age--more sensitive, that's all. he can suffer very sharply and bitterly and he did when that cruel, blundering fool at north hill house had him whipped. he gets the cursed power to suffer from his mother. and, such is his position in the world, that his power to suffer no doubt will be proved to the utmost." "i don't want him to suffer. at least it is in my reach to save him a great deal of needless suffering." "that's just what it isn't--not with his nature. he'd rather suffer than be beholden to you for anything. young as he is, he's told me so in so many words. he knows he's different from other boys--already he knows it--and that breeds bitterness. he's like a dog that's been ill-treated and finds it hard to trust anybody in consequence. unfortunately for you, he's got brains enough to judge; and the older he grows, the harder he'll judge." "that's what i want to break down, sabina. it's awfully sad to feel, that for a prejudice against things that can't be altered, he should stand in his own light and be a needless martyr and make me a greater villain than i am." "are you a villain? if you are, it isn't my child that made you one--nor me, either. no doubt it's awkward to see him running about and breathing the same air with you." he felt an impulse of anger, but easily checked it. "you're rather hard on me, i think. it's a great deal more than awkward to have my child take this line. it's desperately sad. and you must know--thinking purely and only of him--that nothing can be gained and much lost by it. you say he'll hate me more as he grows older. but isn't that a thing to avoid? what good comes into the world with hate? can't you see that it's your place, sabina, to use your influence on my side?" "my god!" she said, "was there ever such a selfish man as you! out of your own mouth you condemn yourself, for it's your inconvenience and discomfort that's troubling you--not his fate. he's a living witness against you--a running sore in your side--and that's why you want his friendship, to ease yourself and heal your conscience. anybody could see that." he did not answer; but this indictment astonished him. could she still be so stern after the years that had swept over their quarrel? "you wrong me there, sabina. indeed, it's not for my own comfort only, but much more largely for his that i am so much concerned. surely we can meet on the common ground of his welfare and leave the rest?" "what common ground is there? why must i think your friendship and your money are the best possible things for him? why should i advise him to take what i refused for myself twelve years and more ago? you offered me your friendship and your money--as a substitute for being your wife. you were so stark ignorant of the girl you'd promised to marry, that you offered her cash and the privilege of your company after your child was born. and now you offer your child cash and the privilege of your company--that's all. you deny him your name, as you denied his mother your name; and why should he pick up the crumbs from your table that his mother would have starved rather than eaten? i've never spoken against you to him and never shall, but i'm not a fool now--whatever i was--and i'm not going to urge my son to seek you and put his little heart into your keeping; because well i know what you do with hearts. i'm outside your life and so is he; and if he likes to come into your life, i shan't prevent it. i couldn't prevent it. he'll do about it as he chooses, when he's old enough to measure it up. but i'm not for you, or against you. i'm only the suffering sort, not the fighting sort. you know whether you deserve the love and worship of that little, nameless boy." he was struck into silence, not at her bitter words, but at his own thoughts. for he had often speculated on future speech with her and wondered when it would happen and what it would concern. he had hoped that she would let the past go and be his friend again on another plane. he had pictured some sort of amity based on the old romance. he had desired nothing so much in life as a friendly understanding and the permission to contribute to the ease and comfort of sabina and the prosperity of his son. he hoped that in course of time and faced with the rights of the child, she would come round. he had pictured her coming round. but now it seemed that he was not to plan their future on his own terms. what he offered had not grown sweeter to her senses. no gifts that he could devise would be anything but poor in the light of the unkind past. and that light burned steadfastly still. she was not changed. as he listened to her, it seemed that she was merely picking up the threads where they were dropped. he feared that if he stopped much longer beside her, she would come back to the old anger and wake into the old wrath. "i'd dearly hoped that you didn't feel like that, any more. you've got right on your side up to a point, though human differences are so involved that it very seldom happens you can get a clean cut between right and wrong. however, the time is past for arguing about that, sabina. granted you are right in your personal attitude, don't carry it on into the next generation and assume i cannot even yet, after all these years, be trusted to befriend my own child." "he's only your child in nature. he's only your child because your blood's in his veins. he's my child, not yours." "but if i want to make him mine? if i want to lift him up and assure his future? if i want to assume paternity--claim it, adopt him as my son--to succeed me some day?" "he must decide for himself whether that's the high-water mark for his future life--to be your adopted son. we can't have it all our own way in this world--not even you, i suppose. a child has to have a mother as well as a father, and a mother's got her rights in her child. even the law allows that." "who'd deny them, sabina? you're possessed, as you always were, with the significance of legal marriage. you don't know that marriage is merely a human contrivance and, nine times out of ten, an infernally clumsy makeshift and a long-drawn pretence. like every other human shift, it is a thing that gets out-grown by the advance of humanity towards higher ideals and cleaner liberties. we are approaching a time when the edifice will be shaken to its mouldering foundations, and presently, while the church and the state are wrangling and quibbling, as they soon must be, over the loathsome divorce laws, these mandarins will wake up to find the marriage laws themselves are being threatened by a new generation sick of the archaic tomfoolery that controls them. if you could only take a larger view and not let yourself be bound down by your own experience--" "you'd better go," she said. "if you'd spoken, so twelve years ago on golden cap, and not hid your heart and lied to me and promised what you never meant to perform, i'd not be walking the world a lonely, despised woman to-day. and law, or no law, the law of the natural child is the law of the land--cruel and vile though it may be." "i'll go, sabina; but i must say what i want to say, first. i must stand up for abel--even against you. childish impressions and dislikes can be rooted out if taken in time; if left to grow, they get beyond reach. so i ask you to think of him. and don't pretend to yourself that my friendship is dangerous, or can do him anything but good. i'm very different from what i was. life hasn't gone over me for nothing. i know what's right well enough, and i know what i owe your son and my son, and i want to make up to him and more than make up to him for his disadvantages. don't prevent me from doing that. give me a chance, sabina. give me a chance to be a good father to him. your word is law with him, and if you left bridetown and took him away from all the rumours and unkind things he may hear here, it would let his mind grow empty of me for a few years; and then, when he's older and more sensible, i think i could win him." "you want us away from this place." "i do. i never should have spoken to you until i knew you wished it, but for this complication; but since the boy is growing up prejudiced against me, i do feel that some strong effort should be taken to nip his young hatred in the bud--for his sake, sabina." "are you sure it's all for his sake? because i'm not. they say you think of nothing on god's earth but machinery nowadays, and look to machines to do the work of hands, and speak of 'hands' when you ought to speak of 'souls.' they say if you could, you'd turn out all the people and let everything be done by steam and steel. there's not much humanity in you, i reckon. and why should you care for one little, unwanted boy? perhaps, if you looked deeper into yourself, you'd find it was your own peace, rather than his, that's making you wish us away from bridetown. at any rate, that's how one or two have seen and said it, when they heard how everybody was at me to go. i've had to live down the past for long, slow, heart-breaking years and seen the fingers pointed at me; and now, with the child growing up, it's your turn i daresay, and you--so strong and masterful--have had enough of pointing fingers and mean to pack us out of our home--for your comfort." he stared at her in the gathering dusk and stood and uttered a great sigh from deep in his lungs. "i'm sorry for you, sabina--sorrier than i am for myself. this is cruel. i didn't know, or dream, that time had stood still for you like this." "time ended for me--then." "for me it had to go on. i must think about this. i didn't guess it was like this with you. don't think i want you away; don't think you're the only thorn in my pillow and that i'm not used to pain and anxiety, or impatient of all the implicit meaning of your lonely life. stop, if you want to stop. i'll see you again, sabina, please. now i'll be gone." when he had mounted his horse and ridden away without more words from her, abel, who had been lurking along on the other side of the hedge, crept through it and rejoined his mother. they walked on in silence for some time. then the child spoke. "fancy your talking to mister ironsyde, mother!" "he talked to me." "i lay you dressed him down then?" "i told him the truth, abel. he wants everything for nothing, mister ironsyde does. he wants you--for nothing." "he's a beast, and i hate him, and he'll know i hate him some day." "don't hate him. he's not worth hating." "i will hate him, i tell you. but for him i'd be the great man in bridetown when he dies. mister baggs told me that." "you mustn't give heed to what people say. you've got mother to look after you." the boy was tired and spoke no more. he padded silently along beside her and presently she heard him laugh to himself. his thoughts had wandered back to the joy of the old store. and she was thinking of what had happened. she, too, even as raymond, had imagined what speech would fall out between them after the long years and wondered concerning the form it would take. she had imagined no such conversation as this. half of her regretted it; but the other half was glad. he had gone on, but it was well that he should know she had stood still. could there be any more terrible news for him than to hear that she had stood still--to feel that he had turned a living woman into a pillar of stone? chapter viii epitaph it cannot be determined by what train of reasoning abel proceeded from one unfortunate experience to create another, or why the grief incidental on a loss should now have nerved him to an evil project long hidden in his thoughts. but so it was; he suffered a sorrow and, under the influence of it, found himself strong enough to attempt a crime. there was no sort of connection between the two, for nothing could bear less upon his evil project than the death of mr. churchouse's old cat; yet thus it fell out and the spirit of abel reacted to his own tears. he came home one day from school to learn how the sick cat prospered and was told to go into the study. his mother knew the child to be much wrapped up in peter grim, and dreading to break the news, begged mr. churchouse to do so. "your old playfellow has left us, daddy," said ernest. "i am glad to say he died peacefully while you were at school. i think he only had a very little bit of his ninth and last life left, for he was fifteen years old and had suffered some harsh shocks." "dead?" asked abel with a quivering mouth. "and i think that we ought to give him a nice grave and put up a little stone to his memory." thus he tried to distract the boy from his loss. "we will go at once," he said, "and choose a beautiful spot in the garden for his grave. you can take one of those pears and eat it while we search." but abel shook his head. "couldn't eat and him lying dead," he answered. he was crying. they went through the french window from the study. "do you know any particular place that he liked?" slowly the child's sorrow lessened in the passing interest of finding the grave. "you must dig it, please, when you come back from afternoon school." abel suggested spots not practical in the other's opinion. "a more secluded site would be better," he declared. "he was very fond of shade. in fact, rather a shady customer himself in his young days. but not a word against the dead. his old age was dignified and blameless. you don't remember the time when he used to steal chickens, do you?" "he never did anything wrong that i know of," said abel. "and he always came and padded on my bed of a morning, like as if he was riding a bicycle--and--and--" he wept again. "if i thought anybody had poisoned him, i'd poison them," he said. "think no such thing. he simply died because he couldn't go on living. you shall have another cat, and it shall be your own." "i don't want another cat. i hate all other cats but him." they found a spot in a side walk, where lily of the valley grew, and later in the day abel dug a grave. estelle happened to visit mr. churchouse and he explained the tragedy. "if you attend the funeral, the boy might tolerate you," he said. "once break down his suspicion and get to his wayward heart, good would come of it he is feeling this very much and in a melting mood." "i'll stop, if he won't be vexed." mr. churchouse went into the garden and praised abel's energies. "a beautiful grave; and it is right and proper that peter grim should lie here, because he often hunted here." "he caught the mice that live in holes at the bottom of the wall," said abel. "if you are ready, we will now bury him. mother must come to the funeral, and estelle must come, because she was very, very fond of poor peter and she would think it most unkind of us if we buried him while she was not there. she will bring some flowers for the grave, and you must get some flowers, too, abel. we must, in fact, each put a flower on him." the boy frowned at mention of estelle, but forgot her in considering the further problem. "he liked the mint bed. i'll put mint on him," he said. "an excellent thought. and i shall pluck one of the big magnolias myself." returning, ernest informed estelle that she must be at the funeral and she went home for a bunch of blossoms to grace the tomb. she picked hot-house flowers, hoping to propitiate abel. there woke a great hope in her to win him. but she failed. he glowered at her when she appeared walking beside his mother, while before them marched mr. churchouse carrying the departed. when the funeral was ended and abel left alone, he sat down by the grave, cried, worked himself into a very mournful mood and finally exhibited anger. why he was angry he did not know, or against whom his temper grew; but his great loss woke resentment. when he felt miserable, somebody was always blamed by him for making him feel so. no immediate cause for quarrel with anything smaller than fate challenged his unsettled mind; then his eyes fixed upon estelle's flowers, and since estelle was always linked in his thoughts with his father, and his father represented an enemy, he began to hate the flowers and wish them away. he heard his mother calling him, but hid from her and when she was silent, came back to the grave again. meantime estelle and ernest drank tea and spoke of abel. "when grief has relaxed the emotions, we may often get in a kindly word and give an enemy something to think about afterwards," he said. "but the boy was obdurate. he is the victim of confused thinking--precocious to a degree in some directions, but very childish in others. at times he alarms me. poor boy. you must try again to win him. the general sentiment is that the young should be patient with the old; but for my part i think it is quite as difficult sometimes for the old to be patient with the young." he turned to his desk. "when i found my dear cat was not, i composed an epitaph for him, estelle. i design to have it scratched on a stone and set above his sleeping place." "do let me hear it," she said, and ernest, fired with the joy of composition, read his memorial verse. "criticise freely," he said. "i value your criticism and you understand poetry. not that this is a poem--merely an epitaph; but it may easily be improved, i doubt not." he put on his glasses and read: "'ended his mingled joy and strife, here lies the dust of peter grim. though life was very kind to him, he proved not very kind to life.'" estelle applauded. "perfect," she said. "you must have it carved on his tombstone." "i think it meets the case. i may have been prejudiced in my affection for him, owing to his affection for me. he came to me at the age of five weeks, and his attitude to me from the first was devoted." "cats have such cajoling ways." "he was not himself honest, yet, i think, saw the value of honesty in others. plain dealers are a temptation to rogues and none, as a rule, is a better judge of an honest man than a dishonest cat." "he wasn't quite a rogue, was he?" "he knew that i am respected, and he traded on my reputation. his life has been spared on more than one occasion for my sake." "on the whole he was not a very model cat, i'm afraid," said estelle. "yes, that is just what he was: a model--cat." they went out to look at the grave again, and something hurried away through the bushes as they did so. "friends, or possibly enemies," suggested mr. churchouse, but estelle, sharper-eyed, saw abel disappear. she also noted that her bouquet of flowers had gone from peter's mound. "oh dear, he's taken away my offering," she said. "what a hard-hearted boy! are there no means of winning him?" they spoke of abel and his mother. "we all regretted her decision to stop. it would have been better if she had gone away." "raymond saw her some time ago." "so she told me; and so did he. misfortune seems to dog the situation, for i believe sabina was half in a mind to take our advice until that meeting. then she changed. apparently she misunderstood him." "ray was very troubled. somehow he made sabina angry--the last thing he meant to do. he's sorry now that he spoke. she thought he was considering himself, and he really was thinking for abel." "we must go on being patient. next year i shall urge her to let abel be sent to a boarding-school. that will be a great advantage every way." so they talked and meantime abel's sorrow ran into the channels of evil. it may be that the presence of estelle had determined this misfortune; but he was ripe for it and his feeling prompted him to let his misery run over, that others might drink of the cup. he had long contemplated a definite deed and planned a stroke against raymond ironsyde; but he had postponed the act, partly from fear, partly because the thought of it was a pleasure. inverted instincts and a mind fouled by promptings from without, led him to understand that ironsyde was his mother's enemy and therefore his own. baggs had told him so in a malignant moment and abel believed it. to injure his enemy was to honour his mother. and the time had come to do so. he was ripe for it to-night. he told himself that peter grim would have approved the blow, and with his mind a chaos of mistaken opinions, at once ludicrous and mournful, he set himself to his task. he ate his supper as usual and went to bed; but when the house was silent in sleep, he rose, put on his clothes and hastened out of doors. he departed by a window on the ground floor and slipped into a night of light and shade, for the moon was full and rode through flying clouds. the boy felt a youthful malefactor's desire to get his task done as swiftly as possible. he was impatient to feel the deed behind him. he ran through the deserted village, crossed a little bridge over the river, and then approached the mill by a meadow below them. thus he always came to see mr. baggs, or anybody who was friendly. the roof of the works shone in answer to fitful moonlight, and they presented to his imagination a strange and unfamiliar appearance. under the sleight of the hour they were changed and towered majestically above him. the mill slept and in the creepy stillness, the river's voice, which he had hardly heard till now, was magnified to a considerable murmur. from far away down the valley came the song of the sea, where a brisk, westerly wind threw the waves on the shingle. a feeling of awe numbed him, but it was not powerful enough to arrest his purpose. his plans had been matured for many days. he meant to burn down the mill. nothing was easier and a match in the inflammable material, of which the hackler's shop was usually full, must quickly involve the mass of the buildings. it was fitting that where he had been impregnated by mr. baggs with much lawless opinion, abel should give expression to his evil purpose. from the tar-pitched work-room of the hackler, fire would very quickly leap to the main building against which it stood, and might, indeed, under the strong wind, involve the stores also and john best's dwelling between them. but it was fated otherwise. a very small incident served to prevent a considerable catastrophe, and when abel broke the window of the hackling room, turned the hasp, raised it, and got in, a man lay awake in pain not thirty yards distant. the lad lighted a candle, which he had brought with him, and it was then, while he collected a heap of long hemp and prepared to set it on fire, that john best, in torture from toothache, went downstairs for a mouthful of brandy. upon the staircase he passed a window and, glancing through it, he saw a light in the hackling shop. it was not the moon and meant a presence there that needed instant explanation. mr. best forgot his toothache, called his sailor son, who happened to be holiday-making at home, and hastened as swiftly and silently as possible over the bridge to the mill. john best the younger, an agile man of thirty, may be said to have saved the situation, for he was far quicker than his father could be and managed to anticipate the disaster by moments. half a minute more might have made all the difference, for the heap of loose hemp and stricks once ignited, no power on earth could have saved a considerable conflagration; but the culprit had his back turned to the window and was still busily piling the tow when best and his son looked in upon him, and the sailor was already half through the window before abel perceived him. the youngster dashed for his candle, but he was too late, a pair of strong hands gripped his neck roughly enough, and he fainted from the shock. they took him out as he had gone in, for the door was locked and levi baggs had the key. then the sailor went back to his home, dressed himself and started for a policeman, while mr. best kept guard over abel. when he came to his senses, the boy found himself in the moonlight with a dozen turns of stout fisherman's twine round his hands and ankles the foreman stood over him, and now that the house was roused, his wife had brought john a pair of trousers and a great coat, for he was in his night shirt. "you'll catch your death," she said. "it's only by god's mercy we didn't all catch our death," he answered. "here's sabina dinnett's boy plotted to destroy the works, and we've yet to find whether he's the tool of others, or has done the deed on his own." "on my own i did it," declared abel; "and i'll do it yet." "you shut your mouth, you imp of satan!" cried the exasperated man. "not a word, you scamp. you've done for yourself now, and everybody knew you'd come to it, sooner or later." in half an hour abel was locked up, and when mr. baggs heard next morning concerning the events of the night, he expressed the utmost surprise and indignation. "young dog! and after the friend i've been to him. blood will tell. that's his lawless father coming out in the wretch," he said. chapter ix the future of abel issues beyond human sight or calculation lay involved in the thing that abel dinnett had done. he had cast down a challenge to society, and everything depended on how society answered that challenge. not only did the child's own future turn on what must follow, but vital matters for those who were called to act hung on their line of action. that, however, they could not know. the tremendous significance of the sinner's future training and the result of what must now happen to him lay far beyond their prescience. it became an immediate question whether abel might, or might not, be saved from the punishment he had deserved. beyond that rose another problem, not less important, and his father doubted whether, for the child's own sake, it would be well to intervene. waldron strongly agreed with him; but estelle did not, and she used her great influence on the side of intervention. miss ironsyde and ernest churchouse were also of her opinion. indeed, all concerned, save his mother and arthur waldron, begged raymond to interfere, if possible. he did not decide immediately. "the boy will be sent to a reformatory for five years if i do nothing," he told estelle, "and that's probably the very best thing on earth that can happen to him. it will put the fear of god into him and possibly obliterate his hate of me. he's bad all through, i'm afraid." "no he isn't--far from it. that's the point," she argued. "these things are a legacy--a hateful legacy from his grandmother. mister churchouse knows him far better than anybody else, and he says there is great sensibility and power of feeling in him. he's tender to animals." "that's not much good if he's going to be tough to me. tell me why his mother doesn't come to me about him." "mister churchouse says she's in a strange state and doesn't seem to care. she told him the sins of the fathers were being visited on the children." "the sins of the fathers are being visited on the fathers, i should think." "that's fair at any rate," she said. "i know just how you must feel. you've been so patient, ray, and taken such a lot of trouble. but i believe it's all part of the fate that links you to the child. his future is made your business now, whether you will or no. it is thrust upon you. nobody but you would be listened to by the law; but you can give an undertaking and do something to save him from the horror of a reformatory." estelle and raymond were having tea together at 'the seven stars' during this conversation. her father was returning home to bridport by an evening train and she had driven to meet him. nelly legg waited upon them, and knowing the matter occupied many tongues, raymond spoke to her. "you can guess this is a puzzler, nelly," he said. "what would you do? miss waldron says it's up to me to try and get the boy off; but the question is shall i be serving him best that way?" "my husband and me have gone over it," she confessed; "of course, everybody has done so. you can't pretend the people aren't interested, and if one has asked job his opinion, a hundred have. people bring him their puzzles and troubles as a sort of habit. from a finger ache to the loss of a fortune they pour their difficulties into his wise head, and for patience he's a very good second to the first of the name. and i may tell you a curious thing, mister raymond, for i've seen it happen. as the folks talk and talk to legg, they get more and more cheerful and he gets more and more depressed. then, after they've let off all their woes on the man, sometimes they'll have the grace to apologise and say it's too bad to give him such a dose. and they always wind up by assuring him he's done them a world of good; but they never stop to think what they have done to him." "vampires of sympathy--blood-suckers," declared raymond. "such kindly men as your husband must pay for their virtues, nelly." "sympathetic people have to work hard," added estelle. "not that he wants the lesser people's gratitude, so long as he has my admiration," explained mrs. legg. "and that he always will have, for he's more than human in some particulars. and only i know the full extent of his wonders. a master of stratagems too--the iron hand in the velvet glove--though if you was to tell half the people in bridport he's got an iron hand, they never would believe it. and as to this sad affair, he's given his opinion and won't change it. you may think him right or wrong, but so it is." "and what does he say, nelly?" "he says the child may be saved as a brand from the burning if the law takes its course. he thinks that if you, or anybody, was to go bail for the child and save him from the consequences of his wicked deed, that a great mistake would be made. in justice to you i should say that they don't all agree. some hope you'll interfere--mostly women." "what do you think?" asked raymond. "as missis legg, i think the same as him; and i'll tell you another thing you may not know. the young boy's mother is by no means sure if she don't feel the same. my married niece is her friend, and last time she saw her, sabina spoke about it. from what sarah says i think she feels it might be better for the boy to put him away. i can't say as to her motives. naturally she's only concerned as to the welfare of the child and knows he'll never be trained to any good where he is." that sabina had expressed so strong an opinion interested raymond. but estelle refused to believe it. "i'm sure sarah misunderstood," she said. "sabina couldn't mean that." they went to the station presently, met arthur waldron and drove him home. estelle urged raymond to see sabina before he decided what to do; and since little time was left before he must act, he went to 'the magnolias' that evening and begged for an interview. sabina had a small sitting-room of her own in which evidence of abel did not lack. drawings that he had made at school were hung on the walls, and a steam-engine--a present from mr. churchouse on his twelfth birthday--stood upon the mantel-shelf. "it's just this, sabina," he said; "i won't keep you; but i feel the future of the boy is in the balance and i can't do anything without hearing your opinion. and first i want you to understand i have quite forgiven him. he's not all to blame. certain fixed, false ideas he has got. they were driven into him at his most impressionable age; and until his reason asserts itself no doubt he'll go on hating me. but that'll all come right. i don't blame you for it." "you should blame me all the same," she said. "it's as much me in his blood as his grandmother at his ear, that turned him to hate you. i don't hate you now--or anybody, or anything. i've not got strength and fight in me now to hate, or love either. but i did hate you and i was full of hate before he was born, and the milk was curdled with hate that fed him. now i don't care what happens. i can't prevent the future of my child from shaping itself. the time for preventing things and doing things and fixing character and getting self-respect is over and past. what he's done is the natural result of what was done to him. and who'll blame him? who'll blame me for being bad and indifferent--wicked if you like? life's made me so--hard--cold to others. but i should have been different if i'd had love and common justice. so would he. it's natural in him to hate you; and now the poor little wretch will get what he deserves--same as his mother did before him, and so all's said. what we deserved, that's all." "i don't think so. i'm very willing to fight for him if i can do him good by fighting. the situation is unusual. you probably do not realise what this means to me. is there to be no finality in your resentment? honestly i get rather tired of it." "i got rather tired of it twelve years ago." "you're not prepared to help me, then, or make any suggestion--for the child's sake?" "i'll not help, or hinder. i've been looking on so long now that i'm only fit to look on. my child has everything against him, and he knows it; and you can't save him from his fate any more than i can. so what's the good of wasting time talking as though you could? fate's fate--beyond us." "we make our own fate. i may tell you that i should have been largely influenced by you, sabina. the question admits of different answers and i recognise my responsibility. some say that i must intervene now and some say that i should not." "and the only one not asked to give an opinion is abel himself. a child is never asked about his own hopes and fears." "we know what his hopes were--to burn down the mill. so we may take it for the present he's not the best judge of what's good for him." "i've done my duty to him," she said, "and that's all i could do. i'm very sorry for him, and what love i've got for him is the sort that's akin to pity. it's contrary to reason that i should take any deep joy in him, or worship the ground he walks on, like other mothers do towards their children. for he stands there before me for ever as the sign and mark of my own failure in life. but i don't think any less of him for trying to destroy the works. i'd decided about him long ago." raymond found nothing to the purpose in this illusive talk. it argued curious impassivity in sabina he thought, and he felt jarred to find the conventional attitude of mother to son was not acknowledged by her. estelle had showed far more feeling, had taken a much more active part in the troubles of abel. estelle had spared no pains in arguing for the child and imploring ironsyde to exhaust his credit on abel's behalf. he told sabina this and she explained it. "i dare say she has. a woman can see why, though doubtless you cannot. it isn't because he's himself that she's active for him; and it isn't because he's my child, either. it's because he's your child. your blood's sacred in her eyes you may be sure. she was a child herself when you ruined me; she forgets all that. why? because ever since she's grown to womanhood and intelligence to note what happens, you have been a saint of virtue and the friend of the weak and the champion of the poor. so, of course, she feels that such a great and good man's son only wants his father's care to make him great and good too." "to think you can talk so after all these years, sabina," he said. "how should i talk? what are the years to me? you never knew, or understood, or respected the stuff i was made of; and you'll never understand your child, either, or the stuff he's made of; and you can tell the young woman that loves you so much, that she's wrong--as wrong as can be. nothing's gained by your having any hand in abel's future. you won't win him with sugarplums now, any more than you will with money later on. he's made of different stuff from you--and better stuff and rarer stuff. there's very little of you in him and very little of me, either. he's himself, and the fineness that might have made him a useful man under fair conditions, is turned to foulness now. your child was ruined in the making--not by me, but by you yourself. and such is his mind that he knows it already. so be warned and let him alone." "if anything could make me agree with miss waldron, sabina, it would be what you tell me," he answered. "and if i can live to show you that you are terribly wrong i shall be glad." "that you never will." "at least you'll do nothing to come between us?" "i never have. i was very careful not to do that. if he can look at you as a friend presently, i shan't prevent it. i shan't warn him against you--though i've warned you against him. the weak use poisonous weapons, because they haven't got the strength to use weapons of might. that's why he tried to burn down the mill. he'll be stronger some day." "he's clever, i'm told, and if we can only interest him in some intelligent business and find what his bent is, we may fill his mind to good purpose. at any rate, i thank you for leaving me free to act. now i can decide what course to take. it was impossible until i heard what you felt." she said no more and he left her to make up his mind. doubt persisted there, for he still suspected, that five years in a reformatory might be better for abel than anything else. such an experience he felt would develop his character, crush his malignant instincts and leave him only too ready to accept his father as his friend; but against such a fate for abel, was his own relationship to the culprit, and the question whether raymond would not suffer very far-reaching censure if he made no effort to come to the boy's rescue. truest wisdom might hold a severe course of correction very desirable; but sentiment and public opinion would be likely to condemn him if he did nothing. people would say that he had taken a harsh revenge on his own, erring child. he fumed at a situation intolerable and was finally moved to accept estelle's advice. from no considerations for bridport, or bridetown, did she urge his active intervention. for abel's sake she begged it and was more insistent than before, when she heard of sabina's indifference. "he's yours," she said. "you've been so splendidly patient. so do go on being patient, and the result will be a fine character and a reward for you. it isn't what people would say; but if he goes to a reformatory, far from wanting you and your help when he comes out again, he'll know in the future that you might have saved him from it and given him a first-rate education among good, upright boys. but if he went to a reformatory, he must meet all sorts of difficult boys, like himself, and they wouldn't help him, and he'd come out harder than he went in." his heart yielded to her at last, even though his head still doubted, for raymond's attitude to estelle had begun insensibly to change since his accident in the cricket field. from that time he won a glimpse of things that apparently others already knew. sabina, in their recorded conversation, had bluntly told him that estelle loved him; and while the man dismissed the idea as an absurdity, it was certain that from this period he began to grow somewhat more sentimentally interested in her. the interest developed very slowly, but this business of abel brought them closer together, for she haunted him during the days before the child came to his trial, and when, perhaps for her sake as much as any other reason, raymond decided to undertake his son's defence, her gratitude was great. he made it clear to her that she was responsible for his determination. "i've let you over-rule me, estelle," he told her. "don't forget it, chicky. and now that the boy will, i hope, be in my hands, you must strengthen my hands all you can and help me to make him my friend." she promised thankfully. "be sure i shall never, never forget," she said, "and i shall never be happy till he knows what you really are, and what you wish him. you must win him now. it's surely contrary to all natural instinct if you can't. the mere fact that you can forgive him for what he tried to do, ought to soften his heart." "i trust more to you than myself," he answered. chapter x the advertisement raymond ironsyde had his way, and local justices, familiar with the situation, were content not to commit abel, but leave the boy in his father's hands. he took all responsibility and, when the time came, sent his son to a good boarding-school at yeovil. sabina so far met him that the operation was conducted in her name, and since the case of abel had been kept out of local papers, his fellow scholars knew nothing of his errors. but his difficulties of character were explained to those now set over him, and they were warned that his moral education, while attempted, had not so far been successful. perhaps only one of those concerned much sympathised with ironsyde in his painful ordeal. those who did not openly assert that he was reaping what he had sown, were indifferent. some, like mr. motyer, held the incident a joke; one only possessed imagination sufficient to guess what these public events must mean to the father of abel. indeed, estelle certainly suffered more for raymond than he suffered for himself. she pictured poignantly his secret thoughts and sorrows at this challenge, and she could guess what it must be to have a child who hated you. in her maiden mind, however, the man's emotions were exaggerated, and she made the mistake of supposing that this grievous thing must be dominating raymond's existence, instead of merely vexing it. in truth he suffered, but he was juster than estelle, and, looking back, measured his liabilities pretty accurately. he had none but himself to thank for these inconveniences, and when he weighed them against the alternative of marriage with sabina, he counted them as bearable. abel tried him sorely, but he did not try him as permanent union with abel's mother must have tried him. since he had renewed speech with her, his conviction was increased that supreme disaster must have followed marriage. moreover, there began to rise a first glimmer of the new situation already indicated. it had grown gradually and developed more intensely during his days of enforced idleness in his aunt's house. from that time, at any rate, he marked the change and saw his old regard and respect for estelle wakening into something greater. her sympathy quickened the new sentiments. he thought she was saner over abel than anybody, for she never became sentimental, or pretended that nothing had happened which might not have been predicted. her support was both human and practical. it satisfied him and showed him her good sense. miss ironsyde had often reminded her nephew that he was the last of his line, and urged him to take a wife and found a family. that raymond should marry seemed desirable to her; but she had not considered estelle as a wife for him. had she done so, jenny must have feared the girl too young and too doubtful in opinions to promise complete success and safety for the master of the mill. he would marry a mature woman and a steadfast christian--so hoped miss ironsyde then. there came a day when raymond called on mr. churchouse. business brought him and first he discussed the matter of an advertisement. "in these days," he said, "the competition grows keener than ever. and i rather revel in it--as i do in the east wind. it's not pleasant at the time, but, if you're healthy, it's a tonic." "and if you're not, it finds the weak places," added mr. churchouse. "no man over sixty has much good to say of the east wind." "well, the works are healthy enough and competition is merely a tonic to us. we hold our own from year to year, and i've reached a conviction that my policy of ruthlessly scrapping machinery the moment it's even on the down grade, is the only sound principle and pays in the long run. and now i want something new in the advertisement line--something not mechanical at all, but human and interesting--calculated to attract, not middlemen and retailers, but the person who buys our string and rope to use it. in fact i want a little book about the romance of spinning, so that people may look at a ball of string, or shoe-thread, or fishing-line, intelligently, and realise about one hundredth part of all that goes to its creation. now you could do a thing like that to perfection, uncle ernest, because you know the business inside out." mr. churchouse was much pleased. "an excellent idea--a brilliant idea, raymond! we must insist on the romance of spinning--the poetry." "i don't want it to be too flowery, but just interesting and direct. a glimpse of the raw material growing, then the history of its manufacture." ernest's eyes sparkled. "from the beginning--from the very beginning," he said. "pliny tells us how the romans used hemp for their sails at the end of the first century. is not the english word 'canvas' only 'cannabis' over again? herodotus speaks of the hempen robes of the thracians as equal to linen in fineness. and as for cordage, the ships of syracuse in b.c.--" he was interrupted. "that's all right, but what i rather fancy is the development of the modern industry--here in dorset." "good--that would follow with all manner of modern instances." mr. churchouse drew a book from one of his shelves. "in tudor times it was ordered by act of parliament that ropes should be twisted and made nowhere else than here. leland, that industrious chronicler, came to grief in this matter, for he calls bridport 'a fair, large town,' where 'be made good daggers.' he shows the danger of taking words too literally, since a 'bridport dagger' is only another name for the hangman's rope." "that's the sort of thing," said raymond. "an article we can illustrate, showing the hemp and flax growing in russia and italy, then all the business of pulling, steeping and retting, drying and scutching. that would be one chapter." "it shall be done. i see it--i see the whole thing--an elegant brochure and well within my power. i am fired with the thought. there is only one objection, however." "none in the world. i see you know just what i'm after--a little pamphlet well illustrated." "the objection is that estelle waldron would do it a thousand times better than i can. she has a more modern outlook and a more modern touch. i feel confident that with me to supply the matter, she would produce a much more attractive and readable work." raymond considered. "i suppose she would. i hadn't thought of her." "believe me, she would succeed to admiration. for your sake as well as mine, she would produce a little masterpiece." "she'd do anything to please you, we all know; but i've no right to bother her with details of business. of course, if you do it, it is a commission and you would name your honorarium, uncle ernest." the old man laughed. "we'll see--we'll see. perhaps i should ask too high a price. but estelle will not be so grasping. and as to your right to bother her with the details of business, anything she can do for you is a very great privilege to her." "i believe i owe her more than a man can ever pay a woman, already." "most men are insolvent to the other sex. woman's noble tradition is to give more than she gets, and let us off the reckoning, quite well knowing it beyond our feeble powers to cry quits with her." raymond was moved at this challenge, for in the light that estelle threw upon them, women interested him more to-day than they had for ten years. "one takes old arthur's daughter for granted rather too much," he said; "we always take good women for granted too much, i suppose. it's the other sort who look out we shan't take them for granted, but at their own valuation. estelle--she's so many-sided--difficult, too, in some things." "she is," admitted ernest. "and just for this reason. she always argues on her own basis of perfect ingenuous honesty. she assumes certain rational foundations for all human relations; and if such bases really existed, then it would be the best possible world, no doubt, and we should all do to our neighbour as we would have him do to us. but the golden rule doesn't actuate the bulk of mankind, unfortunately. men and women are not as good as estelle thinks them." raymond agreed eagerly. "you've hit it," he said. "it is just that. she's right in theory every time; and if people were all as straight and altruistic and high-principled as she is, there'd really be no more bother about morals in the world. native good sense would decide. even as it is, the native good sense of mankind is deciding certain questions and will presently push the lawyers into codifying their mouldy laws, and then give reason a chance to cleanse the whole archaic lump of them; but as it is, estelle--take marriage, for example. i agree with her all the way--in theory. but when you come to view the situation in practice--you're up against things as they are, and you never want people you love to be martyrs, however noble the cause. estelle says the law of sex relationships is barbaric, and that marriage is being submitted to increasing rational criticism, which the law and the church both conspire to ignore. she thinks that these barriers to progress ought to be swept away, because they have a vicious effect on the institution and degrade men and women. she's always got her eye on the future, and the result is sometimes that she doesn't focus the present too exactly. it's noble, but not practical." "the institution of marriage will last estelle's time, i think," declared mr. churchouse. "one hopes so heartily--for her own sake. one knows very well it's an obsolescent sort of state, and can't bear the light of reason, and must be reformed, so that intelligent people can enter it in a self-respecting spirit; but if there is one institution that defies the pioneers, it is marriage. the law's far too strong for us there. and i don't want to see her misunderstood." they parted soon after this speech, and the older man, who had long suspected the fact, now perceived that raymond was beginning to think of estelle in new terms and elevating her to another place in his thoughts. it was the personal standpoint that challenged ironsyde's mind. his old sentiments and opinions respecting the marriage bond took a very different colour before the vision of an estelle united to himself. thus circumstances alter opinions, and the theories he had preached to sabina went down the wind when he thought of estelle. the touchstone of love vitiates as well as purifies thinking. chapter xi the hemp breaker ironsyde attached increasing importance to the fullest possible treatment of the raw material before actual spinning, and was not only always on the lookout for the best hemps and flaxes grown, but spared no pains to bring them to the card and spread board as perfect as possible. to this end he established a hemp break, a hemp breaker and a hemp softener. the first was a wooden press used to crush the stalks of retted hemp straw, so that the harl came away and left the fibre clean. the second shortened long hemp, that it might be more conveniently hackled and drawn. the third served greatly to improve the spinning quality of soft hemps by passing them through a system of callender rollers. there were no hands available for the breakers and softeners, so raymond increased his staff. he also took over ten acres of the north hill house estate, ploughed up permanent grass, cleaned the ground with a root crop, and then started to renew the vanishing industry of flax growing. he visited belgium for the purpose of mastering the modern methods, found the soil of north hill well suited to the crop, and was soon deeply interested in the enterprise. he first hoped to ret his flax in the bride river, as he had seen it retted on the lys, but was dissuaded from making this trial and, instead, built a hot water rettery. his experiments did not go unchallenged, and while the women always applauded any change that took strain off their muscles and improved the possibility of rest, the men were indifferent to this advantage. mr. baggs even condemned it. he came to see the working of the hemp breaker, and perceived without difficulty that its operations must directly tend to diminish his own labour. "you'll pull tons less of solid weight in a day, levi," said best, "when this gets going." "and why should i be asked to pull tons less of solid weight? what's the matter with this?" he thrust out his right arm with hypertrophied muscles hard as steel. "it seems to me that a time's coming when the people won't want muscles any more," he said. "steam has lowered our strength standards as it is, and presently labour will be called to do no more than press buttons in the midst of a roaring hell of machines. the people won't want no more strength than a daddy-long-legs; they that do the work will shrink away till they're gristle and bones, like grasshoppers. and the next thing will be that they'll not be wanted either, but all will be done by just a handful of skilled creatures, that can work the machines from their desks, as easy as the organist plays the organ in church. god help the human frame then!" "we shall never arrive at that, be sure," answered best; "for that's to exalt the dumb material above the worker, and if things were reduced to such a pitch of perfection all round, there would be no need of large populations. but we're told to increase and multiply at the command of god, so you needn't fear machines will ever lower our power to do so. if that happened, it would be as much as to say god allowed us to produce something to our own undoing." "he allows us to produce a fat lot of things to our own undoing," answered the hackler. "ain't nature under god's direction?" "without doubt, levi." "and don't nature tickle us to our own undoing morning, noon, and night? ain't she always at it--always tempting us to go too far along the road of our particular weakness? and ain't laziness the particular weakness of all women and most men? 'tis pandering to laziness, these machines, and for my part i wish ironsyde would get a machine to hackle once and for all. then i'd leave him and go where they still put muscles above machinery." "funny you should say that," answered the foreman. "he's had the thought of your retirement in his mind for a good bit now. only consideration for your feelings has prevented him dropping a hint. he always likes it to come from us, rather than him, when anybody falls out." mr. baggs took this with tolerable calm. "i'll think of it next year," he said. "if i could get at him by a side wind as to the size of the pension--" "that's hid with him. he'll follow his father's rule, you may be sure, and reward you according to your deserts." "i don't expect that," said mr. baggs. "he don't know my deserts." "well, i shouldn't be in any great hurry for your own sake," advised best. "you're well and hard, and can do your work as it should be done; but you must remember you've got no resources outside your hackling shop. take you away from it and you're a blank. you never read a book, or go out for a walk, or even till your allotment ground. all you do is to sit at home and criticise other people. in fact, you're a very ignorant old man, baggs, and if you retired, you'd find life hang that heavy on your hands you'd hardly know how to kill time between meals. then you'd get fat and eat too much and shorten your days. i've known it to happen, where a man who uses his muscles gives up work before his flesh fails him." raymond ironsyde joined them at this juncture and presently, when levi went back to his shop and the hemp breaker had been duly applauded, the master took john best aside and discussed a private matter. "the boy has come back for his holidays," he said; and best, who knew that when raymond spoke of 'the boy' he meant sabina's son, nodded. "i hope all goes well with him and that you hear good accounts," he answered. "the reports are all much the same, term after term. he's said to have plenty of ability, but no perseverance." "think nothing of that," advised the foreman. "schoolmasters expect boys to persevere all round, which is more than you can ask of human nature. the thing is to find out what gets hold of a boy and what he does persevere at--then a sensible schoolmaster wouldn't make him waste half his working hours at other things, for which the boy's mind has got no place. mechanics will be that boy's strong point, if i know anything about boys. and i believe all the fearful wickedness that prompted him to burn the place down is pretty well gone out of him by now." "i've left him severely alone," said raymond. "i've said to myself that not for three whole years will i approach him again. meantime i don't feel any too satisfied with the school. i fancy they are a bit soft there. private schools are like that. they daren't be too strict for fear the children will complain and be taken away. but there are others. i can move him if need be. and i'll ask you, best, to keep your eye on him these holidays, as far as you reasonably can, when he comes here. it is understood he may. try and get him to talk and see if he's got any ideas." "he puts me a good bit in mind of what poor mister daniel was at that age. he's keen about spinning, and if i was to let him mind a can now and again he'd be very proud of himself." "rum that he should like the works and hate me. yes, he hates me all right still, for mister churchouse has sounded him and finds that it is so. it's in the young beggar's blood and there seems to be no operation that will get it out." best considered. "he'll come round. no doubt his schooling is making his mind larger, and, presently, he'll feel the force of christianity also; and that should conquer the old adam in him. by the same token the less he sees of levi, the better. baggs is no teacher for youth, but puts his own wrong and rebellious ideas into their heads, and they think it's fine to be up against law and order. i'll always say 'twas half the fault of baggs the boy thought to burn us down; yet, of course, nobody was more shocked and scandalised than levi when he heard about it. and until the boy's come over to your side, he'll do well not to listen to the seditious old dog." "keep him out of the hackling shop, then. tell him he's not to go there." best shook his head. "the very thing to send him. he's like that. he'd smell a rat very quick if he was ordered not to see baggs. and then he'd haunt baggs. i shan't trust the boy a yard, you understand. you mustn't ask me to do that after the past. but i'm hopeful that his feeling for the craft will lift him up and make him straight. to a craftsman, his work is often more powerful for salvation than his faith. in fact, his work is his faith; and from the way things run in the blood, i reckon that sabina's son might rise into a spinner." "i don't want anything of that sort to happen, and i'm sure she doesn't." "there's a hang-dog look in his eyes i'd like to see away," confessed john. "he's been mismanaged, i reckon, and hasn't any sense of righteousness yet. all for justice he is, so i hear he tells mister churchouse. many are who don't know the meaning of the word. i'll do what i can when he comes here." "he's old for his age in some ways and young in others," explained raymond. "i feel nothing much can be done till he gets friendly with me." "you're doing all any man could do." "at some cost too, john. you, at any rate, can understand what a ghastly situation this is. there seems no end to it." "consequences often bulk much bigger than causes," said best. "in fact, to our eyes, consequences do generally look a most unfair result of causes; as a very small seed will often grow up into a very big tree. you'll never find any man, or woman, satisfied with the price they're called to pay for the privilege of being alive. and in this lad's case, him being built contrary and not turned true--warped no doubt by the accident of his career--you've got to pay a far heavier price than you would have been called to pay if you'd been his lawful begetter. but seeing the difficulty lies in the boy's nature alone, we'll hope that time will cure it, when he's old enough to look ahead and see which side his bread's buttered, if for no higher reason." ironsyde left the mill depressed; indeed, abel's recurring holidays always did depress him. as yet no hoped-for sign of reconciliation could be chronicled. to-day, however, a gleam appeared to dawn, for on calling at 'the magnolias' to see ernest churchouse, raymond was cheered by a promised event which might contain possibilities. estelle had scored a point and got abel to promise to come for a picnic. "he made a hard bargain though," she said. "he's to light a fire and boil the kettle. and we are to stop at the old store in west haven for one good hour on the road home. i've agreed to the terms and shall give him the happiest time i know how." "is his mother going?" "yes--he insists on that. and sabina will come." "but don't hope too much of it," said ernest. "i regard this as the thin end of the wedge--no more than that. if estelle can win his confidence, then she may do great things; but she won't win it at one picnic. i know him too well. he's a mass of contradictions. some days most communicative, other days not a syllable. some days he seems to trust you with his secrets, other days he is suspicious if you ask him the simplest question. he's still a wild animal, who occasionally, for his own convenience, pretends to be tame." "i shan't try to tame him," said estelle. "i respect wild things a great deal too much to show them the charms of being tame. but it's something that he's coming, and if once he will let me be his chum in holidays, i might bring him round to ray." she planned the details of the picnic and invited raymond to imagine himself a boy again. this he did and suggested various additions to the entertainment. "did sabina agree easily?" he asked, still returning to the event as something very great and gratifying. "not willingly, but gradually and cautiously." "she's softer and gentler than she was, however. i can assure you of that," said mr. churchouse. "she thought it might be a trap at first," confessed estelle. "a trap, chicky! you to set a trap?" "no, you, ray. she fancied you might mean to surprise the boy and bully him." "how could she think so?" "i assured her that you'd never dream of any such thing. of course i promised, as she wished me to do so, that you wouldn't turn up at the picnic. i reminded her how very particular you were, and how entirely you leave it to abel to come round and take the first step." "be jolly careful what you say to him. he's a mass of prejudice, where i'm concerned, and doesn't even know i'm educating him." "i'll keep off you," she promised. "in fact, i only intend to give him as good a day as i can. i'm not going to bother about you, ray; i'm going to think of myself and do everything i can to get his friendship on my own account. if i can do that for a start, i shall be satisfied." "and so shall i," declared ernest. "because it wouldn't stop at that. if you succeed, then much may come of it. in my case, i can't lift his guarded friendship for me into enthusiasm. he associates me with learning to read and other painful preliminaries to life. moreover, i have tried to awaken his moral qualities and am regarded with the gravest suspicion in consequence. but you come to him freshly and won't try to teach him anything. join him in his pleasure and add to it all you can. there is nothing that wins young creatures quicker than sharing their pleasures, if you can do so reasonably and are not removed so far from them by age that any attempt would be ridiculous. fifteen and twenty-seven may quite well have a good deal in common still, if twenty-seven is not too proud to confess it." chapter xii the picnic for a long day estelle devoted herself whole-heartedly to winning the friendship of abel dinnett. her chances of success were increased by an accident, though it appeared at first that the misadventure would ruin all. for when estelle arrived at 'the magnolias' in her pony carriage, sabina proved to be sick and quite unequal to the proposed day in the air. abel declined to go without his mother, but, after considerable persuasion, allowed the prospect of pleasure to outweigh his distrust. estelle promised to let him drive, and that privilege in itself proved a temptation too great to resist. his mother's word finally convinced him, and he drove an elderly pony so considerately that his hostess praised him. "i see you are kind to dumb things," she said. "i am glad of that, for they are very understanding and soon know who are their friends and who are not." "if beasts treat me well," he answered, "then i treat them well. and if they treated me badly, then i'd treat them badly." she did not argue about this; indeed, all that day her care was to amuse him and hear his opinions without boring him if she could avoid doing so. he remained shy at first and quiet. from time to time she was in a fair way to break down his reserve; but he seemed to catch himself becoming more friendly and, once or twice, after laughing at something, he relapsed into long silence and looked at her from under his eyelids suspiciously when he thought she was not looking at him. thus she won, only to lose what she had won, and when they reached the breezy cliffs of eype, estelle reckoned that she stood towards him pretty much as she stood at starting. but slowly, surely, inevitably, before such good temper and tact he thawed a little. they tethered the pony, gave it a nosebag and then spread their meal. abel was quick and neat. she noticed that his hands were like his mother's--finely tapered, suggestive of art. but on that subject he seemed to have no ideas, and she found, after trying various themes, that he cared not in the least for music, or pictures, but certainly shared his father's interest in mechanics. abel talked of the mill--self-consciously at first; yet when he found that estelle ignored the past, and understood spinning, he forgot himself entirely for a time under the spell of the subject. they compared notes, and she saw he was more familiar than she with detail. then, while still forgetting his listener, abel remembered himself and his talk of the mill turned into a personal channel. there is no more confidential thing, by fits and starts, than a shy child; and just as estelle felt the boy would never come any closer, or give her a chance to help him, suddenly he startled her with the most unexpected utterance. "you mightn't know it," he said, "but by justice and right i should have the whole works for my very own when mister ironsyde died. because he's my father, though i daresay he pretends to everybody he isn't." "i'm very sure mister ironsyde doesn't feel anything but jolly kind and friendly to you, abel. he doesn't pretend he isn't your father. why should he? you know he's often offered to be friends, and he even forgave you for trying to burn down the mill. surely that was a pretty good sign he means to be friendly?" "i don't want his friendship, because he's not good to mother. he served her very badly. i understand things a lot better than you might think." "well, don't spoil your lunch," she said. "we'll talk afterwards. are you ready for another bottle of gingerbeer? i don't like this gingerbeer out of glass bottles. i like it out of stone bottles." "so do i," he answered, instantly dropping his own wrongs. "but the glass bottles have glass marbles in them, which you can use; and so it's better to have them, because it doesn't matter so much about the taste after it's drunk." she asked him concerning his work and he told her that he best liked history. she asked why, and he gave a curious reason. "because it tells you the truth, and you don't find good men always scoring and bad men always coming to grief. in history, good men come to grief sometimes and bad men score." "but you can't always be sure what is good and what is bad," she argued. "the people who write the histories don't worry you about that," he answered, "but just tell you what happened. and sometimes you are jolly glad when a beast gets murdered, or his throne is taken away from him; and sometimes you are sorry when a brave chap comes to grief, even though he may be bad." "some historians are not fair, though," she said. "some happen to feel like you. they hate some people and some ideas, and always show them in an unfriendly light. if you write history, you must be tremendously fair and keep your own little whims out of it." after their meal estelle smoked a cigarette, much to abel's interest. "i never knew a girl could smoke," he said. "why not? would you like one? i don't suppose a cigarette once in a way can hurt you." "i've smoked thousands," he told her. "and a pipe, too, for that matter. i smoked a cigar once. i found it and smoked it right through." "didn't it make you ill?" "yes--fearfully; but i hid till i was all right again." he smoked a cigarette, and estelle told him that his father was a great smoker and very fond of a pipe. "but he wouldn't let you smoke, except now and again in holiday times--not yet. nobody ought to smoke till he's done growing." "what about you, then?" asked abel. "i've done growing ages ago. i'm nearly twenty-eight." he looked at her and his eyes clouded. he entered a phase of reserve. then she, guessing how to enchant him, suggested the next step. "if you help me pack up now, we'll harness the pony and go down to west haven for a bit. i want to see the old stores i've heard such a lot about. you must show them to me." "yes--part. i know every inch of them, but i can't show you my own secret den, though." "do. i should love to see it." he shook his head. "no good asking," he said. "that's my greatest secret. you can't expect me to tell you. even mother doesn't know." "i won't ask, then. i've got a den, too, for that matter--in fact, two. one on north hill and one in our garden." "d'you know the lime-kiln on north hill?" "rather. the bee orchis grows thereabout." he thought for a moment. "if i showed you my den in the store, would you swear to god never to tell?" "yes, i'd swear faithfully not to." "perhaps i will, then." but when presently they reached his haunt, he had changed his mood. she did not remind him, left him to his devices and sat patiently outside while he was hidden within. occasionally his head popped out of unexpected places aloft, then disappeared again. once she heard a great noise, followed by silence. she called to him and, after a pause, he shouted down that he was all right. when an hour had passed she called out again to tell him to come back to her. "we're going to bridport to tea," she said. he came immediately and revealed a badly torn trouser leg. "i fell," he explained. "i fell through a rotten ceiling, and i've cut my leg. when i was young the sight of blood made me go fainty, but i laugh at it now." he pulled up his trousers and showed a badly barked shin. "we'll go to a chemist and get him to wash it, and i'll get a needle and thread and sew it up," said estelle. she condoled with him as they drove to bridport, but he was impatient of sympathy. "i don't mind pain," he said. "i've tried the red indian tests on myself before to-day. once i had to see a doctor after; but i didn't flinch when i was doing it." a chemist dressed the wounded leg and presently they arrived at 'the seven stars,' where the pony was stabled and tea taken in the garden. mrs. legg provided a needle and thread and produced a very excellent tea. abel enjoyed the swing for some time, but would not let estelle help him. "i can swing myself," he said, "but i'll swing you afterwards." he did so until they were tired. then he walked round the flower borders and presently picked estelle a rose. she thanked him very heartily and told him the names of the blossoms which he did not know. job came and talked to them for a time, and estelle praised the garden, while abel listened. then mr. legg turned to the boy. "holidays round again, young man? i dare say we shall see you sometimes, and, if you like flowers, you can always come in and have a look." "i don't like flowers," said the boy. "i like fruit." he went back to the swing and job asked after mr. waldron. estelle reminded him that he had promised to come and see her garden some day. "be sure i shall, miss," he answered, "but, for the minute, work fastens on me from my rising up to my going down." "however do you get through it all?" "thanks to method. it's summed up in that. without method, i should be a lost man." "you ought to slack off," she said. "i'm sure that nelly doesn't like to see you work so hard." "she'd work hard too, but nature and not her will shortens her great powers. she grows into a mountain of flesh and her substance prevents activity; but the mind is there unclouded. in my case the flesh doesn't gain on me and work agrees with my system." "you're a very wonderful man," declared estelle; "but no doubt plenty of people tell you that." "only by comparison," he explained. "the wonder is all summed up in the one word 'method,' coupled with a good digestion and no strong drink. i'd like to talk more on the subject, but i must be going." "and tell them to put in the pony. we must be going, too." on the way home estelle tried to interest abel in sport. she had been very careful all day to keep raymond off her lips, but now intentionally she spoke of him. it was done with care and she only named him casually in the course of general remarks. thus she hoped that, in time, he would allow her to mention his father without opposition. "i think you ought to play some games with your old friends at bridetown these holidays," she said. "i haven't any old friends there. i don't want friends. i never made that fire you promised." "you shall make it next time we come out; and everybody wants friends. you can't get on without friends. and the good of games is that you make friends. i'm very keen on golf now, though i never thought i should like sport. did you play any cricket at school?" "yes, but i don't care about it." "how did you play? you ought to be rather a dab at it." "i played very well and was in the second eleven. but i don't care about it. it's all right at school, but there are better things to do in the holidays." "if you're a good cricketer, you might get some matches. your father is a very good cricketer, and would have played for the county if he'd been able to practise enough. and mister roberts at the mill is a splendid player." his nervous face twitched and his instant passion ran into his whip hand. he gave the astonished pony a lash and made it start across the road, so that estelle was nearly thrown from her seat. "don't! don't!" she said. "what's the matter?" but she knew. he showed his teeth. "i won't hear his name--i won't hear it. i hate him, i hate him. take the reins--i'll walk. you've spoilt everything now. i always wish he was dead when i hear his name, and i wish he was dead this minute." "my dear abel, i'm sorry. i didn't think you felt so bad as that about him. he doesn't feel at all like that about you." "i hate him, i tell you, and i'm not the only one that hates him. and i don't care what he feels about me. he's my greatest enemy on earth, and people who understand have told me so, and i won't be beholden to him for anything--and--and you can stick up for him till you're black in the face for all i care. i know he's bad and i'll be his enemy always." "you're a little fool," she said calmly. "let me drive and you can listen to me now. if you listen to stupid, wicked people talking of your father, then listen to me for a change. you don't know anything whatever about him, because you won't give him a chance to talk to you himself. if you once let him, you'd very soon stop all this nonsense." "you're bluffing," he said. "you think you'll get round me like that, but you won't. you're only a girl. you don't know anything. it's men tell me about my father. you think he's good, because you love him; but he's bad, really--as bad as hell--as bad as hell." "what's he done then? i'm not bluffing, abel. there's nothing to bluff about. what's your father done to you? you must have some reason for hating him?" "yes, i have." "what is it, then?" "it's because the mill ought to be mine when he dies--there!" she did not answer immediately. she had often thought the same thing. instinct told her that frankness must be the only course. through frankness he might still be won. he did not speak again after his last assertion, and presently she answered in a manner to surprise him. directness was natural to estelle and both her father and her friend, mr. churchouse, had fostered it. people either deprecated or admired this quality of her talk, for directness of speech is so rare that it never fails to appear surprising. "i think you're right there, abel. perhaps the mill ought to be yours some day. perhaps it will be. the things that ought to happen really do sometimes." then he surprised her in his turn. "i wouldn't take the mill--not now. i'll never take anything from him. it's too late now." she realised the futility of argument. "you're tired," she said, "and so am i. we'll talk about important things again some day. only don't--don't imagine people aren't your friends. if you'd only think, you'd see how jolly kind people have been to you over and over again. didn't you ever wonder how you got off so well after trying to burn down the works? you must have. anyway, it showed you'd got plenty of good friends, surely?" "it didn't matter to me. i'd have gone to prison. i don't care what they do to me. they can't make me feel different." "well, leave it. we've had a good day and you needn't quarrel with me, at any rate." "i don't know that. you're his friend." "you surely don't want to quarrel with all his friends as well as him? we are going to be friends, anyway, and have some more good times together. i like you." "i thought i liked you," he said, "but you called me a little fool." "that's nothing. you were a little fool just now. we're all fools sometimes. i've been a fool to-day, myself. you're a little fool to hate anybody. what good does it do you to hate?" "it does do me good; and if i didn't hate him, i should hate myself," the boy declared. "well, it's better to hate yourself than somebody else. it's a good sign i should think if we hate ourselves. we ought to hate ourselves more than we do, because we know better than anybody else how hateful we can be. instead of that, we waste tons of energy hating other people, and think there's nobody so fine and nice and interesting as we are ourselves." "mister churchouse says the less we think about ourselves the better. but you've got to if you've been ill-used." in the dusk twinkled out a glow-worm beside the hedge, and they stopped while abel picked it up. gradually he grew calmer, and when they parted he thanked her for her goodness to him. "it's been a proper day, all but the end," he said, "and i will like you and be your friend. but i won't like my father and be his friend, because he's bad and served mother and me badly. you may think i don't understand such things, but i do. and i never will be beholden to him as long as i live--never." he left her at the outer gate of his home and she drove on and considered him rather hopelessly. he had some feeling for beauty on which she had trusted to work, but it was slight. he was vain, very sensitive, and disposed to be malignant. as yet reason had not come to his rescue and his emotions, ill-directed, ran awry. he was evidently unaware that his father had so far saved the situation for him. what would he do when he knew it? estelle felt the picnic not altogether a failure, yet saw little signs of a situation more hopeful at present. "i can win him," she decided; "but it looks as though his father never would." chapter xiii the runaway estelle was as good as her word and devoted not a few of his holidays to the pleasure of sabina's son. unconsciously she hastened the progress of other matters, for her resolute attempt to win abel, at any cost of patience and trouble, brought her still deeper into the hidden life and ambitions of the boy's father. she was frank with raymond, and when abel had gone back to school and made no sign, estelle related her experiences. "he's sworn eternal friendship with me," she said, "but it's not a friendship that extends to you, or anybody else. he's very narrow. he concentrates in a terrifying way and wants everything. he told me that he hated me to have any other friends but him. it took him a long time to decide about me; but now he has decided. he extracts terrific oaths of secrecy and then imparts his secrets. before giving the oaths, i always tell him i shan't keep them if he's going to confide anything wicked; but his secrets are harmless enough. the last was a wonderful hiding-place. he spends many hours in it. i nearly broke my neck getting there. that's how far we've reached these holidays; and after next term i shall try again." "he's got a heart, if one could only reach it, i suppose." "a very hot heart. i shall try to extend his sympathies when he comes back." her intention added further fuel to the fire burning in raymond's own thoughts. he saw both danger and hope in the situation, as it might develop from this point. the time was drawing nearer when he meant to ask estelle to marry him, and since he looked now at life and all its relations from this standpoint, he began to consider his son therefrom. on the whole he was cheered by estelle's achievements and argued well of them. the danger he set aside, and chose rather to reflect on the hope. with abel back at school again and his mother in a more placid temper, there came a moment of peace. ironsyde was able to forget them and did so thankfully, while he concentrated on the task before him. he felt very doubtful, both of estelle's response and her father's view. the girl herself, however, was all that mattered, for waldron would most surely approve her choice whatever it might be. arthur had of late, however, been giving it as his opinion that his daughter would not marry. he had decided that she was not the marrying sort, and told raymond as much. "the married state's too limited for her: her energies are too tremendous to leave any time for being a wife. to bottle estelle down to a husband and children is impossible. they wouldn't be enough for her intellect." this had been said some time before, when unconscious of ironsyde's growing emotions; but of late he had suspected them and was, therefore, more guarded in his prophecies. then came a shock, which delayed progress, for abel thrust himself to the front of his mind again. estelle corresponded with her new friend, and the boy had heard from her that in future he must thank his father for his education. she felt that it was time he knew this, and hoped that he would now be sane enough to let the fact influence him. it did, but not as she had expected. instead there came the news that abel had been expelled. he deliberately refused to proceed with his work, and, when challenged, explained that he would learn no more at his father's expense. nothing moved him, and estelle's well-meant but ill-judged action merely served to terminate abel's education for good and all. the boy was rapidly becoming a curse to his father. puritans, who knew the story, welcomed its development and greeted each phase with religious enthusiasm; but others felt the situation to be growing absurd. raymond himself so regarded it, and when abel returned home again he insisted on seeing him. "you can be present if you wish to be," he told sabina, but she expressed no such desire. her attitude was modified of late, and, largely under the influence of estelle, she began to see the futility of this life-enmity declared against raymond by her son. of old she had thought it natural, and while not supporting it had made no effort to crush it out of him. now she perceived that it could come to nothing and only breed bitterness. she had, therefore, begun to tone her indifference and withhold the little bitter speeches that only fortified abel's hate. she had even argued with him--lamely enough--and advised him not to persist in a dislike of his father that could not serve him in after life. but he had continued to rejoice in his hatred. while estelle hoped with sabina to break down his obstinacy, he actually looked forward to the time when estelle would hate his enemy also. he had been sorry to see his mother weakening and even blaming him for his opinions. but now he was faced with his father under conditions from which there was no escape. the meeting took place in mr. churchouse's study and abel was called to listen, whether he would or no. raymond knew that the child understood the situation and he did not mince words. he kept his temper and exhausted his arguments. "abel," he said, "you've got to heed me now, and whatever you may feel, you must use your self-control and your brains. i'm speaking entirely for your sake and i'm only concerned for your future. if you would use your reason, it would show you that the things you have done and are doing can't hurt me; they can only hurt yourself; and what is the good of hurting yourself, because you don't like me? if you had burned down the works, the insurance offices would have paid me back all the money they were worth, and the only people to suffer would have been the men and women you threw out of work. so, when you tried to hurt me, you were only hurting other people and yourself. boys who do that sort of thing are called embryo criminals, and that's what they are. but for me and the great kindness and humanity of other men--my friends on the magistrates' bench--you would have been sent to a reformatory after that affair; but your fellow creatures forgave you and were very good to me also, and let you go free on consideration that i would be responsible for you. then i sent you to a good school, where nothing was known against you. now you have been expelled from that school, because you won't work, or go on with your education. and your reason is that i am paying for your education and you won't accept anything at my hands. "but think what precisely this means. it doesn't hurt me in the least. as far as i am concerned, it makes not a shadow of difference. i have no secrets about things. everybody knows the situation, and everybody knows i recognise my obligations where you are concerned and wish to be a good father to you. therefore, if you refuse to let me be, nobody is hurt but yourself, because none can take my place. you don't injure my credit; you only lose your own. the past was past, and people had begun to forget what you did two years ago. now you've reminded them by this folly, and i tell you that you are too old to be so foolish. there is no reason why you should not lead a dignified, honourable and useful life. you have far better opportunities than thousands and thousands of boys, and far better and more powerful friends than ninety-nine boys out of a hundred. "then why fling away your chances and be impossible and useless and an enemy to society, when society only wants to be your friend? what is the good? what do you gain? and what do i lose? you're not hurting me; but you're hurting and distressing your mother. you're old enough to understand all this, and if your mother can feel as i know she feels and ask you to consider your own future and look forward in a sensible spirit, instead of looking back in a senseless one, then surely, for her sake alone, you ought to be prepared to meet me and turn over a new leaf. "for you won't tire out my patience, or break my heart. i never know when i'm beat, and since my wish is only your good, neither you, nor anybody, will choke me off it. i ask you now to promise that, if i send you to another school, you'll work hard and complete your education and qualify yourself for a useful place in the world afterwards. that's what you've got to do, and i hope you see it. then your future will be my affair, for, as my son, i shall be glad and willing to help you on in whatever course of life you may choose. "so that's the position. you see i've given you the credit of being a sane and reasonable being, and i want you to decide as a sane and reasonable being. you can go on hating me as much as you please; but don't go on queering your own pitch and distressing your mother and making your future dark and difficult, when it should be bright and easy. promise me that you'll go back to a new school and work your hardest to atone for this nonsense and i'll take your word for it. and i don't ask for my own sake--always remember that. i ask you for your own sake and your mother's." with bent head the boy scowled up under his eyebrows during this harangue. he answered immediately raymond had finished and revealed passion. "and what, if i say 'no'?" "i hope you won't be so foolish." "i do say 'no' then--a thousand times i say it. because if you bring me up, you get all the credit. you shan't get credit from me. and i'll bring myself up without any help from you. i know i'm different from other boys, because you didn't marry my mother. and that's a fearful wrong to her, and you're not going to get out of that by anything i can do. you're wicked and cowardly to my mother, and she's mister churchouse's servant, instead of being your wife and having servants of her own, and i'm a poor woman's son instead of being a rich man's son, as i ought to be. all that's been told me by them who know it. and you're a bad man, and i hate you, and i shall always hate you as long as you live. and i'll never be beholden to you for anything, because my life is no good now, and my mother's life is no good neither. and if i thought she was taking a penny of your money, i'd--" his temper upset him and he burst into tears. the emotion only served to increase his anger. "i'm crying for hate," he said. "hate, hate, hate!" raymond looked at the boy curiously. "poor little chap, i wish to god i could make you see sense. you've got the substance and are shouting for the shadow, which you can never have. you talk like a man, so i'll answer you like a man and advise you not to listen to the evil tongue of those who bear no kindly thought to me, or you either. what is the sense of all this hate? granted wrong things happened, how are you helping to right the wrong? where is the sense of this blind enmity against me? i can't call back the past, any more than you can call back the tears you have just shed. then why waste nervous energy and strength on all this silly hate?" "because it makes me better and stronger to hate you. it makes me a man quicker to hate you. you say i talk like a man--that's because i hate like a man." "you talk like a very silly man, and if you grow up into a man hating me, you'll grow up a bitter, twisted sort of man--no good to anybody. a man with a grievance is only a nuisance to his neighbours; and seeing what your grievance is, and that i am ready and willing to do everything in a father's power to lessen that grievance and retrieve the mistakes of the past--remembering, too, that everybody knows my good intentions--you'll really get none to care for your troubles. instead, all sensible people will tell you that they are largely of your own making." "the more you talk, the more i hate you," said the boy. "if i never heard your voice again and never saw your face again, still i'd always hate you. i don't hate anything else in the world but you. i wouldn't spare a bit of hate for anything but you. i won't be your son now--never." "well, run away then. you'll live to be sorry for feeling and speaking so, abel. i won't trouble you again. next time we meet, i hope you will come to me." the boy departed and the man considered. it seemed that harm irreparable was wrought, and a reconciliation, that might have been easy in abel's childhood, when he was too young to appreciate their connection, had now become impossible, since he had grown old enough to understand it. he would not be raymond's son. he declined the filial relationship--doubtless prompted thereto from his earliest days, first on one admonition, then at another. the leaven had been mixed with his blood by his mother, in his infant mind by his grandmother, in his soul by fellow men as he grew towards adolescence. yet from sabina herself the poison had almost passed away. in the light of these new difficulties she grew anxious, and began to realise how fatally abel's possession was standing in his own light. she loved him, but not passionately. he would soon be sixteen and her point of view changed. she had listened long to estelle and began to understand that, whatever dark memories and errors belonged to raymond ironsyde's past, he designed nothing but generous goodness for their son in the future. after the meeting with abel, raymond saw sabina and described what had occurred; but she could only express her regrets. she declared herself more hopeful than he and promised to reason with the boy to the best of her power. "i've never stood against you with him, and i've never stood for you with him. i've kept out of it and not influenced for or against," she said. "but now i'll do more than that; i'll try and influence him for you." raymond was obliged. "i shall be very grateful to you if you can. if there's any human being who carries weight with him, you do. such blistering frankness--such crooked, lightning looks of hate--fairly frighten me. i had no idea any young creature could feel so much." "he's going through what i went through, i suppose," she said. "i don't want to hurt you, or vex you any more. i'm changed now and tired of quarrelling with things that can't be altered. when we find the world's sympathy for us is dead, then it's wiser to accept the situation and cease to run about trying to wake it up again. so i'll try to show him what the world will be for the likes of him if he hasn't got you behind him." "do--and don't do it bitterly. you can't talk for two minutes about the past without getting bitter--unconsciously, quite unconsciously, sabina. and your unconscious bitterness hurts me far more than it hurts you. but don't be bitter with him, or show there's another side of your feelings about it. keep that for me, if you must. my shoulders are broad enough to bear it. he is brimming with acid as it is. sweeten his mind if it is in your power. that's the only way of salvation, and the only chance of bringing him and me together." she promised to attempt it. "and if i'm bitter still," she said, "it is largely unconscious, as you say. you can't get the taste of trouble out of your mouth very easily after you've been deluged with it and nigh drowned in it, as i have. it's only an echo and won't reach his ear, though it may reach yours." "thank you, sabina. do what you can," he said, and left her, glad to get away from the subject and back to his own greater interests. he heard nothing more for a few days, then came the news that abel had disappeared. by night he had vanished and search failed to find him. sabina could only state what had gone before his departure. she had spoken with him on raymond's behalf and urged him to reconsider his attitude and behave sensibly and worthily. and he, answering nothing, had gone to bed as usual; but when she called him next morning, no reply came and she found that he had ridden away on his bicycle in the night. the country was hunted, but without result, and not for three days did his mother learn what had become of abel. then, in reply to police notices of his disappearance, there came a letter from a devonshire dairy farm, twenty miles to the west of bridport. the boy had appeared there early in the morning and begged for some breakfast. then he asked for something to do. he was now working on trial for a week, but whether giving satisfaction or no they did not learn. his mother went to see him and found him well pleased with himself and proud of what he had accomplished. he explained to her that he had now taken his life into his own hands and was not going to look to anybody in future but himself. the farmer reported him civil spoken, willing to learn, and quick to please. indeed, abel had never before won such a good character. she left him there happy and content, and took no immediate steps to bring the boy home. it was decided that a conference should presently be held of those interested in abel. "since he is safe and cheerful and doing honest work, you need not be in distress about him at present, sabina," said ernest churchouse; "but raymond ironsyde has no intention that the boy should miss an adequate education, and wishes him to be at school for a couple of years yet, if possible. it is decided that we knock our heads together on the subject presently. we'll meet and try to hit upon a sensible course. meantime this glimpse of reality and hard work at knapp farm will do him good. he may show talent in an agricultural direction. in any case, you can feel sure that whatever tastes he develops, short of buccaneering, or highway robbery, will be gratified." chapter xiv the motor car raymond ironsyde felt somewhat impatient of the conference to consider the situation of his son. but since he had no authority and sabina was anxious to do something, he agreed to consult mr. churchouse. they met at 'the magnolias,' where miss ironsyde joined them; but her old energy and forcible opinions had faded. she did little more than listen. ironsyde came first and spoke to ernest in a mood somewhat despondent. they were alone at the time, for sabina did not join them until estelle came. "is there nothing in paternity?" asked raymond. "isn't nature all powerful and blood thicker than water? what is it that over-rides the natural relationship and poisons him against me? isn't a good father a good father?" "so much is implied in this case," answered the elder. "he's old enough now to understand what it means to be a natural child. doubtless the disabilities they labour under have been explained to him. that fact is what poisons his mind, as you say, and makes him hate the blood in his veins. we've got to get over that and find antidotes for the poison, if we can." "i'm beginning to doubt if we ever shall, uncle ernest." sabina and estelle entered at this moment and heard mr. churchouse make answer. "be sure it can be done. every year makes it more certain, because with increase of reasoning power he'll see the absurdity of this attitude. it is no good to him to continue your enemy." "increase of reason cuts both ways. it shows him his grievances, as well as what will pay him best in the future. he's faced with a clash of reason." "reason i grant springs from different inspirations," admitted ernest. "there's the reason of the heart and the reason of the head--yes, the heart has its reasons, too. and though the head may not appreciate them, they exercise their weight and often conquer." soon there came a carriage from bridport and miss ironsyde joined them. "oh! i'm glad to see a fire," she said, and sat close beside it in an easy chair. then raymond spoke. "it is good of you all to come and lend a hand over this difficult matter. i appreciate it, and specially i thank sabina for letting us consider her son's welfare. she knows that we all want to befriend him and that we all are his friends. it's rather difficult for me to say much; but if you can show me how to do anything practical and establish abel's position and win his goodwill, at any cost to myself, i shall thank you. i've done what i could, but i confess this finds me beaten for the moment. you'd better say what you all think, and see if you agree." the talk that followed was inconsequent and rambling. for a considerable time it led nowhere. miss ironsyde was taciturn. it occupied all her energies to conceal the fact that she was suffering a good deal of physical pain. she made no original suggestions. churchouse, according to his wont, generalised; but it was through a generalisation that they approached something definite. "he has yet to learn that we cannot live to ourselves, or design life's pattern single-handed," declared ernest. "life, in fact, is rather like a blind man weaving a basket: we never see our work, and we have to trust others for the material. and if we better realised how blind we were, we should welcome and invite criticism more freely than we do." "no man makes his own life--i've come to see that," admitted raymond. "the design seems to depend much on your fellow creatures; your triumph or failure is largely the work of others. but it depends on your own judgment to the extent that you can choose what fellow creatures shall help you." estelle approved this. "and if we could only show abel that, and make him feel this determination to be independent of everybody is a mistake. but he told me once, most reasonably, that he didn't mind depending on those who were good to him. he said he would trust them." "trust's everything. it centres on that. can i get his trust, or can't i?" "not for the present, ray. i expect his mind is in a turmoil over this running away. it's all my fault and i take the blame. until he can think calmly you'll never get any power over him. the thing is to fill his mind full with something else." "find out if you can what's in his thoughts," advised sabina. "we say this and that and the other, and plan what must be done, but i judge the first person to ask for an opinion is abel himself. when people are talking about the young, the last thought in their minds is what the young are thinking themselves. they never get asked what's in their minds, yet, if we knew, it might make all the difference." "very sound, sabina," admitted mr. churchouse; "and you should know what's in his mind if anybody does." "i should no doubt, but i don't. i've never been in the boy's secrets, or i might have been more to him. but that's not to say nobody could win them. any clever boy getting on for sixteen years should have plenty of ideas, and if you could find them, it might save a lot of trouble." she turned to estelle as she spoke. "he's often told me things," said estelle, "and he's often been going to tell me others and stopped--not because he thought i'd laugh at him; but because he was doubtful of me. but he knows i can keep secrets now." "he must be treated as an adult," decided ernest. "sabina is perfectly right. we must give him credit for more sense than he has yet discovered, and appeal directly to his pride. i think there are great possibilities about him if he can only be brought to face them. his ruling passion must be discovered. one has marked a love of mystery in him and a wonderful power of make-believe. these are precious promises, rightly guided. they point to imagination and originality. he may have the makings of an artist. without exaggeration, i should say he had an artist's temperament without being an artist; but art is an elastic term. it must mean creative instinct, however, and he has shown that. it has so far taken the shape of a will to create disaster; but why should we not lead his will into another channel and help it to create something worthy?" "he's fond of machinery," said sabina, "and very clever with his hands." "could your child be anything but clever with his hands, sabina?" said estelle. "or mine be anything but fond of machinery?" asked raymond. he meant no harm, but this blunt and rather brutal claim to fatherhood made sabina flinch. it was natural that she never could school herself to accept the situation in open conversation without reserve, and all but ironsyde himself appreciated the silence which fell upon her. his speech, indeed, showed lack of sensibility, yet it could hardly be blamed, since only through acceptation of realities might any hopeful action be taken. but the harm was done and the delicate poise of the situation between abel's parents upset. sabina said no more, and in the momentary silence that followed she rose and left them. "what clumsy fools even nice men can be," sighed miss ironsyde, and churchouse spoke. "leave sabina to me," he said. "i'll comfort her when you've gone. there is a certain ingrained stupidity from which no man escapes in the presence of women. they may, or may not, conceal their feelings; but we all unconsciously bruise and wound them. sabina did not conceal hers. she is quick in mind as well as body. what matters is that she knows exceedingly well we are all on her side and all valuable friends for the lad. now let us return to the point. i think with estelle that abel may have something of the artist in him. he drew exceedingly well as a child. you can see his pictures in sabina's room. such a gift if developed might waken a sense of power." "if he knew great things were within his reach, he would not disdain the means to reach them," said miss ironsyde. "i do think if the boy felt his own possibilities more--if we could waken ambition--he would grow larger-minded. hate always runs counter to our interests in the long run, because it wastes our energy and, if people only knew it, revenge is really not sweet, but exceedingly bitter." "i suggest this," said ironsyde: "that uncle ernest and estelle visit the boy--not in any spirit of weakness, or with any concessions, or attempts to change his mind; but simply to learn his mind. sabina was right there. we'll approach him as we should any other intelligent being, and invite his opinion, and see if it be reasonable, or unreasonable. and if it is reasonable, then i ought to be able to serve him, if he'll let me do so." "i shall certainly do what you wish," agreed ernest. "estelle and i will form a deputation to this difficult customer and endeavour to find out what his lordship really proposes and desires. then, if we can prove to him that he must look to his fellow creatures to advance his welfare; if we can succeed in showing him that not even the youngest of us can stand alone, perhaps we shall achieve something." "and if he won't let me help, perhaps he'll let you, or estelle, or aunt jenny. agree if he makes any possible stipulation. it doesn't matter a button where he supposes help is coming from: the thing is that he should not know it is really coming from me." "i hope we may succeed without craft of that sort, raymond," declared mr. churchouse; "but i shall not hesitate to employ the wisdom of the serpent--if the olive branch of the dove fails to meet the situation. i trust, however, more to estelle than myself. she is nearer abel in point of time, and it is very difficult to bridge a great gulf of years. we old men talk in another language than the young use, and the scenery that fills their eyes--why, it has already vanished beneath our horizons. narrowing vision too often begets narrowing sympathies and we depress youth as much as youth puzzles us." "true, ernest," said miss ironsyde. "have you noticed how a natural instinct makes the young long to escape from the presence of age? the young breathe more freely out of sight of grey heads." "and the grey heads survive their absence without difficulty," confessed mr. churchouse. "but we are a tonic to each other. they help us to see, jenny, and we must help them to feel." "abel shall help us to see his point of view, and we'll help him to feel who his best friends are," promised estelle. raymond had astonished bridport and staggered bridetown with a wondrous invention. the automobile was born, and since it appealed very directly to him, he had acquired one of the first of the new vehicles at some cost, and not only did he engage a skilled mechanic to drive it, but himself devoted time and pains to mastering the machine. he believed in it very stoutly, and held that in time to come it must bulk as a most important industrial factor. already he predicted motor traction on a large scale, while yet the invention was little more than a new toy for the wealthy. and now this car served a useful purpose and mr. churchouse, in some fear and trembling, ventured a first ride. estelle accompanied him and together they drove through the pleasant lands where dorset meets devon, to knapp farm under knapp copse, midway between colyton and ottery st. mary, on a streamlet tributary of the sid. mr. churchouse was amazed and bewildered at this new experience; estelle, who had already enjoyed some long rides, supported him, lulled his anxieties and saw that he kept warm. soon they sighted the ridge which gave knapp its name, and presently met abel, who knew that they were coming. he stood on the tumuli at the top of the knoll and awaited them with interest. his master, from first enthusiasms, now spoke indifferently of him, declared him an average boy, and cared not whether they took him, or left him. as for abel himself, he slighted both estelle and mr. churchouse at first, and appeared for a time quite oblivious to their approaches. he was only interested in the car, which stood drawn up in an open shed at the side of the farmyard. he concentrated here, desired the company of the driver alone, and could with difficulty be drawn away to listen to the travellers and declare his own ambitions. he was, however, not sorry to see estelle, and when, presently, they lured him away from the motor, he talked to them. he bragged about his achievement in running away and finding work; but he was not satisfied with the work itself. "it was only to see if i could live in the world on my own," he said, "and now i know i can. nobody's got any hold on me now, because if you can earn your food and clothes, you're free of everybody. i don't tell them here, but i could work twice as hard and do twice as much if it was worth while; only it isn't." "if you get wages, you ought to earn them," said estelle. "i do," he explained. "i get a shilling a day and my grub, and i earn all that. but, of course, i'm not going to be a farmer. i'm just learning about the land--then i'm going. nobody's clever here. but i like taking it easy and being my own master." "you oughtn't to take it easy at your time of life, abel," declared estelle. "you oughtn't to leave school yet, and i very much hope you'll go back." "never," he said. "i couldn't stop there after i knew he was paying for it. or anywhere else. i'm not going to thank him for anything." "but you stand in the light of your own usefulness," she explained. "the thing is for a boy to do all in his power to make himself a useful man, and by coming here and doing ploughboy's work, when you might be learning and increasing your own value in the world, you are being an idiot, abel. if you let your father educate you, then, in the future, you can pay him back splendidly and with interest for all he has done for you. there's no obligation then--simply a fair bargain." his face hardened and he frowned. "i may pay him for all he's done for me, whether or no," he answered. "anyway, i don't want any more book learning. i'm a man very nearly, and a lot cleverer, as it is, than the other men here. i shall stop here for a bit. i want to be let alone and i will be let alone." "not at all," declared mr. churchouse. "you're going back on yourself, abel, and if you stop here, hoeing turnips and what not, you'll soon find a great disaster happening to you. you will indeed--just the very thing you don't want to happen. you pride yourself on being clever. well, cleverness can't stand still, you know. you go back, or forward. here, you'll go back and get as slow-witted as other ploughboys. you think you won't, but you will. the mud on your boots will work up into your mind, and instead of being full of great ideas for the future, you'll gradually forget all about them. and that would be a disgrace to you." abel showed himself rather impressed with this peril. "i shall read books," he said. "where will you get them?" asked estelle. "besides, after long days working out of doors, you'll be much too tired to read books, or go on with your studies. i know, because i've tried it." "quies was the god of rest in ancient rome," proceeded mr. churchouse, "but he was no god for youth. the elderly turned their weary bodies to his shrine and decorated his altars--not the young. but for you, abel, there are radiant goddesses, and their names are stimula and strenua. to them you must pay suit and service, and your motto should be 'able and willing.'" "of course," cried estelle; "but instead of that, you ask to be let alone, to turn slowly and surely into a ploughboy! why, the harm is already beginning! and you may be quite sure that nobody who cares for you is going to see you turn into a ploughboy." they produced some lunch presently and abel enjoyed the good fare. for a time they pressed him no more, but when the meal was taken, let him show them places of interest. while estelle visited the farm with him and heard all about his work, mr. churchouse discussed the boy with his master. nothing could then be settled, and it was understood that abel should stop at knapp until the farmer heard more concerning him. estelle advanced the good cause very substantially, however, and felt sanguine of the future; for alone with her, abel confessed that farming gave him no pleasure and that his ambition was set on higher things. "i shall be an engineer some day," he said. "presently i shall go where there is machinery, and begin at the bottom and work up to the top. i know a lot more about it than you might think, as it is." "i know you do," she said. "and there's nothing your mother would like better than engineering for you. besides, a boy begins that when he's young, and i believe you ought to be in the shops soon." "i shall be soon. very likely the next thing you hear about me will be that i have disappeared again. then i shall turn up in a works somewhere. because you needn't think i'm going to be a ploughboy. i shouldn't get level with my father by being a ploughboy." "your father would be delighted for you to get level with him and know as much as he does," she answered, pretending to mistake his meaning. "if you said you wanted to know as much about machinery and machines in general as he does, then he would very soon set to work to help you on." abel considered. "i won't take any help from him; but i'll do this--to suit myself, not him. i'd do it so as i could be near mother and could look after her. because, when mister churchouse dies, i'll have to look after her." "you needn't be anxious about your mother, abel. she's got plenty of friends." "her friends don't count if they're his friends, because you can't be my mother's friend and his friend, too. but i'll go into the spinning mill, and be like anybody else, and work for wages--just the same wages as any other boy going in. that won't be thanking him for anything." estelle could hardly hide her satisfaction at this unexpected concession. she dared not show her pleasure for fear that abel would see it and draw back. "then you could live with mother and mister churchouse," she said. "it would be tremendously interesting for you. i wonder if you would begin with roberts at the lathes, or cogle at the engines?" "i don't know. before i ran away, nicholas roberts wanted somebody to help him turning. i've turned sometimes. i'd begin like that and rise to better things." she was careful not to mention his father again. "i believe mister roberts would like to have you in his shop very much. sarah, his wife, hopes that her son will be a lathe-worker some day, but he's too young to go yet." "he'll never be any good at machinery," declared abel. "i know him. he's all for the sea." they took their leave presently, after ernest had heard the boy's offer. he, too, was careful, but applauded the suggestion and assured abel he would be very welcome at his old home. "i like you, you know; in fact, as a rule, we have got on very well together. i believe you'll make an engineer some day if you remember the roman goddesses. to be ambitious is the most hopeful thing we can wish for youth. always be ambitious--that's the first essential for success." but the old man surprised estelle by failing to share her delight at abel's decision. she for her part felt that the grand difficulty was passed, and that once in his father's mill, the boy must sooner or later come to reason, if only by the round of self-interest; but mr. churchouse reminded her that another had to be reckoned with. "a most delicate situation would be created in that case," he said. "of course i can't pretend to say how raymond will regard it. he may see it with your eyes. he sees so many things with your eyes--more and more, in fact--that i hope he will; but you mustn't be very disappointed if he does not. this cannot look to him as it does to you, or even to me. his point of view may reject abel's suggestion altogether for various reasons; and sabina, too, will very likely feel it couldn't happen without awakening a great many painful memories." "she advised us to consult abel and hear what he thought." "we have. we return with the great man's ultimatum. but i'm afraid it doesn't follow that his ultimatum will be accepted. even if sabina felt she could endure such an arrangement, it is doubtful in the extreme whether raymond will. indeed i'll go so far as to prophesy that he won't." estelle saw that she had been over-sanguine. "there's one bright side, however," he continued. "we have got something definite out of the boy and should now be able to help him largely in spite of himself. every day he lives, he'll become more impressed with the necessity for knowledge, and if, for the moment, he declines any alternative, he'll soon come round to one. he knows already that he can't stop at knapp, so this great and perilous adventure of the automobile has been successful--though how successful we cannot tell yet." he knew, however, before the day was done, for sabina felt very definitely on the subject. yet her attitude was curious: she held it not necessary to express an opinion. mr. churchouse came home very cold, and while she attended to his needs, brought him hot drink and lighted a fire, sabina listened. "the boy is exceedingly well," he said. "i never saw his eye so bright, or his skin so clear and brown. but a farmer he won't be for anybody. of course, one never thought he would." when she had heard abel's idea, she answered without delay. "it's a thousand pities he's set his heart on that, because it won't happen. what i think doesn't matter, of course, but for once you'll find his father is of a mind with me. he'll not suffer such an arrangement for a moment. it's bringing the trouble too near. he doesn't want his skeleton walking out of the cupboard into the mill, and whatever happens, that won't." she was right enough, for when raymond heard all that estelle could tell him, he decided instantly against any such arrangement. "impossible," he said. "one needn't trouble even to argue about it. but that he would like to be an engineer is quite healthy. he shall be; and he shall begin at the beginning and have every advantage possible--not his way, but mine. i argue ultimate success from this. it eases my mind." "all the same, if you don't do anything, he'll only run away again," said estelle, who was disappointed. "he won't run far. let him stop where he is for a few months, till he's heartily sick of it and ready to listen to sense. then perhaps i'll go over and see him myself. you've done great things, estelle. i feel more sanguine than i have ever felt about him. i wish i could do what he wants; but that's impossible his way. however, i'll do it in my own. sense is beginning in him, and that is the great and hopeful discovery you've made." "i'm ever so glad you're pleased about it," she said. "he loved the motor car much better than the sight of us. yet he was glad to see us too. he's really a very human boy, you know, ray." chapter xv criticism upon a sunday afternoon, sarah roberts and her husband were drinking tea at 'the seven stars.' they sat in nelly legg's private room, and by some accident all took rather a gloomy view of life. as for nelly, she had been recently weighed, and despite drastic new treatment, was found to have put on two pounds in a month. "lord knows where it'll end," she said. "you can't go on getting heavier and heavier for ever more. even a vegetable marrow, and such like things, reach their limit; and if they can it's hard that a creature with an immortal soul have got to go growing larger and larger, to her own misery and her husband's grief. to be smothered with your own fat is a proper cruel end i call it; and i haven't deserved it; and it shakes my faith in an all-wise god, to feel myself turning into a useless mountain of flesh. worse than useless in fact, because them that can't work themselves are certain sure to make work for others. which i do." "i never knew anything so aggravating, i'm sure," assented nicholas; "but so far as i can see, if life don't fret you from within, it frets you from without. it can't leave you alone to go on your way in a dignified manner. it's always intruding, so to speak. in fact, life comes between us and our living, if you understand me, and sometimes for my part i can look on to the end of it with a lot of resignation." sentiments so unusual from her husband startled mrs. roberts as well as her aunt. "lor, nicholas! what's the matter with you?" asked sarah. "it ain't often i grumble," he answered, "and if anybody's better at taking the rough with the smooth than me, i'd like to see him; but there are times when nature craves for a bit of pudding, and gets sick to death of its daily meal of bread and cheese. i speak in a parable, however, because i don't mean the body but the mind. your body bothers you, missis legg, as well it may; but your mind, thanks to your husband, is pretty peaceful year in year out. in my case, my body calls for no attention. thin as a rake i am and so shall continue. but the tissue is good, and no man is made of better quality stuff. it's my mind that turns in upon itself and gives me a pang now and again. and the higher the nature of the mind, the worse its troubles. in fact the more you can feel, the more you are made to feel; and what the mind is built to endure, that, seemingly, it will be called to endure." but nelly had no patience with the philosophy of mr. roberts. "you're so windy when you've got anything on your chest," she said. "you keep talking and don't get any forwarder. what's the fuss about now?" "you've been listening to baggs, i expect," suggested the wife of nicholas. "baggs has got the boot at last and leaves at christmas, and his pension don't please him, so he's fairly bubbling over with verjuice. i should hope you'd got too much sense to listen to him, nick." "so should i. he's no more than the winter wind in a hedge at any time," answered mr. roberts. "baggs gets attended to same as a wasp gets attended to--because of his sting. all bad-tempered people win a lot more attention and have their way far quicker than us easy and amiable ones. why, we know, of course. human nature's awful cowardly at bottom and will always choose the easiest way to escape the threatened wrath of a bad temper. in fact, fear makes the world go round, not love, as silly people pretend. in my case i feel much like sabina dinnett, who was talking about life not a week ago in the triangle under the sycamore tree. and she said, 'those who do understand don't care, and those who don't understand, don't matter'--so there you are--one's left all alone." "i'm sure you ain't--more's sabina. she's got lots of friends, and you've got your dear wife and children," said nelly. "i have; but the mind sometimes takes a flight above one's family. it's summed up in a word: there's nothing so damned unpleasant as being took for granted, and that's what's the matter with me." "not in your home, you ain't," declared sarah. "no good, sensible wife takes her husband for granted. he's always made a bit of a fuss over under his own roof." "that's true; but in my business i am. to see people--i'll name no names--to see other people purred over, and then to find your own craft treated as just a commonplace of nature, no more wonderful than the leaves on a bush--beastly, i call it." mr. legg had joined them and he admitted the force of the argument. "we're very inclined to put our own job higher in the order of the universe than will other people," he said; "and better men than you have hungered for a bit of notice and a pat on the back and never won it. but time covers that trouble. i grant, all the same, that it's a bit galling when we find the world turns a cold shoulder to our best." "it's a human weakness, nicholas, to want to be patted," said nelly, and her husband agreed. "it is. we share it with dogs," he declared. "but the world in general is too busy to pat us. i remember in my green youth being very proud of myself once and pointing to a lot of pewter in a tub, that i'd worked up till it looked like silver; and i took some credit, and an old man in the bar said that scouring pots was nothing more than scouring pots, and that any other honest fool could have done them just as well as me." "that's all right and i don't pretend my work on the lathe is a national asset, and i don't pretend i ought to have a statue for doing it," answered nicholas; "but what i do say is that i am greater than my lathe and ought to get more attention according. i am a man and not a cog-wheel, and when ironsyde puts cog-wheels above men and gives a dumb machine greater praise than the mechanic who works it--then it's wrong and i don't like it." "he can't make any such mistake as that," argued job. "it's rumoured he's going to stand for parliament at the next general election, so his business is with men, not machines, and he'll very soon find all about the human side of politics." "he'll be human enough till he gets in. they always are. they'll stoop to anything till they're elected," said mrs. legg, "but once there, the case is often altered with 'em." "i want to be recognised as a man," continued roberts, "and ironsyde don't do it. he isn't the only human being with a soul and a future. and now, if he's for parliament, i dare say he'll become more indifferent than ever. he may be a machine himself, with no feelings beyond work; but other people are built different." "a man like him ought to try and do the things himself," suggested sarah. "if employers had to put in a day laying the stricks on the spreadboard, or turning the rollers on the lathe, or hackling, or spinning, they'd very soon get a respect for what the workers do. in fact, if labour had its way, it ought to make capital taste what labour means, and get out of bed when labour gets out, and do what labour does, and eat what labour eats. then capital would begin to know it's born." "it never will happen," persisted nicholas. "nothing opens the eyes of the blind, or makes the man who can buy oysters, eat winkles. the gulf is fixed between us and it won't be crossed. if he goes into parliament, or stops out, he'll be himself still, and look on us doubtfully and wish in his soul that we were made of copper and filled with steam." "a master must follow his people out of the works into their homes if he's worth a rap," declared job. "your aunt always did so with her maidens, and i do so with the men. and it's our place to remember that men and women are far different from metal and steam. you can't turn the power off the workers and think they're going to be all right till you turn it on again. they go on all the time--same as the masters and mistresses do. they sleep and eat and rest; they want their bit of human interest, and bit of fun, and pinch of hope to salt the working day. and as for raymond ironsyde, i've seen his career unfolding since he was a boy and marked him in bad moments and seen his weakness; which secrets were safe enough with me, for i'd always a great feeling for the young. and i say that he's good as gold at heart and his faults only come from a lack of power to put himself in another man's place. he could never look very much farther than his own place in the world and the road that led to it. he did wrong, like all of us, and his faults found him out; which they don't always do. but he's the sort that takes years and years to ripen. he's not yet at his best you'll find; but he's a learner, and he may learn a great many useful things if he goes into parliament--if it's only what to avoid." "there's one thing that will do him a darned sight more good than going into parliament, and that's getting married," said sarah. "in fact, a few of us, that can see further through a milestone than some people, believe it's in sight." "miss waldron, of course?" asked nelly. "yes--her. and when that happens, she'll make of mister ironsyde a much more understanding man than going into parliament will. he's fair and just--not one of us, bar levi baggs, ever said he wasn't that--but she's more--she's just our lady, and our good is her good, and what she's done for us would fill a book; and if she could work on him to look at us through her eyes, then none of us, that deserved it, as we all do, would lose our good word." "what do you say to that, job?" asked mrs. legg. "i say nothing better could happen," he answered. "but don't feel too hopeful. the things that promise best to the human eye ain't the things that providence very often performs. to speak in a religious spirit and without feeling, there's no doubt that providence does take a delight in turning down the obvious things and bringing us up against the doubtful and difficult and unexpected ones. that's why there's such a gulf between story books and real life. the story books that i used to read in my youth, always turned out just as a man of good will and good heart and kindly spirit would wish them to do; but you'd be straining civility to providence and telling a lie if you pretended real life does. therefore i say, hope it may happen; but don't bet on it." job finished his tea and bustled away. "the wisdom of the man!" said nicholas. "he's the most comforting person i know, because he don't pretend. there's some think that everything that happens to us is our own fault, and they drive you silly with their bleating. job knows it ain't so." "a far-seeing man," admitted nelly, "and a great reader of the signs of the times. people used to think he was a simple sort--god forgive me, i did myself; but i know better now. all through that business with poor richard gurd, job understood our characters and bided his time and knew that the crash must come between us. he's told me since that he never really feared gurd, because he looked ahead and felt that two such natures as mine and richard's were never meant to join in matrimony. looking back, i see job's every move and the brain behind it. talk about parliament! if bridport was to send legg there, they'd be sending one that's ten times wiser than raymond ironsyde--and ten times deeper. in fact, the nation's very ill served by most that go there. they are the showy, rich, noisy sort, who want to bulk in the public eye without working for it--ciphers who do what they're told, and don't understand the inner nature of what they're doing more than a hoss in a plough. but men like job, though not so noisy, would get to the root, and use their own judgment, and rise superior to party politics and the pitiful need to shout with your side, right or wrong." "miss waldron is very wishful for him to get in, and she says he's got good ideas," replied nicholas. "if so, he has to thank her for them," added sarah. "and i hope," continued nicholas, "that if he does get in, he'll be suffered to make a speech, and his words will fall stone dead on the ears of the members, and his schemes will fail. then he'll know what it is to be flouted and to see his best feats win not a friendly sign." "electors are a lot too easy going in my opinion," said nelly. "i'm old enough to have seen their foolish ways in my time, and find, over and over again, that they are mostly gulls to be took with words. they never ask what a man's record is and turn over the pages of his past. they never trouble about what he's done, or how he's made his money, or where he stands in public report. it isn't what he has done, but what he's going to do. yet you can better judge of a man from his past than his promises, and measure, in the light of his record, whether he's going to the house of commons for patriotic, decent reasons, or for mean ones. and never you vote for a lawyer, nicholas roberts. 'tis a golden rule with job that never, under any manner of circumstances, will he help to get a lawyer into parliament. they stand in the way of all progress but their own; they suck our blood in every affair of life; they baffle all honest thinking with their cunning, and look at right and wrong only from the point of expediency. job says there ought to be a law against lawyers going in at all. but catch them making it! in fact, we're in their clutches more than the fly in the web, because they make the laws; and they'll never make any laws to limit their own powers over us, though always quick enough to increase them. job says that the only bright side to a revolution would be that the law and the lawyers would be swept into the street orderly bin together. then we'd start clean and free, and try to keep clean and free." upon this subject mrs. legg always found plenty to say. indeed she continued to open her mind till they grew weary. "we must be moving if we're going to church," said sarah. "i think we'd better go and pick up a bit of charity to our neighbour--sunday and all." chapter xvi the offer of marriage raymond met estelle on his way from the works and together they walked home. here and there in the cottage doorways sat women braiding. among them was sally groves--now grown too old and slow to tend the 'card'--and accident willed that she should make an opening for thoughts that now filled ironsyde's mind. they stopped, for sally was an old acquaintance of both, and estelle valued the big woman for her resolute character and shrewd sense. now sally, on strength of long-standing friendship, grew personal. it was an ancient joke to chaff miss groves about marriage, but to-day, when raymond asked if the net she made was to catch a husband, sally retorted with spirit. "all very fine for you two to be poking fun at me," she said. "but what about you? it's time you made up your minds i'm sure, for everybody knows you're in love with each other--though you don't yourselves seemingly." "give us a lead, sally," suggested raymond; but she shook her head. "you're old enough to know your own business," she answered; "but don't you go lecturing other people about matrimony while you're a bachelor yourself--else you'll get the worst of it--as you have now." they left her and laughed together. "yet i've heard you say she was the most sensible woman that ever worked in the mills," argued raymond. estelle made no direct reply, but spoke of sally in the past at one of her parties, when the staff took holiday and spent a day at weymouth. their conversation faded before they reached north hill house, and then, as they entered the drive, raymond reminded estelle of a time long vanished and an expedition taken when she was a child. "talking of good things, d'you remember our walk to chilcombe in the year one? or, to be more exact, when you were in short frocks." "i remember well enough. how my chatter must have bored you." "you never bored me in your life, chicky. in fact, you always seem to have been a part of my life since i began to live. that event happened soon after our walk, if i remember rightly. you really seem as much a part of my life as my right hand, estelle." "well, your right hand can't bore you, certainly." "some of the things that it has done have bored me. but let's go to chilcombe again--not in the car--but just tramp it as we did before. how often have you been there since we went?" she considered. "twice, i think. my friends there left ten years ago and my girl friend died. i haven't been there since i grew up." "well, come this afternoon." "it's going to rain, ray." "since when did rain frighten you?" "i'd love to come." "a walk will do me good," he said. "i'm getting jolly lazy." "so father thinks. he hates motors--says they are going to make the next generation flabby and good-for-nothing." they started presently under low grey clouds, but the sky was not grey for them and the weather of their minds made them forget the poor light and sad south-west wind laden with rain. it held off until they had reached chilcombe chapel, entered the little place of prayer and stood together before the ancient reredos. the golden-brown wood made a patch of brightness in the little building. they were looking at it and recalling estelle's description of it in the past, when the storm broke and the rain beat on the white glass in the windows above them. "how tiny it's all grown," said estelle. "surely everything has shrunk?" they had the chapel to themselves and, sitting beside her in a pew, raymond asked her to marry him. thunder had wakened in the sky, and the glare of lightning touched their faces now and then. but they only remembered that afterwards. "sally groves was no more than half right," he said, "so her fame for wisdom is shaken. she told us we didn't know we loved one another, estelle. but i know i love you well enough, and i've been shaking in my shoes to tell you so for months and months. i knew i was getting too old every minute and yet couldn't say the word. but i must say it now at any cost. chicky, i love you--dearly, dearly i love you--because i'm calm and steady, that doesn't mean i'm not in a blaze inside. i never thought of it even while you were growing up. but a time came when i did begin to think of it like the deuce; and when once i did, the thought towered up like the effreet let out of the bottle--that story you loved when you were small. but my only fear and dread is that you've always been accustomed to think of me as so much older than you are. if you once get an idea into your head about a person's age, you can't get it out again. at least, i can't; so i'm afraid you'll regard me as quite out of the question for a husband. if that's so, i'll begin over again." her eyes were round and her mouth a little open. she did not blink when the lightning flashed. "but--but--" she said. "if i'm not too old, there are no 'buts' left," he declared firmly. "ten years is no great matter after all, and from the point of view of brains, i'm an infant beside you. then say 'yes,' my darling--say 'yes' to me." "i wonder--i wonder, ray?" "haven't you ever guessed what i felt?" "yes, in a vague way. at least i knew there was something growing up between us." "it was love, my beautiful dear." she smiled at him doubtfully. the colour had come back to her face, but she did not respond when he lifted his arms to her. "are you sure--can you be sure, ray? it's so different,--so shattering. it seems to smash up all the past into little bits and begin the world all over again--for you and me. it's such a near thing. i've seen the married people and wondered about it. you might get so weary of always having me so close." "i want you close--closer and closer. i want you as the best part of myself--to make me happier first and, because happier, more useful in the world. i want you at the helm of my life--to steer me, chicky. what couldn't we do together! it's selfish--? it's one-sided, i know that. i get everything--you only get me. but i'll try and rise to the occasion. i worship you, and no woman ever had a more devout worshipper. i feel that your father wouldn't be very mad with me. but it's for you to decide, nothing else matters either way." "i love to think you care for me so much," she said. "and i care for you, ray, and have cared for you--more than either of us know. yes, i have. sally groves knew somehow. i should like to say 'yes' this moment; but i can't. i know i shall say it presently; but i'm not going to say it till i've thought a great many thoughts and looked into the future and considered all this means--for you as well as for me. it's life or death really, for both of us, and the more certain sure we are before, the happier we should be afterwards, i expect." "i'm sure enough, estelle. i've been sure enough for many a long day. i know the very hour i began to be sure." "i think i am too; but i can't say 'yes' and mean 'yes' for the present. i've got to thresh out a lot of things. i dare say they'd be absurd to you; but they're not to me." "can i help you?" "i don't know. you can, i expect. i shall come to you again to throw light on the difficult points." "how long are you going to take?" "how can i tell? but i _can_ all the same, i'm not going to take long." "say you love me--do say that." "i should have told you if i didn't." "that's all right, but not so blessed as hearing you say with your own lips you do. say it--say it, chicky. i won't take advantage of it. i only want to hear it. then i'll leave you in peace to think your thoughts." "i do love you," she said gently and steadily. "it can be nothing smaller than that. you are a very great part of my life--the greatest. i know that, because when you go away life is at evening, and when you come back again life is at morning. let me have a little time, ray--only a very little. then i'll decide." "i hope your wisdom will let you follow your will, then, and not forbid the banns." "you mustn't think it cold and horrid of me." "you couldn't be cold and horrid, my sweet estelle. we're neither of us capable of being cold, or horrid. we are not babies. i don't blame you a bit for wanting to think about it. i only blame myself. if i was all i might have been, you wouldn't want to think about it." this challenge shook her, but did not change her. "nobody's all they might be, ray; but many people are a great deal more than they might be. that's what makes you love people best, i think--to see how brave and patient and splendid men and women can be. life's so difficult even for the luckiest of us; but it isn't the luckiest who are the pluckiest generally--is it? i've had such a lot more than my share of luck already. so have you--at least people think so. but nobody knows one's luck really except oneself." "it's the things that are going to happen will make our good luck," he said. "you'll find men are seldom satisfied with the past, whatever women may be. god knows i'm not." "you were always one of my two heroes when i was a child; and father was the other. he is still my hero--and so are you, ray." "a pretty poor hero. i wouldn't pretend that to my dog. i only claim to have something worth while in me that you might bring out--raw material for you to turn into the finished article." she laughed to hear this. "come--come--you're not as modest as all that. you're much too clever even to pretend any such thing. women don't turn strong men into finished articles. at best, perhaps, they can only decorate a little of the outside." "you laugh," he answered, "but you know better. if you love me, be ambitious for me. that's the most helpful love a woman can give a man--to see his capabilities better than he can, and fire him on the best and biggest he can do, and help him to grasp his opportunities." "so it is." "you've got to decide whether it's worth while marrying me, chicky. you do love me, as i love you--because you can't help it. but you can help marrying me. you've got to think of your own show as well as mine. i quite understand that. you must be yourself and make your own mark, and take advantage of all the big new chances offered to the rising generation of women. i love you a great deal too much to want to lessen you, or drift you into a back-water. it's just a question whether my work, and the mill, and so on, give you the chance you want--if, working together, we can each help on the other. you could certainly help me hugely and you know it; but whether i could help you--that's what you've got to think about i suppose." "yes, i suppose it is, ray." "your eyes say 'yes' already, and they're terrible true eyes." but she only lowered them and neither spoke any more for a little while. the worst of the storm had passed, and its riot and splash gave place to a fine drizzle as the night began to close in. they started for home and, both content to think their own thoughts, trudged side by side. for raymond's part, he knew the woman too well to suffer any doubt of the issue and he was happy. for he felt that she was quietly happy too, and if instincts had brought grave doubts, or prompted her to deny him, she would not have been happy. estelle did not miss the romance from his offer of marriage. she had dreamed of man's love in her poetry-reading days, but under the new phase and the practical bent, developed by a general enthusiasm for her kind, personal emotions were not paramount. there could be but little sex in her affection for raymond: she had lived too near him for that. indeed, she had grown up beside him, and the days before he came to dwell at north hill seemed vague and misty. thus his challenge came as an experience both less and greater than love. it was less, in that no such challenge can be so urgent and so mighty as the call of hungry hearts to each other; it was greater, because the interests involved were built on abiding principles. they arrested her intellectual ambitions and pointed to a sphere of usefulness beyond her unaided power. what must have made his prosaic offer flat in the ear of an amorous woman, edged it for her. he had dwelt on the aspect of their union that was likely most to attract her. there was a pure personal side where love came in and made her heart beat warmly enough; but, higher than that, she saw herself of living value to raymond and helping him just where he stood most in need of help. she believed that they might well prove the complement of each other in those duties, disciplines, and obligations to which life had called them. that night she went closely, searchingly over old ground again from the new point of vision. what had always been interesting to her, became now vital, since these characteristics belonged to the man who wanted to wed her. she tried to be remorseless and cruel that she might be kind. but the palette of thought was only set with pleasant colours. she had been intellectually in love with him for a long time, and he had offered problems which made her love him for the immense interest they gave her. now came additional stimulus in the knowledge that he loved her well enough to share his life, his hopes, and his ambitions with her. she believed they might be wedded in very earnest. he was masterful and possessed self-assurance; but what man can lead and control without these qualities? his self-assurance was less than his self-control, and his instinct for self-assertion had nearly always been counted by a kind heart. it seemed to her that she had never known a man who balanced reason and feeling more judicially, or better preserved a mean between them. she had found that men could differentiate in a way beyond woman's power and be unsociable if their duty demanded it. but to be unsociable is not to be unsocial. raymond took long views, and if his old, genial and jolly attitude to life was a thing of the past, there had been substituted for it a wiser understanding and saner recognition of the useful and useless. men did take longer views than women--so estelle decided: and there raymond would help her; but the all-important matter that night was to satisfy herself how much she could help him. in this reverie she found such warmth and light as set her glowing before dawn, for she built up the spiritual picture of raymond, came very close to its ultimate realities, quickened by the new inspiration, and found that it should be well within her power to serve him generously. she took no credit to herself, but recognized a happy accident of character. there were weak spots in all masculine armour, that only a woman could make strong, and by a good chance she felt that her particular womanhood might serve this essential turn for raymond's manhood. to strengthen her own man's weak spots--surely that was the crown and completion of any wedded life for a woman. to check, to supplement, to enrich: that he would surely do for her; and she hoped to deal as faithfully with him. she was not clear-sighted here, for love, if it be love at all, must bring the rosy veil with it and dim the seeing of the brightest eyes. while the fact that she had grown up with raymond made her view clear enough in some directions, in others it served, of course, to dim judgment. she credited him with greater intellect than he possessed, and dreamed that higher achievements were in his power than was the truth. but there existed a mean, below her dream yet above his present ambition, that it was certainly possible with her incentive he might attain. she might make him more sympathetic and so more synthetic also, and show him how his own industry embraced industrial problems at large--how it could not be taken by itself, but must hold its place only by favour of its progress, and command respect only as it represented the worthiest relation between capital and labour. thus, from the personal interest of his work, she would lift him to measure the world-wide needs of all workers. and then, in time to come, he would forget the personal before the more splendid demands of the universal. the trend of machinery was towards tyranny; he must never lose sight of that, or let the material threaten the spiritual. private life, as well as public life, was open to the tyranny of the machine; and there, too, it would be her joyful privilege to fight beside him for added beauty, added liberty, not only in their own home, but all homes wherein they had power to increase comfort and therefore happiness. the sensitiveness of women should be linked to the driving force of men, as the safety valve to the engine. thus, in a simile surely destined to delight him, she summed her intentions and desires. she had often wondered what must be essential to the fullest employment of her energies and the best and purest use of her thinking; and now she saw that marriage answered the question--not marriage in the abstract, but just marriage with this man. he, of all she had known, was the one with whom she felt best endowed to mingle and merge, so that their united forces should be poured to help the world and water with increase the modest territory through which they must flow. she turned to go to sleep at last, yet dearly longed to tell raymond and amaze her father with the great tidings. an impulse prompted her to leave her lover not a moment more in doubt. she rose, therefore, and descended to his room, which opened beside his private study on the ground floor. the hour was nearly four on an autumn morning. she listened, heard him move restlessly and knew that he did not sleep. he struck a match and lighted a cigarette, for he often smoked at night. then she knocked at the door. "who the devil's that?" he shouted. "i," she said, opening the door an inch and talking softly. "stop where you are and stop worrying and go to sleep. i'm going to marry you, ray, and i'm happier than ever i was before in all my life." then she shut the door and fled away. chapter xvii sabina and abel now was raymond ironsyde too busy to think any thought but one, and though distractions crowded down on the hour, he set them aside so far as it was possible. his betrothal very completely dominated his life and the new relation banished the old attitude between him and estelle. the commonplace existence, as of sister and brother, seemed to perish suddenly, and in its place, as a butterfly from a chrysalis, there reigned the emotional days of prelude to marriage. the mere force of the situation inspired them and they grew as loverly as any boy and girl. it was no make-believe that led them to follow the immemorial way and glory only in the companionship of each other; they felt the desire, and love that had awakened so tardily and moved in a manner so desultory, seemed concerned to make up for lost time. arthur waldron was not so greatly astonished as they expected, and whatever may have been his private hopes and desires for his daughter, he never uttered them, but seeing her happiness, echoed it. "no better thing could have happened from my point of view," he declared, "for if she'd married anybody else in the world, i should have been called to say 'good-bye' to her. since she's chosen you, there's no necessity for me to do so. i hope you're going on living at north hill, and i trust you're going to let me do the same. of course, it would be an impossible arrangement if you were dealing with anybody but me; but since we are what we are in spirit and temper and understanding, i claim that i may stop. the only difference i can see is this: that whereas at present, when we dine, you sit between estelle and me, in future i shall sit between estelle and you." "not even that," vowed the lover. "why shouldn't i go on sitting between you?" "no--you'll be the head of the house in future." "the charm of this house is that there's no head to it," said estelle, "and raymond isn't going to usurp any such position just because he means to marry me." but distractions broke in upon their happiness. ernest churchouse fell grievously ill and lacked strength to fight disease; while there came news from knapp that the farmer was tired of abel and wished him away. for their old friend none could prolong his life; in the case of the boy, raymond decided that sabina had better see him and go primed with a definite offer. abel's father did not anticipate much more trouble in that quarter. he guessed that the lad, now in his seventeenth year, was sufficiently weary of the land and would be glad to take up engineering. he felt confident that sabina must find him changed for the better, prepared for his career and willing to enter upon it without greater waste of time. he invited the boy's mother to learn if he felt more friendly to him, and hoped that abel had now revealed a frame of mind and a power of reasoning, that would serve to solve the problem of his career, and finally abolish his animosity to his father. sabina went to see her son and heard the farmer first. he was not unfriendly, but declared abel a responsibility he no longer desired to incur. "he's just at a tricky age--and he's shifty and secret--unlike other lads. you never know what's going on in his mind, and he never laughs, or takes pleasure in things. he's too difficult for me, and my wife says she's frightened of him. as to work, he does it, but you always feel he's got no love for it. and i know he means to bolt any day. i've marked signs; so it will be better for you people to take the first step." the farmer's wife spoke to similar purpose and added information that made sabina more than uneasy. "it's about this friend of his, miss waldron, that came to see him backalong," she explained. "he'd talk pretty free about her sometimes and was very proud of it when he got a letter now and again. but since she's wrote and told him she's going to be married, he's turned a gloomier character than ever. he don't like the thought of it and it makes him dark. 'tis almost as if he'd been in love with the lady. you do hear of young boys falling in love before their time like that." sabina was on the point of explaining, but did not do so. her first care was to see abel and learn the truth of this report. perhaps she felt not wholly sorry that he resented this conclusion. not a few had spoken of ironsyde's marriage before her: it was the gossip of bridetown; but none appeared to consider how it must affect her, or sympathise with her emotions on the subject. what these emotions were, or whither they tended, she hardly knew herself. unowned even to her innermost heart, a sort of dim hope had not quite died, that he might, after all, come back to her. she blushed at the absurdity of the idea now, but it had struck in her subconsciously and never wholly vanished. before the engagement was announced she had altered her attitude to raymond and used him civilly and shared his desire that abel should be won over by his father. the old hatred at receiving anything from ironsyde's hands no longer existed. she felt indifferent and, before her own approaching problems, was not prepared to decline the offers of help that she knew would quickly come when ernest churchouse died. she intended to preach patience and reason in the ears of abel, and she hoped he would not make her task difficult; but now it was clear that estelle's betrothal had troubled the boy. she saw him and they spoke together for a long time; but already his force of character began to increase beyond his mother's. despite her purpose and sense of the gravity of the situation, he had more effect upon her than she had upon him. yet her arguments were rational and his were not. but the old, fatal, personal element of temper crept in and, during her speech with him, sabina found fires that she believed long quenched, were still smouldering in the depths of memory. the boy could not indeed fan them to flame again; but the result of his attitude served to weaken hers. she did not argue with conviction after finding his temper. by some evil chance, that seemed more like art than accident, he struck old wounds, and she was interested and agitated to find that now he knew all there was to be known of the past and its exact significance. the dream hidden so closely in her heart: that there might yet be a reconciliation--the dream finally killed when she perceived that ironsyde had fallen in love with estelle waldron--was no dream in her son's mind. what she knew was impossible, till now represented no impossibility to him. he actually declared it as a thing which, in his moral outlook, ought to be. only so could the past be retrieved, or the future made endurable. but to that matter they did not immediately come. she dined at the farmer's table with abel and three men. then he was told that he might make holiday and spend the afternoon with his mother where he pleased. he took her therefore to the old barrows nigh knapp, and there on a stone they sat, watched the sun sink over distant woodlands and talked together till the dusk was down. "i ought never to have trusted her," he said. "but i did. and, if i'd thought she would ever have married him, i wouldn't have trusted her. i thought she was the right sort; but if she was, she would never have married a man who had sworn to marry you." "good gracious, abel! whatever are you talking about?" she asked, concerned to find the matter in his mind. "i'm talking about things that happened," he answered. "i'm not a child now. i'm nearly seventeen and older than that, for i overheard two of the men say so. you needn't tell me these things; i found them out for myself, and i hated raymond ironsyde from the time i could hate anybody, because the honest feeling to hate him was in me. and nobody has the right to marry him but you, and he's got no right to marry anybody but you. but he doesn't know the meaning of justice, and she is not fine, or brave, or clever, or any of the things i thought she was, because she wants to marry him." his mother considered this speech. "it's no good vexing yourself about the past," she said. "you and me have got to look to the future, abel, and not to dwell on all that don't make the future any easier. it's difficult enough, but, for us, the luxury of pride and hate isn't possible. i know very well what you feel. it all went through me like fire before you were born--and after; but we've got to go on living, and things are going to change, and we must cut our coats according to our cloth--you and me." "what does that mean?" he asked. "it means we're not independent. there's not enough for your education and my keep. so it's got to be him, or one other, and the other is an old woman--his aunt. but it's all the same really, and he'll see that it comes out of his pocket in the end. he's all powerful and we must do according. christianity's a very convenient thing for the likes of us. it teaches that the meek are blessed and the weak the worthy ones. you must look to your father if you want to succeed in the world." "never," he said. "he's got everything else in the world, but he shan't have me. i don't care much about being alive at best, seeing i must be different from other people all my life; but i'd rather die twenty times than owe anything to him. he knew before i was born that he was going to wreck my life, and he did it, and he wrecked yours, and his marriage with any other woman but you is a lie and a sham, and estelle knows it very well. now i hate her as much as him, and i hate those who let her marry him, and i hate the clergyman that will do it; and if i could ruin them by killing myself on their doorstep, i would. but he wouldn't care for that. if i was to do that, it would just suit the devil, because he'd know i'd gone and could never rise up against him any more." she made a half-hearted attempt to distract his thoughts. she began to argue and, as usual, ended in bitterness. "you mustn't talk nonsense, like that. he means well by you, and you mustn't cut off your nose to spite your face. you'll find plenty of people to take his side and you mustn't only listen to his enemies. there's always wise people to stand up for young men and excuse them, though not many to stand up for young women." "let them stand up for me and excuse me, then," he answered. "let them explain me and tell me why i should think different, and why i should take his filthy money just to set his mind at rest. what has he done for me that i should ease him and do as he pleases? is it out of any care for me he'd lift me up? not likely. it's all to deceive the people and make them say he's a good man. and until he puts you right, he's not a good man, and soon or late i'll have it out with him. god blast me if i don't. but i'll revenge myself clean on him. he shan't make out to the world that he's done what a father should do for a son. he's my natural father and no more, and he never wanted or meant to be more. and no right will take away that wrong. and i'll treat him as other natural creatures treat their fathers." "you can't do that," she said. "you're a human, and you've got a conscience and must answer to it." "i will--some day. i know what my conscience says to me. my conscience tells me the truth, not a lot of lies like yours tells you. i know what's right and i know what's justice. i gave the man one chance. i offered to go in his works--my works that ought to be some day. but that didn't suit him. i must always knuckle under and bend to his will. but never--never. i'd starve first, or throw myself into the sea. he don't want me near him for people to point to, so i must be drove out of bridetown to the ends of the earth if he chooses. and if the damned world was straight and honest and looked after the women and innocent children, 'tis him, not me, would have been drove out of bridetown." he spoke with amazing bitterness for youth, and echoed much that he had heard, as well as what he had thought. his mother felt some astonishment to find how his mind had enlarged, and some fear, also, to see the hopelessness of the position. already she considered in secret what craft might be necessary to bring him to a more reasonable mind. "you'll have to think of me as well as yourself," she said. "life's hard enough without you making it so much harder. two things will happen in a few weeks from now and nothing can stop them. first you've got to leave here, because farmer don't want you any more, and then poor mister churchouse is going to pass away. he's just fading out like a night-light--flickering up and down and bound to be called. and the best man and the truest friend to sorrow that ever trod the earth." "i was going from here," he answered. "and you can look to me for making a pound a week, and you can have it all if you'll take nothing from any of my enemies. if you take money from my enemies, then i won't help you." "you're a man in your opinions seemingly, though i wish to god you hadn't grown out of childhood so quick, if you were going to grow to this. it'll drive you mad if you're not careful. then where shall i be?" "i'll drive other people mad--not you. i'll come back home, and then i'll find work at bridport." "where's home going to be--that's the question?" sabina answered. "there's only one choice for you--between letting him finish your education and going out to work." "we'll live in bridport, then," he told her, "and i'll go into something with machinery. i'll soon rise, and i might rise high enough to ruin him yet, some day. and never you forget he had my offer and turned it down. he didn't know what he was doing when he did that." "he couldn't trust you. how was he to know you wouldn't try to burn the works again--and succeed next time?" abel laughed. "that was a fool's trick. if they'd gone, he'd only have built 'em again, better. but there are some things he can't insure." "i know a good few spinners at bridport. shall i have a look round for you?" she asked, as they rose to return. he considered and agreed. "yes, if it's only through you. i trust you not to go to him about it. if you did and i found you had--" "no, no. i'll not go to him." he came and looked again at the motor car that had brought her. it interested him as keenly as before. "that's for him to go about the country in, because he's standing for parliament," explained sabina. but his anger was spent. he heeded her no more, and even the fact that his father owned the car did not modify his deep interest. he rode a mile or two with her when she started to return and remained silent and rapt for the few minutes of the experience. his mother tried to use the incident. "if you was to be good and patient and let the right thing be done, i daresay in a few years you'd rise to having a motor of your own," she said, when they stopped and he started to trudge back. "if ever i do, i'll get it for myself," he answered. "and when you're old, i'll drive you about, very likely." he left her placidly, and it was understood that in a month he would return to her as soon as she had determined on their immediate future. for herself she knew that it would be necessary to deceive him, yet feared to attempt it after the recent conversation. she felt uneasily proud of him. chapter xviii swan song the doctor said mr. churchouse was dying because he didn't wish to go on living, and when estelle taxed the old man with his indifference, he would not deny it. "i have lived long enough," he said. "the machine is worn out. my thinking is become a painful effort. i forget the simplest matters, and before you are a nuisance to yourself, you may feel very certain you have long been a nuisance to other people." he had for some months grown physically weaker, and both raymond and others had noticed an inconsequence of utterance and an inability to concentrate the mind. he liked friends to come and see him and would listen with obvious effort to follow any argument, or grasp any fresh item of news. but he spoke less and less. nor could sabina tempt him to eat adequate food. he ignored the doctor's drugs and seemed to shrink physically as well as mentally. "i'm turning into my chrysalis," he said once to estelle. "one has to go through that phase before one can be a butterfly. remember, my pretty girl, you are only burying an empty chrysalis when this broken thing is put into the ground." "you're very unkind to talk so," she declared. "you might go on living if you liked, and you ought to try--for the sake of those who love you." but he shook his head. "one doesn't control these things. you know i've always told you that the length of the thread is no part of our business, but only the spinning. i should have liked to see you married; yet, after all, why not? i may be there. i shall hope to beg a holiday on that occasion and be in church." he always spoke thus quite seriously. death he regarded as no discontinuity, or destruction, of life, but merely an alteration of environment. at some personal cost miss ironsyde came to take leave of him, when it seemed that his end was near. he kept his bed now, and by conserving his strength gained a little activity of mind. he was troubled for jenny's physical sufferings; while she, for her part, endeavoured to discuss sabina's problems, but she could not interest the old man in them. "abel is safe with his father," said mr. churchouse. "as for sabina, i have left her a competency, and so have you. one has been very heartily sorry for her. she will have no anxiety when my will is read. i am leaving you three books, jenny. i will leave you more if you like. my library as a whole is bequeathed to estelle waldron, since i know nobody who values and respects books so well." "but abel," she said. "i have tried to establish his character and we may find, after all, i did more than we think. providence is ever ready to water and tend the good seed that we sow. but he must be made to abandon this fatal attitude to his father. it is uncomfortable and inconvenient and helps nobody. i shall talk to him, i hope, before i die. he is coming home in a day or two." but abel delayed a week, at his master's request, that he might help pull a field of mangels, and mr. churchouse never saw him again. during his last days estelle spent much time with him. he seldom mentioned any other person but himself. he wandered in a disjointed fashion over the past and mixed his recollections with his dreams. he remembered jests and sometimes uttered them, then laughed; but often he laughed to himself without giving any reason for his amusement. he was thoughtful and apologetic. indeed, when he looked up into any face, he always said, "i mourn to give you so much trouble." latterly he confused his visitors, but kept estelle and sabina clear in his mind. he fancied that they had quarrelled and was always seeking to reconcile them. every morning he appeared anxious and distressed until they stood by him together and declared that they were the best of friends. then he became tranquil. "that being so," he said, "i shall depart in peace." estelle relieved the professional nurse and would read, talk, or listen, as he wished. he spoke disjointedly one day and wove reality and imagination together. "much good marble is wasted on graves," he declared. "but it doesn't bring the dead to life. do you believe in the resurrection of the body, estelle? i hope you find it easy. that is one of the things i never was honestly able to say i had grasped. reason will fight against the nobler tyranny of faith. the old soul in a glorified body--yet the same body, you understand. we shan't all be in one pattern in heaven. we shall preserve our individuality; and yet i deprecate passing eternity in this tabernacle. improvements may be counted upon, i think. the art of the divine potter can doubtless make beautiful the humblest and the most homely vessel." "nobody who loves you would have you changed," she assured him. then his mind wandered away and he smiled. "i listened to a street preacher once--long, long ago when i was young--and he said that the road to everlasting destruction was lined with women and gin shops. upon which a sailor-man, who listened to him, shouted out, 'oh death, where is thy sting?' the meeting dissolved in a very tornado of laughter. sailors have a great sense of humour. it can take the place of a fire on a cold day. one touch of humour makes the whole world kin. if you have a baby, teach it to laugh as well as to walk. but i think your baby will do that readily enough." on another occasion he laughed suddenly to himself and explained his amusement to sabina, who sat by him. "eunominus, the heretic, boasted that he knew the nature of god; whereupon st. basil instantly puzzled him with twenty-one questions about the body of the ant!" estelle also tried to make mr. churchouse discuss abel dinnett. she told him of an interesting fact. "i have got ray to promise a big thing," she said. "he hesitated, but he loved me too well to deny me. besides, feeling as i do, i couldn't take any denial. you see nature is so much greater than all else to me, and contrasted with her, our little man-made laws, often so mean and hateful in their cowardly caution and cruel injustice, look pitiful and beneath contempt. and i don't want to come between raymond and his eldest son. i won't--i won't do it. abel is his first-born, and it may be cold-blooded of me--ray said it was at first--but i insist on that. i've made him see, and i've made father see. i feel so much about it, that i wouldn't marry him if he didn't recognize abel first and treat him as the first-born ought to be treated." "abel--abel dinnett," said the other, who had not followed her speech. "a good-looking boy, but lawless. he wants the world to bend to him; and yet, if you'll believe me, there is a vein of fine sentiment in his nature. with tears in his eyes he once told me that he had seen a fellow pupil at school cruelly killing insects with a burning glass; and he had beaten the cruel lad and broken his glass. that is all to the good. the difficulty for him is that he was born out of wedlock. this great disability could have been surmounted in america, scotland, ireland, germany, or, in fact, anywhere but in england. the law of the natural child in this country would bring a blush to the cheek of a gorilla. but neither church nor state will lift a finger to right the infamy." "we are always wanting to pluck the mote out of our neighbour's eyes, and never see the beam in our own," she answered. "women will alter that some day--and the disgusting divorce laws, too. perhaps these are the first things they will alter, when they have the power." "who is going into parliament?" he asked. "somebody told me, but i forget. he was a friend of mine. i remember that much." "ray hopes to get in. i am going to help him, if i can." "it is a great responsibility. tell him, if he is elected, to fight for the natural child. it would well become him to do so. let him rise to it. our saviour said, 'suffer the little children to come unto me.' the state, on the contrary, says, 'suffer the little children to be done to death and put out of the way.'" "yes," she answered, "suffer fifty thousand little children to be lost every year, because it is kinder to let them perish, than help them to live under the wicked laws we have planned to govern them." but his mind collapsed and when she strove to bring it back again, she could not. two days before he died, estelle found him in deep distress. he begged to see her alone, and explained that he had to confess a great sin. "i ought to tell a priest," he said, "but i dare think that you will do as well. if you absolve me, i shall know i may hope to be forgiven. i have lived a double life, estelle. i have pretended what was not true--not merely once or twice, but systematically, deliberately, callously." "i don't believe it, dear mister churchouse. you couldn't." "i should never have believed it myself. but even the old can surprise themselves, painfully sometimes. i have lived with this perfidy for many years; but i can't die with it. there's always an inclination to confess our sins to a fellow creature. to confess them to our maker is quite needless, because he knows them; but it's a quality of human nature to feel better after imparting its errors to another ear." he broke off. "what was i saying? i forget." "that you'd done something ever so wicked and nobody knew it." "yes, yes. the books--the books i used to receive from unknown admirers by post. my child, there were no unknown admirers! nobody ever admired me, either secretly or openly. why should they? i used to send the books to myself--god forgive me." "if i'd only known, i'd have sent you hundreds of books," she said. "i did send you one or two." "i know it--they are my most precious possessions. they served in some mysterious way to soothe my bad conscience. it would be interesting to examine and find out how they did. but my brain can't look into anything subtle now. i knew you sent the books. my good angel has recorded my thanks. you always increased my vitality, estelle. you are keeping me alive at present. you have risen in the autumn of my life as a gracious dawn; you have been the sun of my indian summer. you will be a good wife to raymond. it seems only yesterday that he was a little thing in short frocks, and henry so proud of him. now henry is dead, and raymond wife-old and in parliament. a sound liberal, like his father before him." "the election isn't till next year. but i hope he'll get in. they say at bridport he has a very good chance." the day before he died, mr. churchouse seemed better and talked to estelle of another visit from her father. "i always esteem his great good humour and fine british instinct to live and let live. that is where our secret lies. we ride empire with such a loose rein, estelle--the only way. you cannot dare to put a curb on proud people. a paradox that--that those who fast bind don't fast find. the instinct of england's greatness is in your father; he is an epitome of our virtues. he has no imagination, however. nor has england. if she had, doubtless she would not do the great deeds that beggar imagination. that reminds me. there is one little gift that you must have from my own hand. a work of imagination--a work of art. nobody in the world would care about it but you. a poem, in fact. i have written one or two others, but i tore them up. i sent them to newspapers, hoping to astonish you with them; but when they were rejected i destroyed them. this poem i did not send. nobody has seen it but myself. now i give it to you, and i want you to read it aloud to me, that i may hear how it sounds." "how clever of you! there's nothing you can't do. i know i shall love it." he pointed to a sheaf of papers on a table. "the top one. it is a mournful subject, yet i hope treated cheerfully. i wrote it before death was in sight; but i feel no more alarmed or concerned about death now than i did then. you may think it is too simple. but simplicity, though boring to the complex mind, is really quite worth while. the childlike spirit--there is much to be said for it. no doubt i have missed a great deal by limiting my interests; but i have gained too--in directness." "there is a greatness about simplicity," she said. "to be simple in my life and subtle in my thought was my ambition at one time; but i never could rise to subtlety. the native bent was against it. the poem--i do not err in calling it a poem--is called 'afterwards'--unless you can think of a better title. if any obvious and glaring faults strike you, tell me. no doubt there are many." she read the two pages written in his little, careful and almost feminine hand. "when i am dead, the storm and stress of many-coloured consciousness like blossom petals fall away and drops the calyx back to clay; a man, not woman, makes the bed when our night comes and we are dead. "when i am dead, the ebb and flow of folk where i was wont to go, will never stay a moment's pace, or miss along the street my face. yet thoughts may wake and things be said by one or two when i am dead. "when i am dead, the sunset light will fill the gap upon the height in summer time, but on the plain sink down as winter comes again and none who sees the evening red will know i loved it, who am dead. "when i am dead, upon my mound exotic flow'rs may first be found, and not until they've blown away will other blossoms come to stay. a daisy growing overhead brings gentle pleasure to the dead. "when i am dead, i'd love to see an amber thrush hop over me and bend his ear, as he would know what i am whispering down below. may many a song-bird find his bread upon my grave when i am dead. "when i am dead, and years shall pass, the scythe will cut the darnel grass now and again for decency, where we forgotten people lie. o'er ancient graves the living tread with great impertinence on the dead. "when i am dead, all i have done must vanish, like the evening sun. my book about the bells may stay behind me for a fleeting day; but will not very oft be read by anybody when i'm dead." she stopped and smiled with her eyes full of tears. "i had meant to write another verse," he explained, "but i put it off and it's too late now. such as it is, it is yours. does it seem to you to be interesting?" "it's very interesting indeed, and very beautiful. i shall always value it as my greatest treasure." "read it to your children," he said, "and if the opportunity occurs, take them sometimes to see my grave. the spot is long chosen. let there be no gardening upon it out of good heart but bad taste. i should wish it left largely to nature. there will be daisies for your babies to pick. i forget the text i selected. it's in my will." he bade her good-bye more tenderly than usual, as though he knew that he would never see her again, and the next morning bridetown heard that the old man had died in his sleep. the people felt sorry, for he left no enemies, and his many kindly thoughts and deeds were remembered for a little while. chapter xix new work for abel with a swift weaver's knot john best mended the flying yarn. then he turned from a novice at the gill spinner and listened, not very patiently, to one who interrupted his lesson. "it's rather a doubtful thing that you should always be about the place now you've left it, levi," he said to mr. baggs. "it would be better judgment and more decent on your part if you kept away." "you may think so," answered the hackler, "but i do not. and until the figure of my pension is settled, i shall come and go and take no denial." "it is settled. he don't change. he's said you shall have ten shillings a week and no more, so that it will be." "and what if i decline to take ten shillings a week, after fifty years of work in his beastly mill?" "then you can do the other thing and go without. you want it both ways, you do." "i want justice--no more. common justice, i suppose, can be got in dorset as elsewhere. i ought to have had a high testimonial when i left this blasted place--a proper presentation for all to see, and a public feed and a purse of sovereigns at the least." "that's what i mean when i say you can't have it both ways," answered mr. best. "to be nice and pick words and consider your feelings is waste of time, so i tell you that you can't grizzle and grumble and find fault with everything and everybody for fifty years, and then expect people to bow down and worship you and collect a purse of gold when you retire. if we flew any flags about you, it would be because we'd got rid of you. mister ironsyde don't like you, and why should he? you've always been up against the employer and you've never lost a chance to poison the minds of the employed. there's no good will in you and never was, and where you could hang us up in the mill and make difficulties without getting yourself into trouble, you've always took great pleasure in so doing. did you ever pull with me, or anybody, if you could help it? never. you pulled against. you'd often have liked to treat us like the hemp and tear us to pieces on your rougher's hackle. and how does such a man expect anybody to care about him? there was no reason why you should have had a pension at all, in my opinion. you've been blessed with good health and no family, and you've never spent a shilling on another fellow creature in your life. therefore, it's more than justice that you get ten shillings, and not less as you seem to think." mr. baggs glowered at john during this harangue. his was the steadfast attitude of the egoist, who sees all life in terms of his own interest alone. "we've got to fight for ourselves in this world since there's none other to fight for us," he said, "and, of course, you take his side. you've licked ironsyde boots all your life, and nothing an ironsyde can do is wrong. but i might have known the man that's done the wickedness he's done, and deserts his child and let his only son work on the land, wouldn't meet me fair. there's no honour or honesty in the creature, but if he thinks i'm going to take this slight without lifting my voice against it, he's wrong. to leave the works and sneak out of 'em unmourned and without a bit of talk and a testimonial was shameful enough; but ten shilling a week--no! the country shall ring about that and he'll find his credit shaken. 'tis enough to lose him his election to parliament, and i hope it will do so." best stared. "you're a cracked old fool, and not a spark of proper pride or gratitude in you. feeling like that, i wonder you dare touch his money; but you're the sort who would take gifts with one hand and stab the giver with the other. i hope he'll change his mind yet and give you no pension at all." levi, rather impressed with this unusual display of feeling from the foreman, growled a little longer, then went his way; while in john there arose a determination to prevent mr. baggs from visiting the scene of his old activities. at present force of habit drew the old man to spend half his time here; and now, when best had returned to the gill spinner, levi prowled off to his old theatre of work, entered the hackling shop and criticised the new hackler. his successor was young and stood in awe of him at first; but awe was not a quality the veteran inspired for long. already joe ash began to grow restive under levi's criticisms, and dimly to feel that the old hackler was better away. to-day mr. baggs allowed the resentment awakened by best's criticisms to take shape in offensive comments at the expense of his young successor. he was of that order of beings who, when kicked, rests not until he has kicked somebody again. but to-day the evil star of mr. baggs was in ascendant, and when he told the youth that he wasted half his strength and had evidently been taught his business by a fool, levi was called to suffer a spirited retort. joe ash came from the midlands; his vocabulary was wider than that of mr. baggs, and he soon had the old man gasping. finally he ordered him out of the shop, and told him that if he did not go he would be put out. "strength or no strength," he said, "i've got enough for you, so hop out of this and don't come back. if you're to be free of my shop, i leave; and that's all there is to it." mr. baggs departed, having hoped that he might live to see the young man hung with his own long line. he then pursued his way by the river, labouring under acute emotions, and half a mile down stream met a lad engaged in angling. abel dinnett had returned home and was making holiday until his mother should discover work for him, or he himself be able to get occupation. for the moment sabina found herself sufficiently busy packing up her possessions and preparing for the forthcoming sale at 'the magnolias.' she was waiting to find a new home until abel's future labour appeared; but, in secret, raymond ironsyde had undertaken to obtain it, and she knew that henceforth she would live at bridport. mr. baggs poured out his wrongs, but he did not begin immediately. failing adult ears, abel's served him, and he proceeded to declare that the new hackler was a worthless rogue, who did not know his business and would never earn his money. abel, however, had reached a standard of intelligence that no longer respected mr. baggs. "i don't go to the works now," he said, "and never shall again. i don't care nothing about them. my mother and me are going to leave bridetown when i get a job." "no doubt--no doubt. though i dare say your talk is sour grapes--seeing as you'll never come by your rights." abel lifted his eyes to the iron-roofed buildings up the valley. "oh yes, i could," he said. "that man wants to win me now. he's going to be married, and she--her he's going to marry--told my mother that he's wishful for me to be his proper son and be treated according. but i won't have his damned friendship now. it's too late now. you can't drive hate out of a man with gifts." "they ain't gifts--they're your right and due. 'tis done to save his face before the people, so they'll forgive his past and help send him into parliament. look at me--fifty years of service and ten shillings a week pension! it shall be known and 'twill lose him countless votes, please god. a dog like that in parliament! 'twould be a disgrace to the nation. and you go on hating him if you're a brave boy. every honest man hates him, same as i do. twenty shillings i ought to have had, if a penny." "fling his money back in his face," said abel. "nobody did ought to touch his money, or work for it. and if every man and woman refused to go in his works, then he'd be ruined." "the wicked flourish like the green bay tree in this country, because there's such a cruel lot of 'em, and they back each other up against the righteous," declared levi. "but a time's coming, and you'll live to see it, when the world will rise against their iniquity." "don't take his money, then." "it ain't his money. it's my money. he's keeping back my money. when that john best drops out, as he ought to do, for he's long past his work, will he get ten shillings a week? two pound, more like; and all because he cringes and lies and lets the powers of darkness trample on him! and may the money turn to poison in his mouth when he does get it." "everything about ironsyde is poison," added abel. "and that girl that was a friend to me--he's poisoned her now, and i won't know her no more. i won't neighbour with anybody that has a good word for him, and i won't breathe the same air with him much longer; and i told my mother if she took a penny from him, i'd throw her over, too." "quite right. i wish you was strong enough to punish him; but if you was, he'd come whining to you and pray you not to. men like him only make war on women and the weak." abel listened. "i'll punish him if he lives long enough," he said. "that's what i'm after. i'll bide my time." "and for him to dare to get up and ask the people to send him to parliament. but they won't. he's too well known in these parts for that. who's he that he should be lifted up to represent honest, god-fearing men?" "if there was anything to stop him getting in, i'd do it," declared abel. "'tis for us, with weight of years and experience, to keep him out. all sensible people will vote against him, and the more that know the truth of him the fewer will support him. and republican though i am, i'd rather vote for the tory than him. and as for you, if you stood up at his meetings when the time comes, while they were all cheering the wretch, and cried out that you was his son--that would be sure to lose him a good few god-fearing votes. you think of it; you might hinder him and even work him a mint of harm that way." the old man left abel to consider his advice and the angler sat watching his float for another hour. but his thoughts were on what he had heard; and he felt no more interest in his sport. presently he wound up his line and went home. he was attracted by levi's suggestion and guessed that he might create great feeling against his father in that way. himself, he did not shrink from the ordeal in imagination; indeed his inherent vanity rather courted it. but when he told his mother what he might do, she urged him to attempt no such thing. indeed she criticised him sharply for such a foolish thought. "you'll lose all sympathy from the people," she said, "and be flung out; and none will care twopence for you. when you tried to burn the place down and he forgave you, that made a feeling for him, and since then 'tis well known by those that matter, that he's done all he could for you under the circumstances." "that's what he hasn't." "that's what he would if you'd let him. so it's silly to think you've got any more grievances, and if you get up and make a row at one of his meetings, you'll only be chucked into the street. you're nobody now, through your own fault, and you've made people sorry for your father instead of sorry for you, because you're such a pig-headed fool about him and won't see sense." the boy flushed and glared at his mother, who seldom spoke in this vein. "if you wasn't my mother, i'd hit you down for that," he said, clenching his fists. "what do you know about things to talk to me like that? who are you to take his side and cringe to him? if you can't judge him, there's plenty that can, and it's you who are pig-headed, not me, because you don't see i'm fighting your battle for you. it may seem too late to fight for you; but it's never too late to hate a wicked beast, and if i can help to keep him from getting what he wants i will, and i don't care how i do it, either." she looked at him with little love in her eyes. "you're only being a scourge to me--not to him," she answered. "you can't hurt him, however much you want to, and you can't hurt his name or reputation, because time heals all and he's done much to others that will make them forget what he did to me. i forget myself sometimes, so 'tis certain enough the people do. and if i can, surely to god you can, if only for my sake. you're punishing me for being your mother, not him for being your father--just contrary to what you want." "that's all i get, then, for standing up for you against him, and keeping it before him and the people what he's done against you. didn't you tell me years and years ago i'd fight your battles some day? and now, when i'm got clever enough to set about it, you curse me." "i don't curse you, abel. but time is past for fighting battles. there's nothing to fight about now." "we're punishing him cruel by not taking his money; but there's more to do yet," he said. "and i'll do it if i can. and you mind that i'm fighting against him for your sake, and if you're grown too old and too tired to hate the man any more, i haven't. i can hate him for you as well as myself." "and the hate comes back on you," she said. "it's long past the time for all that. you've got plenty of brains and you know that this passion against him is only harming yourself. for god's sake drop it. you say you're a man now. then be a man and take man's views and look on ahead and think of your future life. far from helping me, you're only hindering me. we've come to a time when life's altered and the old life here is done. we're going to begin life together--you and me--and you're going to make our fortunes; but it's a mad lookout if you mean to put all your strength into hating them that have no hate for you. it will make you bitter and useless, and you'll grow up a sour, friendless creature, like levi baggs. what's he got out of all his hate and unkindness to the world?" abel considered. "he hates everybody," he said. "it's no use to hate everybody, because then everybody will hate you. i don't hate everybody. i only hate him." she argued, but knew that she had not changed her son. and then, when he was gone again, fearing that he might do what he threatened, she went to see estelle waldron. they met on the way to see each other, for estelle had heard from raymond that work was found for abel and, as next step in the plot, it was necessary for sabina to go to a small spinning mill in bridport herself. ironsyde's name was not to transpire. gladly enough the mother undertook her task. "he's out of hand," she said, "and away from home half his time. he roams about and listens to bad counsellors. he's worse than ever since he's idle. he's got another evil thought now, for his thoughts foul his reason, as well i know thoughts can." she told estelle what abel had declared he would do. "you'd best let mister ironsyde know," she said, "and he'll take steps according. if the boy can be kept out from any meeting it would be wisest. but i'm powerless. i've wearied my tongue begging and blaming and praying to him to use his sense; but it's beyond my power to make him understand. there's a devil in him and nobody can cast it out." "he won't speak to me now. poor abel--yes, it's something like a devil. i'll tell his father. we were very hopeful about the future until--but if he gets to work, it may sweeten him. he'll have good wages and meet nice people." "i wish it had been farther off." "so did i," answered estelle; "but his father wants him under his own eye and will put him into something better the moment he can. you won't mention this to abel, and he won't hear it there, because the workers don't know it; but raymond has a large interest in the mill really." "i'll not mention it. i'll go to-morrow, and the boy will know nothing save that i've got him a good job." "he can begin next month; and that will help him every way, i hope." so things fell out, and within a month abel was at work. he believed his mother solely responsible for this occupation. she had yet to find a home at bridport, so he came and went from bridetown. he was soon deeply interested and only talked about his labours with a steam engine. of his troubles he ceased to speak, and for many days never mentioned his father's name. chapter xx ideals an event which seemed more or less remote, came suddenly to the forefront of raymond ironsyde's life, for ill-health hastened the retirement of the sitting member and a parliamentary bye-election was called for. having undertaken the constituency he could not turn back, though the sudden demand had not been expected. but he found plenty of enthusiastic helpers and his own personality had made him many friends. it was indeed upon the significance of personality that much turned, and incidentally the experiences into which he now entered served to show him all that personality may mean. estelle rejoiced that he should now so swiftly learn what had so long been apparent to her. she always declared an enthusiasm for personality; to her it seemed the force behind everything and the mainspring of all movement. lack of personality meant stagnation; but granted personality, then advance was possible--almost inevitable. he caught her meaning and appreciated what followed from it. but he saw that personality demands freedom before its fullest expression and highest altitude are attainable. that altitude had never been reached as yet even by the most liberty-loving people. "there's no record in all the world of what man might do under conditions of real liberty," said estelle. "it has never been possible so far; but i do believe history shows that the nearer we approach to it, the more beautiful life becomes for everybody." raymond admitted so much and agreed that the world had yet to learn what it might achieve under a nobler dispensation of freedom. "think of the art, the thought, the leisure for good things, if the ceaseless fight against bad things were only ended; think of the inspirations that personality will be free to express some day," she said. but he shattered her dreams sometimes. she would never suffer him to declare any advance impossible; yet she had to listen, when he explained that countless things she cried for were impracticable under existing circumstances. "you want to get to the goal without running the race, sweetheart," he told her once. "before this and this can possibly happen, that and that must happen. house-building begins at the cellars, not the roof." she wrestled with political economy and its bearings on all that was meant by democracy. she was patient and strove to master detail and keep within the domain of reality. but, after all, she taught him more than he could teach her; because her thoughts sprung from an imagination touched with genius, while he was contented to take things as he found them and distrust emotion and intuition. she exploded ideas in the ordered chambers of his mind. the proposition that labour was not a commodity quite took him off his balance. yet he proved too logical to deny it when estelle convinced his reason. "that fact belongs to the root of all the future, i believe," she said. "from it all the flowers and seed we hope for ought to come, and the interpretation of everything vital. labour and the labourer aren't two different things; they're one and the same thing. his labour is part of every man, and it can no more be measured and calculated away from him than his body and soul can. but it is the body and soul that must regulate labour, not labour the body and soul. so you've got to regard labour and the rights of labour as part of the rights of man, and not a thing to be bought and sold like a pound of tea. you see that? labour, in fact, is as sacred as humanity and its rights are sacred too." "so are the rights of property," he answered, but doubtfully, for he knew at heart that the one proposition did not by any means embrace the other. indeed estelle contradicted him very forcibly. "not the least bit in the world," she declared. "they are as far apart as the poles. there's nothing the least sacred about property. the rights of property are casual. they generally depend on all sorts of things that don't matter. they happen through the changes and chances of life, and human whims and fads and the pure accident of heredity and descent. they are all on a lower level; they are all suspect, whereas the rights of labour are a part of humanity." but he followed her parry with a sharp _riposte_. "remember what happened when somebody promised to marry me," he said. "remember that, as a principle of rectitude, i have recognised my son and accepted your very 'accident of descent' as chief reason for according him all a first-born's rights. that was your instinct towards right--his rights of property." "it was righteousness, not rights of property that made you decide," she assured him. "abel has no rights of property. the law ignores his rights to be alive at all, i believe. the law calls him 'the son of none,' and if you have no parents, you can't really exist. but the rights of labour are above human law and founded in humanity. they are abel's, yours, everybody's. the man who works, by that fact commands the rights of labour. besides, circumstances alter cases." "yes, and may again," he replied. "we can't deny the difficulties in this personal experience of mine. but i'm beginning to think the boy's not normal. i very much fear there's a screw loose." "don't think that. he's a very clever boy." "and yet sabina tells me frankly that his bitterness against me keeps pace with his growing intelligence. instead of his wits defeating his bad temper, as they do sooner or later with most sane people, the older he gets, the more his dislike increases and the less trouble he takes to control it." "if that were so, of course circumstances might alter the case again," she admitted. "but i don't believe there's a weak spot like that. there's something retarded--some confusion of thought, some kind of knot in his mind that isn't smoothed out yet. you've been infinitely patient and we'll go on being infinitely patient--together." this difficult matter she dropped for the present; but finding him some days later in a recipient mood, followed up her cherished argument, that labour must be counted a commodity no more. "listen to me, ray," she said. "very soon you'll be too busy to listen to me at all--these are the last chances for me before your meetings begin. but really what i'm saying will be splendidly useful in speeches." "all very well if getting in was all that mattered," he told her. "i can't echo all your ideas, chicky, and speeches have a way of rising up against one at awkward moments afterwards." "at any rate, you grant the main point," she said, "and so you must grant what follows from it; and if you grant that, and put it in your manifesto, you'll lose a few votes, but you'll gain hundreds. if labour's not a commodity, but to be regulated by body and soul, then wages must be regulated by body and soul too. or, if you want to put it in a way for a crowd to understand, you can say that we give even a steam-engine the oil it must have before it begins to work, so how can we deny a man the oil he wants before he begins to work?" "that means a minimum of wages." "yes, a minimum consistent with human needs, below which wages cannot and must not fail. that minimum should be just as much taken for granted as the air a man breathes, or the water he drinks, or the free education he gets as a boy. it isn't wages really; it's recognition of a man's right to live and share the privileges of life, and be self-respecting, just because he is a man. everybody who is born, ray, ought to have the unquestioned right to live, and the amplest opportunity to become a good and useful citizen. after that is granted, then wages should begin, and each man, or woman, should have full freedom and opportunity to earn what he, or she, was worth. that does away with the absurd idea of equality, which can only be created artificially and would breed disaster if we did create it." "there's no such thing as equality in human nature, any more than in any other nature, estelle. seeds from the same pod are different--some weak, some strong. but i grant the main petition. the idea's first rate--a firm basis of right to reasonable life, and security for every human being as our low-water mark; while, on that foundation, each may lift an edifice according to their power. so that none who has the power to rise above the minimum would be prevented from doing so, and no trades union tyranny should interfere to prevent the strong man working eight hours a day if he desires to do so, because the weaker one can only work seven." "i think the trades unions only want to prevent men being handicapped out of the race at the start," she answered. "they know as well as we do, that men are not born equal in mind or body; but rightly and reasonably, they want them all to start equal as far as conditions go. the race is to the strong and the prize is to the strong; but all, at least, should have power to train for the race and start with equal opportunities to win. there's such a lot to be done." "there is," he admitted. "the handicap you talk of is created for thousands and thousands before they are born at all." "think of being handicapped out of the race before you are born!" she cried. "what could be more unjust and cruel and wicked than that?" "very few will put the unborn before the living, or think of a potential child rather than the desires of the parents--selfish though they may be. it's a free country, and we don't know enough to start stopping people from having a hand in the next generation if they decide to do so." but her enthusiasm was not quenched by difficulties. "we want science and politics and good will to work together," she said. he returned to the smaller argument. "it's a far cry to what you want, yet i for one don't shrink from it. the better a man is, the larger share he should have of the profits of any enterprise he helps to advance. then wages would take the shape of his share in the profits, and you might easily find a head workman of genius drawing more out of a business than--say, a junior partner, who is a fool and not nearly so vital to the enterprise as he. but, you see, if we say that, we argue in a circle, for the junior partner, ass though he is, represents oil and fuel, which are just as important as the clever workman's brains--in fact, his brains can't work without them. capital and labour are two halves of a whole and depend upon each other, as much as men depend on women and women on men. capital does a great deal more than pay labour wages, remember. it educates his children, builds his houses and doctors his ailments. soon--so they tell me--capital will be appropriated to look after labour's old age also, and cheer his manhood with the knowledge that his age is safe." "you don't grudge any of these things, ray?" "not one. every man should have security. but, after all, capital cannot be denied its rights. it has got rights of some sort, surely? socialists would kill the goose that lays the golden eggs; but though they lack power yet to kill the goose, they possess plenty of power to frighten it away to foreign shores, where it can build its nest a bit more hopefully than here. many, who scent repudiation and appropriation, are flying already. capital is diminishing, and there seems a fair chance of labour being over-coddled, at the expense of capital, when the liberals come in again. if that happens, labour is weakened as well as capital. but both are essential to the power and well-being of the state. if we ever had another war, which god forbid, labour and capital would have to sink all differences and go to battle together unless we meant to be defeated. both are vital to our salvation." "then give labour an interest in the blessing of capital," she said. "open labour's eyes to the vital values of capital--its strength as well as weakness. let the units of labour share the interests of their employers and each become a capitalist in their own right. what does it matter where the capital is as long as the nation has got it safe? you might make england a thousand times richer if all those in the country, who want to save money, had the power to save." "how can we? there's not enough to go round," he told her. but she declared that no argument. "then create conditions under which there might be much more. let the workers be owners, too. if the owners only took their ownership in a different spirit and felt no man is more than a trustee for all--if they were like you, ray, who are a worker and an owner both, what great things might happen! make all industry co-operation, in reality as well as theory, and a real democracy must come out of it. it's bound to come." "well, i suppose nothing can help it coming. we are great on free institutions in this country and they get freer every year." so they argued, much at one in heart, and an impartial listener had felt that it was within the power of the woman's intelligence and the man's energy and common sense, to help the world as far as individuals can, did chance and the outcome of their union afford them opportunity. but estelle knew that good ideas were of little value in themselves. seed is of no account if the earth on which it falls be poisoned, and a good idea above all, needs good will to welcome it. good will to the inspirations of man is as sunshine, rain, sweet soil to the seed; without good will all thinking must perish, or at best lie dormant. she wondered how much of good seed had perished under the bad weather of human weakness, prejudice and jealousy. but she was young, and hope her rightful heritage. the blessed word 'reconstruction' seemed to her as musical as a ring of bells. "there are some things you never will be able to express in political terms, and life is one of them," ernest churchouse had assured her; but she was not convinced of it. she still reverenced politics and looked to it to play husbandman, triumph over party and presently shine out, like a universal sun, whose sole warmth was good will to man. and as she felt personally to raymond's work, so did she want the world of women to feel to all men's work. she would not have them claim their rights in the argument of parity of intellect, for that she felt to be vain. it was by the virtue of disparity that their equality should appear. their virtue and essential aid depended on the difference. the world wanted women, not to do what men had done, but to bring to the task the special qualities and distinctive genius of womanhood to complement and crown the labour of manhood. the mighty structure was growing; but it would never be finished without the saving grace of woman's thought and the touch of woman's hand. the world's work needed them--not for the qualities they shared with men, but for the qualities men lacked and they possessed. if raymond represented the masculine worker, she hoped that she might presently stand in the ranks of the women, and doubted not that great women would arise to lead her. she remembered that the roman element of humanity was described as representing the male spirit, while the greek stood for the female; and she could easily dream a blend of the two destined to produce a spirit greater than either. love quickened her visions and added the glow of life to her hopes. so together she and her future husband prepared for their wedded days, and if ever a man and woman faced the future with steadfast determination to do justly and serve their kind with the best of their united powers, this man and woman did. they were to be married after the election, and that would take place early in the coming year. chapter xxi atropos ironsyde for once found himself part of a machine, and by no means the most important part. he fought the election resolutely and spared no energy. the attraction of the contest grew upon him, and since he contended against a personal acquaintance, one who rated sportsmanship as highly as arthur waldron himself, the encounter proceeded on rational lines. it became exceedingly strenuous in the later stages and raymond's agent, from an attitude of certainty, grew more doubtful. but the personal factor told for the liberal. he was popular in the constituency and waldron, himself a strong conservative, whose vote must necessarily be cast against his future son-in-law, preached the moral. "if you beat us, ray, it will be entirely owing to the fact that you played cricket and football in the public eye for twenty years," he asserted and believed. the liberal committee room was at 'the seven stars,' for mr. legg supported the cause of democracy and pinned his highest hopes thereto. he worked hard for ironsyde and, on the sole occasion when painful incidents threatened to spoil a public meeting, job exercised tact and saved the situation. at one of the last of his gatherings, in the great, new public room of 'the seven stars,' ironsyde had been suddenly confronted with his son. abel attended this meeting of his father's supporters and attempted to interrupt it. he had arrived primed with words and meant to declare himself before the people; but when the time came, he was nervous and lost his head. sitting and listening grew to an agony. he could not wait till question time and felt a force within him crying to him, to get upon his feet and finish the thing he had planned to do. but job, who was among the stewards, kept watchful eyes upon the benches, and abel had hardly stood up, when he recognised him. before the boy had shouted half a dozen incoherent words, mr. legg and a policeman were at his side. he sat far down the hall and the little disturbance he had been able to create was hardly appreciated. for raymond now neared the end of his speech and it had contained matter which aroused attention from all who listened to it, awakened disquiet in some, but enthusiasm among the greater number. he was telling of such hopes and desires as he and estelle shared, and though an indifferent speaker, the purity of his ambitions and their far-reaching significance challenged intelligent listeners. in less than half a minute abel was removed. he did not struggle, but his first instinct was great relief to be outside. not until later did his reverse breed wrath. his father had not seen him and when ironsyde inquired afterwards, what the trouble was, mr. legg evaded the facts. but he looked to it that abel should be powerless to renew disturbances. he warned those who controlled the remaining meetings not to admit him, and henceforth kept at the doors a man who knew abel. mr. legg also saw sabina, who was now much in bridport concerned with a little house that she had taken, and the boy's mother implored him to do no more evil. to her surprise he admitted that he had been wrong. but he was dark and stormy. she saw but little of him and did not know how he occupied his leisure, or spent his wages. there is no doubt that, at this time, abel sank out of mind with those most interested in him. estelle was entirely preoccupied with the election, and when once the lad's new work had been determined and he went to do it, raymond dismissed him for the present from his thoughts. he felt grateful to sabina for falling in with his wishes and hoped that, since she was now definitely on his side, a time might soon come when she would be able to influence her son. indeed sabina herself was more hopeful, and when estelle came to see her in bridport, declared that abel kept regular hours and appeared to be interested in his work. neither she nor anybody belonging to him heard of the boy's escapade at the meeting, for upon that subject job legg felt it wisest to be silent. and when the penultimate meeting passed, the spirit of it was such that those best able to judge again felt very sanguine for ironsyde. he had created a good impression and won a wide measure of support. he had worked hard, traversed all the ground and left the people under no shadow of doubt as to his opinions. bridetown was for him; west haven and bridport were said to be largely in his favour, but the outlying agricultural district inclined towards his rival. raymond had, however, been at great pains to win the suffrage of the farmers, and his last meeting was on their account. before him now lay the promise of two days' rest, and he accepted them very thankfully, for he began to grow weary in mind and body. he had poured his vitality into the struggle which, started more or less as a sporting event, gradually waxed into a serious and all-important matter. and as his knowledge increased and his physical energy waned, a cloud dulled his enthusiasm at times and more than once he asked himself if it was all worth while--if this infinite trouble and high tension were expended to the wisest purpose on these ambitions. he had heard things from politicians, who came to speak for him, that discouraged him. he had found that single-mindedness was not the dominant quality of those who followed politics as a profession. the loaves and fishes bulked largely in their calculations, and he heard a distinguished man say things at one of his meetings which raymond knew that it was impossible he could believe. for example, it was clearly a popular catchword that party politics had become archaic, and that a time was near when party would be forgotten in a larger and nobler spirit. speakers openly declared that great changes were in sight, and the constitution must be modified; but, privately, they professed no such opinions. all looked to their party and their party alone for personal advance. it seemed to ironsyde that their spirits were mean spirits; that they concealed behind their profession a practice of shrewd calculation and a policy of cynical self-advance. the talk behind the scenes was not of national welfare, but individual success, or failure. the men who talked the loudest on the platform of altruism and the greatest good to the greatest number, were most alive in private conversation to the wire-pulling and intrigue which proceeded unseen; and it was in the machinery they found their prime interest and excitement, rather than in the great operations the machine was ostensibly created to achieve. the whole business on their lips in private appeared to have no more real significance than a county cricket match, or any other game. thanks largely to the woman he was to wed, ironsyde took now a statesman-like rather than a political view as far as his inexperience could do so. he had no axe to grind, and from the standpoint of his ignorance, progress looked easy and demanded no more than that good will of which estelle so often spoke. but in practice he began to perceive the gulf between ideal legislation and practical politics and, in moments of physical depression, as the election approached, his heart failed him. he grew despondent at night. then, after refreshing sleep, the spirit of hope reawakened. he felt very certain now that he was going to get in; and still with morning light he hailed the victory; while, after a heavy day, he doubted of its fruits and mistrusted himself. his powers seemed puny contrasted with the gigantic difficulties that the machine set up between a private member and any effective or independent activity in the house. he was cast down as he rode home after his last meeting but one, and his reflections were again most deeply tinged with doubt as to the value of these heroic exertions. looked at here, in winter moonlight under a sky of stars, this fevered strife seemed vain, and the particular ambition to which he had devoted such tremendous application appeared thin and doubtful--almost unworthy. he traversed the enterprise, dwelt on outstanding features of it and comforted himself, as often he had done of late, by reflecting that estelle would be at his right hand. if, after practical experience and fair trial, he found himself powerless to serve their common interests, or advance their ideals, then he could leave the field of parliament and seek elsewhere for a hearing. his ingenuous hope was to interest his leaders; for he believed that many who possessed power, thought and felt as he did. he had grown placid by the time he left south street and turned into the road for home. the night was keen and frosty. it braced him and he began to feel cheerful and hungry for the supper that waited him at north hill. then, where the road forked from bridetown and an arm left it for west haven, at a point two hundred yards from outlying farm-houses, a young, slight figure leapt from the hedge, stood firmly in the road and stopped raymond's horse. the moonlight was clear and showed ironsyde his son. abel leapt at the bridle rein, and when the rider bade him loose it, he lifted a revolver and fired twice pointblank. ten minutes later, on their way back from the meeting and full of politics, there drove that way john best, nicholas roberts and a bridetown farmer. they found a man on his back in the middle of the road and a horse standing quietly beside him. none doubted but that raymond ironsyde was dead, yet it was not possible for them to be sure. they lifted him into the farmer's cart therefore, and while best and roberts returned with him to bridport hospital, the farmer mounted ironsyde's horse and galloped to north hill with his news. arthur waldron was from home, but estelle left the house as quickly as a motor car could be made ready, and in a quarter of an hour stood at raymond's side. he was dead and had, indeed, died instantly when fired upon. he had been shot through the lung and heart, and must have perished before he fell from his horse to the ground. they knew estelle at the hospital and left her with raymond for a little while. he looked ten years younger than when she had seen him last. all care was gone and an expression of content rested upon his beautiful face. the doctor feared to leave her, judging of the shock; but when he returned she was calm and controlled. she sat by the dead man and held his hand. "a little longer," she said, and he went out again. chapter xxii the hiding-place no doubt existed as to the murderer of raymond ironsyde, for on the night of his death, abel dinnett did not return home. he had left work at the usual time, but had not taken his bicycle; and from that day he was seen no more. it appeared impossible that he could evade the hue and cry, but twenty-four hours passed and there came no report of his capture. little mystery marked the matter, save that of abel's disappearance. his animosity towards his father was known and it had culminated thus. none imagined that capture would be long delayed; but forty-eight hours passed and still there came no news of him. estelle waldron fled from all thought of him at first; then she reflected upon him--driven to do so by a conviction concerning him that commanded action from her. on the day after the coroner's inquest, for the first time she sought sabina. the meeting was of an affecting character, for each very fully realised the situation from the standpoint of the other. sabina was the more distressed, yet she entertained definite convictions and declared herself positive concerning certain facts. estelle questioned her conclusions and, indeed, refused to believe them. "i hope you'll understand my coming, sabina," she said. she was clad, as usual, in a grey harris tweed, and the elder wondered why she did not wear black. estelle's face was haggard and worn, with much suffering. but it seemed that the last dregs of her own cup were not yet drunk, for an excruciating problem faced her. there was none to help her solve it, yet she took it to sabina. "i thought you'd come, sooner or later. this is a thing beyond any human power to make better. god knows i mourn for you far more than i mourn for myself. i don't mourn for myself. long ago i saw that the living can't be happy, though the dead may be. the dead may be--we'll hope it for them." "it's death to me as well as to him," said estelle simply. "as far as i'm concerned, i feel that i'm dead from now and shall live on as somebody different--somebody i don't know yet. all that we were and had and hoped--everything is gone with him. the future was to be spent in trying to do good things. we shared the same ideas about it. but that's all over. i'm left--single-handed, sabina." "yes, i know how you feel." "i can't bear to think of it yet. i didn't come to talk about him, or myself. i came to talk about abel." "i can't tell you anything about him." "i know you know nothing. i think i know more than you do." "know more of him than i do?" asked the mother. there was almost a flash of jealousy in her voice. but it faded and she sighed. "no, no. you needn't fret for him. they may find him, or they may not; but they'll not find him alive." estelle started. she believed most steadfastly that abel was alive, and felt very certain that she knew his hiding-place. "why do you think that?" she asked. "you might hope it; but why do you think it? have you any good reason for thinking it?" "there are some things you know," answered the mother. "you know them without being told and without any reason. you neither hope nor fear--you know. i might ask you how you know where he is. but i don't want to ask you. i've taken my good-bye of him, poor, wasted life. how had god got the heart to let him live for this? people will say it was fitting, and happened by the plan of his maker. no man's child--not even god's. it's all hidden, all dark to me. it's worked itself out to the bitter end. men would have been too kind to work it out like this. only god could. i can't say much to you. i'm very sorry for you. you were caught up into the thing and didn't know, or guess, what you were thrusting yourself into. but now it's your turn, and you'll have to wait long years, as i did, before you can look at life again without passion or sorrow." "it doesn't matter about me. but, if you feel abel is dead, i feel just as strongly that he is alive, and that this isn't the end of him." sabina considered. "i know him better than you, and i know providence better than you do," she answered. "it's like the wonder you are--to think on him without hate. but you're wasting your time and showing pity for nothing. he's beyond pity. why, i don't pity him--his mother." "i'm only doing what raymond tried to do so often and failed--what he would have me do now if he'd lived. and if i know something that nobody else does, i must use that knowledge. i'm sorry i do know, sabina, but i do." "you waste your time, i expect. if the hunt that's going on doesn't find him, how shall you do it? he's at the bottom of the sea, i hope." they parted and the same night estelle set out to satisfy her will. she told nobody of her purpose, for she knew that her father would not have allowed her to pursue it. waldron was utterly crushed by the death of his friend and could not as yet realise the loss. nor did estelle realise it, save in fitful and fleeting agonies. as yet the full significance of the event was by no means weighed by her. it meant far more than she could measure and receive and accept in so brief a space of time. seen from the standpoint of this death, every plan of her life, every undertaking for the future, was dislocated. she left that complete ruin for the present. there was no hurry to restore, or set about rebuilding the fabric of her future. she would have all her life to do it in. the thought of abel came as a demand to her justice. her knowledge, amounting to a conviction, required action. the nature of the action she did not know, but something urged her to reach him if she could. for she believed him mad. great torture of spirit had overtaken her under her loss; but upon this extreme grief, ugly and incessant, obtruded the thought of abel, the secret of his present refuge and the impulse to approach him. her personal suffering established rather than shook her own high standards. she had promised the boy never to tell anybody of the haunt he had shown her under the roof in the old store at west haven; and if most women might now have forgotten such a promise, estelle did not. but she very strenuously argued against the spiritual impulse to seek him, for every physical instinct rose against doing so. to do this was surely not required of her, for whereunto would it lead? what must be the result of any such meeting? it might be dreadful; it could not fail to be futile. yet all mental effort to escape the task proved vain. her very grief edged her old, austere, chivalrous acceptance of duty. she felt that justice called her to this ordeal, and she went--with no fixed purpose save to see him and urge him to surrender himself for his own peace if he could understand. no personal fear touched her reflections. she might have welcomed fear in these unspeakable moments of her life, for she was little enamoured of living after raymond ironsyde died. the thought of death for herself had not been distasteful at that time. she went fearlessly, when all slept and her going and coming would not be observed. she left her home at a moonless midnight, took candle and matches, dressed in her stoutest clothes and walked over north hill towards bridport. but at the eastern shoulder of the downs she descended through a field and struck the road again just at the fork where raymond had perished. then she struck into the west haven way and soon slipped under the black mass of the old store. the night was cloudy and still. no wind blew and the sigh of the sea beneath the shelving beaches close at hand, had sunk to a murmur. west haven lay lost in darkness. the old store had been searched, as many other empty buildings, for the fugitive; but he was not specially associated with this place, save in the mind of estelle. the police had hunted it carefully, no more, and she guessed that his eerie under the roof, only reached by a somewhat perilous climb through a broken window, would not be discovered. she remembered also that there were some students of raymond's murder who did not associate abel with it. such held that only accident and coincidence had made him run away on the night of ironsyde's end. they argued that in these cases the obvious always proved erroneous, and the theory most transparently rational seldom led the way to the truth. but she had never doubted about that. it seemed already a commonplace of knowledge, a lifetime old, that abel had destroyed his father, and that he must be insane to have ruined his own life in this manner. she ascended cautiously through the darkness, reached a gap--once a window--from which her ascent must be made, and listened for a few moments to hear if anything stirred above her. it seemed as though the old store was full of noises, for the fingers of decay never cease from picking and, in the silence of night, one can best hear their stealthy activities. little falls of fragments sounded loudly, even echoed, in this great silence. there was almost a perpetual rustle and whisper; and once a thud and skurry, when a rat displaced a piece of mortar which fell from the rotting plaster. dark though the heaven was and black the outer night, it had the quality that air never loses and she saw the sky as possessed of illumination in contrast with its setting of the broken window. within all was blankly black; from above there came no sound. she climbed to the window ledge, felt for the nails that abel had hammered in to hold his feet and soon ascended through a large gap under the eaves of the store. some shock had thrown out a piece of brickwork here. seen from the ground the aperture looked trifling and had indeed challenged no attention; but it was large enough to admit a man. for a moment estelle stood in this aperture before entering the den within. she raised her voice, which fluttered after her climb, and called to him. "abel! abel! it's estelle." there came the thought, even as she spoke, that he might answer with a bullet; but he answered not at all. she felt thankful for the silence and hoped that he might have deserted his retreat. perhaps, indeed, he had never come to it; and yet it seemed impossible that he had for two days escaped capture unless here concealed. it occurred to her that he might wander out by night and return before day. he might even now be behind her, to intercept her return. still no shadow of fear shook her mind or body. she felt not a tremor. all that concerned her conscience was now completed and she hoped that it would be possible to dismiss from her thoughts the fellow creature who had destroyed her joy of life and worked evil so far reaching. she could leave him now to his destiny and feel under no compulsion to relate the incidents of her nocturnal search. had he been there, she would have risked the meeting, urged him to surrender and then left him if he allowed her to do so. she would never have given him up, or broken her promise to keep his secret. but the chamber under the roof was large and she did not leave it without making sure that he was neither hiding nor sleeping within it. she entered, lighted her candle and examined a triangular recess formed by the converging beams of the roof above her and the joists under her feet. the boy had been busy here. there were evidences of him--evidences of a child rather than a man. boyish forethought stared her in the face and staggered her by its ghastly incongruities with the things this premeditating youth had done. here were provisions, not such as a man would have selected to stand a siege, but the taste of a schoolboy. she looked at the supplies spread here--tins of preserved food, packets of chocolate, bottles of ginger beer, bananas, biscuits. but it seemed that the hoard had not been touched. one tin of potted salmon had been opened, but no part of the contents was consumed. either accident had changed his purpose and frightened him elsewhere at the last moment, or the energies and activities that had gone to pile this accumulation were all spent in the process and now he did not need them. then she looked further, to the extremity of the den he had made, and there, lying comfortably on a pile of shavings, estelle found him. she guessed that the storm and stress of his crime had exhausted him and thrown him into heaviest possible physical slumber after great mental tribulation. she shuddered as she looked down on him and a revulsion, a loathing tempted her to creep away again before he awakened. she did not think of him as a patricide, nor did her own loss entirely inspire the emotion; she never associated him with that, but kept him outside it, as she would have kept some insensible or inanimate object had such been responsible for ironsyde's end. it was the sudden thought of all raymond's death might mean--not to her but the world--that turned her heart to stone for a fearful second as she looked down upon the unconscious figure. her own sorrow was sealed at its fountains for the time. but her sorrow for the world could not be sealed. and then came the thought that the insensible boy at her feet, escaping for a little while through sleep's primeval sanctity, was part of the robbed world also. who had lost more than he by his unreason? if her heart did not melt then, it grew softer. but there was more to learn before she left him and the truth can be recorded. abel had killed his father and hastened to his lair exultant. he had provided for what should follow and vaguely hoped that presently, before his stores were spent, the way would be clearer for escape. he assured himself safe from discovery and guessed that when a fortnight was passed, he might safely creep out, reach a port, find work in a ship and turn his back upon england for ever. that was his general plan before the deed. afterwards all changed for him. he then found himself a being racked and over-mastered by new sensations. the desirable thing that he had done changed its features, even as death changes the features of life; the ideal, so noble and seemly before, when attained assumed such a shape as, in one of abel's heredity, it was bound to assume. not at once did the change appear, but as a cloud no bigger than a man's hand in the clear, triumphant sky of his achievement. even so an apple, that once he had stolen and hidden, was bruised unknown to him and thus contained the seed of death, that made it rot before it was ripe. the decay spread and the fruit turned to filth before he could win any enjoyment from it. he shook off the beginnings of doubt impatiently. he retraced his grievances and dwelt on the glory of his revenge as he reached his secret place after the crime. but the stain darkened in the heart of his mind; and before dawn crept through cracks in the roof above his lair, dissolution had begun. through the hours of that first day he lay there with his thoughts for company and a process, deepening, as dusk deepened, into remorse began to horrify him. he fought with all his might against it. he resented it with indignation. his gorge rose against it; he would have strangled it, had it been a ponderable thing within his power to destroy; but as time passed he began to know it was stronger than he. it gripped his spirit with unconquerable fingers and slowly stifled him. time crept on interminable. when the second night came, he was faint and turned to his food. he struggled with himself and opened a tin of salmon. but he could not eat. he believed that he would never eat again. he slept for an hour, then woke from terrifying dreams. his mind wandered and he longed to be gone and tear off his clothes and dip into the sea. at dawn of the second day men were hunting the old stores, from its cellars to the attics below him. he heard them speaking under his feet and listened to two men who cursed him. they speculated whether he was too young to hang and hoped he might not be. yet he could take pride in their failure to find him. there was, as he remembered, only one person in the world who knew of his eerie; but terror did not accompany this recollection. his exultation at the defeat of the searchers soon vanished, and he found himself indifferent to the thought that estelle might remember. he knew that his plans could not be fulfilled now: it was impossible for him to live a fortnight here. and then he began stealthily, fearfully, to doubt of life itself. it had changed in its aspect and invitation. its promises were dead. it could hold nothing for him as he had been told by levi baggs. the emotions now threatening his mind were such that he believed no length of days would ever dim them; from what he suffered now, it seemed that time's self could promise no escape. life would be hell and not worth living. at this point in his struggles his mind failed him and became disordered. it worked fitfully, and its processes were broken with blanks and breaks. chaos marked his mental steps from this point; his feet were caught and he fell down and down, yet tried hard for a while to stay his fall. his consciousness began to decide, while his natural instincts struggled against the decision. not one, but rival spirits tore him. reason formed no part in the encounter; no arbiter arose between the conflicting forces, between a gathering will to die and escape further torment, and the brute will to live, that must belong to every young creature, happy or wretched. the trial was long drawn out; but it had ended some hours before estelle stood beside him. she considered whether she should waken abel and determined that she must do so, since to speak with him, if possible, she held her duty now. he was safe if he wished to be, for she would never tell his secret. so she bent down with her light--to find him dead. he had shot himself through the right temple after sunset time of the second day. estelle stood and looked at him for a little while, then climbed back to earth and went away through the darkness to tell his mother that she was right. the end the human boy and the war by eden phillpotts in this book of stories mr. phillpotts uses his genial gift of characterization to picture the effect of the european war on the impressionable minds of boys--english school-boys far away from anything but the mysterious echo of the strange terrors and blood-stirring heroisms of battle, who live close only to the martial invitation of a recruiting station. there are stories of a boy who runs away to go to the front, teachers who go--perhaps without running; the school's contest for a prize poem about the war, and snow battles, fiercely belligerent, mimicking the strategies of flanders and the champagne. they are deeply moving sketches revealing the heart and mind of english youth in war-time. "the book is extraordinary in the skill with which it gets into that world of the boy so shut away from the adult world. it is entirely unlike anything else by phillpotts, equal as it is to his other volumes in charm, character study, humor and interest. it is one of those books that every reader will want to recommend to his friends, and which he will only lend with the express proviso that it must be returned."--_new york times_. "in this book mr. phillpotts pictures a boy, a real human boy. the boy's way of thinking, his outlook upon life, his ambitions, his ideals, his moods, his peculiarities, these are all here touched with a kindly sympathy and humor."--_new york sun_. "mr. phillpotts writes from a real knowledge of the schoolboy's habit of thought. he writes with much humor and the result is as delightful and entertaining a volume as has come from his pen for some time."--_buffalo evening news_. chronicles of st. tid by eden phillpotts "the gifts of the short-story writer are wholly mr. phillpotts'. here, as elsewhere in his works, we have the place painted with the pen of an artist, and the person depicted with the skill of the writer who is inspired by all types of humanity."--_boston evening transcript_. "no one rivals phillpotts in this peculiar domain of presenting an ancient landscape, with its homes and their inmates as survivals of a past century. there is nothing vague about his characters. they are undeniable personalities, and are possessed of a psychology all their own."--_the chicago tribune_. the banks of colne by eden phillpotts "absorbing, written with sure power and a constant flow of humor.... has the warm human glow of sympathy and understanding, and it is written with real mastery."--_new york times_. "a tale of absorbing interest from its start to the altogether unusual and dramatic climax with which it closes."--_philadelphia public ledger_. "stands in the foremost rank of current fiction."--_new york tribune_. "his acute faculties of sympathetic observation, his felicitous skill in characterization, and his power to present the life of a community in all its multiple aspects are here combined in the most mature and absorbing novel of his entire career."--_philadelphia press_. the green alleys by eden phillpotts "as long as we have such novels as _the green alleys_ and such novelists as mr. phillpotts, we need have no fears for the future of english fiction. mr. phillpotts' latest novel is a representative example of him at his best, of his skill as a literary creator and of his ability as an interpreter of life."--_boston transcript_. "a drama of fascinating interest, lightened by touches of delicious comedy ... one of the best of the many remarkable books from the pen of this clever author."--_boston globe_. brunel's tower by eden phillpotts the regeneration of a faulty character through association with dignified honest work and simple, sincere people is the theme which mr. phillpotts has chosen for this novel. the scene is largely laid in a pottery, where a lad, having escaped from a reform school, has sought shelter and work. under the influence of the gentle, kindly folk of the community he comes in a measure to realize himself. old delabole by eden phillpotts "besides being a good story, richly peopled, and brimful of human nature in its finer aspects, the book is seasoned with quiet humor and a deal of mellow wisdom."--_new york times_. the woodlanders by thomas hardy chapter i. the rambler who, for old association or other reasons, should trace the forsaken coach-road running almost in a meridional line from bristol to the south shore of england, would find himself during the latter half of his journey in the vicinity of some extensive woodlands, interspersed with apple-orchards. here the trees, timber or fruit-bearing, as the case may be, make the wayside hedges ragged by their drip and shade, stretching over the road with easeful horizontality, as if they found the unsubstantial air an adequate support for their limbs. at one place, where a hill is crossed, the largest of the woods shows itself bisected by the high-way, as the head of thick hair is bisected by the white line of its parting. the spot is lonely. the physiognomy of a deserted highway expresses solitude to a degree that is not reached by mere dales or downs, and bespeaks a tomb-like stillness more emphatic than that of glades and pools. the contrast of what is with what might be probably accounts for this. to step, for instance, at the place under notice, from the hedge of the plantation into the adjoining pale thoroughfare, and pause amid its emptiness for a moment, was to exchange by the act of a single stride the simple absence of human companionship for an incubus of the forlorn. at this spot, on the lowering evening of a by-gone winter's day, there stood a man who had entered upon the scene much in the aforesaid manner. alighting into the road from a stile hard by, he, though by no means a "chosen vessel" for impressions, was temporarily influenced by some such feeling of being suddenly more alone than before he had emerged upon the highway. it could be seen by a glance at his rather finical style of dress that he did not belong to the country proper; and from his air, after a while, that though there might be a sombre beauty in the scenery, music in the breeze, and a wan procession of coaching ghosts in the sentiment of this old turnpike-road, he was mainly puzzled about the way. the dead men's work that had been expended in climbing that hill, the blistered soles that had trodden it, and the tears that had wetted it, were not his concern; for fate had given him no time for any but practical things. he looked north and south, and mechanically prodded the ground with his walking-stick. a closer glance at his face corroborated the testimony of his clothes. it was self-complacent, yet there was small apparent ground for such complacence. nothing irradiated it; to the eye of the magician in character, if not to the ordinary observer, the expression enthroned there was absolute submission to and belief in a little assortment of forms and habitudes. at first not a soul appeared who could enlighten him as he desired, or seemed likely to appear that night. but presently a slight noise of laboring wheels and the steady dig of a horse's shoe-tips became audible; and there loomed in the notch of the hill and plantation that the road formed here at the summit a carrier's van drawn by a single horse. when it got nearer, he said, with some relief to himself, "'tis mrs. dollery's--this will help me." the vehicle was half full of passengers, mostly women. he held up his stick at its approach, and the woman who was driving drew rein. "i've been trying to find a short way to little hintock this last half-hour, mrs. dollery," he said. "but though i've been to great hintock and hintock house half a dozen times i am at fault about the small village. you can help me, i dare say?" she assured him that she could--that as she went to great hintock her van passed near it--that it was only up the lane that branched out of the lane into which she was about to turn--just ahead. "though," continued mrs. dollery, "'tis such a little small place that, as a town gentleman, you'd need have a candle and lantern to find it if ye don't know where 'tis. bedad! i wouldn't live there if they'd pay me to. now at great hintock you do see the world a bit." he mounted and sat beside her, with his feet outside, where they were ever and anon brushed over by the horse's tail. this van, driven and owned by mrs. dollery, was rather a movable attachment of the roadway than an extraneous object, to those who knew it well. the old horse, whose hair was of the roughness and color of heather, whose leg-joints, shoulders, and hoofs were distorted by harness and drudgery from colthood--though if all had their rights, he ought, symmetrical in outline, to have been picking the herbage of some eastern plain instead of tugging here--had trodden this road almost daily for twenty years. even his subjection was not made congruous throughout, for the harness being too short, his tail was not drawn through the crupper, so that the breeching slipped awkwardly to one side. he knew every subtle incline of the seven or eight miles of ground between hintock and sherton abbas--the market-town to which he journeyed--as accurately as any surveyor could have learned it by a dumpy level. the vehicle had a square black tilt which nodded with the motion of the wheels, and at a point in it over the driver's head was a hook to which the reins were hitched at times, when they formed a catenary curve from the horse's shoulders. somewhere about the axles was a loose chain, whose only known purpose was to clink as it went. mrs. dollery, having to hop up and down many times in the service of her passengers, wore, especially in windy weather, short leggings under her gown for modesty's sake, and instead of a bonnet a felt hat tied down with a handkerchief, to guard against an earache to which she was frequently subject. in the rear of the van was a glass window, which she cleaned with her pocket-handkerchief every market-day before starting. looking at the van from the back, the spectator could thus see through its interior a square piece of the same sky and landscape that he saw without, but intruded on by the profiles of the seated passengers, who, as they rumbled onward, their lips moving and heads nodding in animated private converse, remained in happy unconsciousness that their mannerisms and facial peculiarities were sharply defined to the public eye. this hour of coming home from market was the happy one, if not the happiest, of the week for them. snugly ensconced under the tilt, they could forget the sorrows of the world without, and survey life and recapitulate the incidents of the day with placid smiles. the passengers in the back part formed a group to themselves, and while the new-comer spoke to the proprietress, they indulged in a confidential chat about him as about other people, which the noise of the van rendered inaudible to himself and mrs. dollery, sitting forward. "'tis barber percombe--he that's got the waxen woman in his window at the top of abbey street," said one. "what business can bring him from his shop out here at this time and not a journeyman hair-cutter, but a master-barber that's left off his pole because 'tis not genteel!" they listened to his conversation, but mr. percombe, though he had nodded and spoken genially, seemed indisposed to gratify the curiosity which he had aroused; and the unrestrained flow of ideas which had animated the inside of the van before his arrival was checked thenceforward. thus they rode on till they turned into a half-invisible little lane, whence, as it reached the verge of an eminence, could be discerned in the dusk, about half a mile to the right, gardens and orchards sunk in a concave, and, as it were, snipped out of the woodland. from this self-contained place rose in stealthy silence tall stems of smoke, which the eye of imagination could trace downward to their root on quiet hearth-stones festooned overhead with hams and flitches. it was one of those sequestered spots outside the gates of the world where may usually be found more meditation than action, and more passivity than meditation; where reasoning proceeds on narrow premises, and results in inferences wildly imaginative; yet where, from time to time, no less than in other places, dramas of a grandeur and unity truly sophoclean are enacted in the real, by virtue of the concentrated passions and closely knit interdependence of the lives therein. this place was the little hintock of the master-barber's search. the coming night gradually obscured the smoke of the chimneys, but the position of the sequestered little world could still be distinguished by a few faint lights, winking more or less ineffectually through the leafless boughs, and the undiscerned songsters they bore, in the form of balls of feathers, at roost among them. out of the lane followed by the van branched a yet smaller lane, at the corner of which the barber alighted, mrs. dollery's van going on to the larger village, whose superiority to the despised smaller one as an exemplar of the world's movements was not particularly apparent in its means of approach. "a very clever and learned young doctor, who, they say, is in league with the devil, lives in the place you be going to--not because there's anybody for'n to cure there, but because 'tis the middle of his district." the observation was flung at the barber by one of the women at parting, as a last attempt to get at his errand that way. but he made no reply, and without further pause the pedestrian plunged towards the umbrageous nook, and paced cautiously over the dead leaves which nearly buried the road or street of the hamlet. as very few people except themselves passed this way after dark, a majority of the denizens of little hintock deemed window-curtains unnecessary; and on this account mr. percombe made it his business to stop opposite the casements of each cottage that he came to, with a demeanor which showed that he was endeavoring to conjecture, from the persons and things he observed within, the whereabouts of somebody or other who resided here. only the smaller dwellings interested him; one or two houses, whose size, antiquity, and rambling appurtenances signified that notwithstanding their remoteness they must formerly have been, if they were not still, inhabited by people of a certain social standing, being neglected by him entirely. smells of pomace, and the hiss of fermenting cider, which reached him from the back quarters of other tenements, revealed the recent occupation of some of the inhabitants, and joined with the scent of decay from the perishing leaves underfoot. half a dozen dwellings were passed without result. the next, which stood opposite a tall tree, was in an exceptional state of radiance, the flickering brightness from the inside shining up the chimney and making a luminous mist of the emerging smoke. the interior, as seen through the window, caused him to draw up with a terminative air and watch. the house was rather large for a cottage, and the door, which opened immediately into the living-room, stood ajar, so that a ribbon of light fell through the opening into the dark atmosphere without. every now and then a moth, decrepit from the late season, would flit for a moment across the out-coming rays and disappear again into the night. chapter ii. in the room from which this cheerful blaze proceeded, he beheld a girl seated on a willow chair, and busily occupied by the light of the fire, which was ample and of wood. with a bill-hook in one hand and a leather glove, much too large for her, on the other, she was making spars, such as are used by thatchers, with great rapidity. she wore a leather apron for this purpose, which was also much too large for her figure. on her left hand lay a bundle of the straight, smooth sticks called spar-gads--the raw material of her manufacture; on her right, a heap of chips and ends--the refuse--with which the fire was maintained; in front, a pile of the finished articles. to produce them she took up each gad, looked critically at it from end to end, cut it to length, split it into four, and sharpened each of the quarters with dexterous blows, which brought it to a triangular point precisely resembling that of a bayonet. beside her, in case she might require more light, a brass candlestick stood on a little round table, curiously formed of an old coffin-stool, with a deal top nailed on, the white surface of the latter contrasting oddly with the black carved oak of the substructure. the social position of the household in the past was almost as definitively shown by the presence of this article as that of an esquire or nobleman by his old helmets or shields. it had been customary for every well-to-do villager, whose tenure was by copy of court-roll, or in any way more permanent than that of the mere cotter, to keep a pair of these stools for the use of his own dead; but for the last generation or two a feeling of cui bono had led to the discontinuance of the custom, and the stools were frequently made use of in the manner described. the young woman laid down the bill-hook for a moment and examined the palm of her right hand, which, unlike the other, was ungloved, and showed little hardness or roughness about it. the palm was red and blistering, as if this present occupation were not frequent enough with her to subdue it to what it worked in. as with so many right hands born to manual labor, there was nothing in its fundamental shape to bear out the physiological conventionalism that gradations of birth, gentle or mean, show themselves primarily in the form of this member. nothing but a cast of the die of destiny had decided that the girl should handle the tool; and the fingers which clasped the heavy ash haft might have skilfully guided the pencil or swept the string, had they only been set to do it in good time. her face had the usual fulness of expression which is developed by a life of solitude. where the eyes of a multitude beat like waves upon a countenance they seem to wear away its individuality; but in the still water of privacy every tentacle of feeling and sentiment shoots out in visible luxuriance, to be interpreted as readily as a child's look by an intruder. in years she was no more than nineteen or twenty, but the necessity of taking thought at a too early period of life had forced the provisional curves of her childhood's face to a premature finality. thus she had but little pretension to beauty, save in one prominent particular--her hair. its abundance made it almost unmanageable; its color was, roughly speaking, and as seen here by firelight, brown, but careful notice, or an observation by day, would have revealed that its true shade was a rare and beautiful approximation to chestnut. on this one bright gift of time to the particular victim of his now before us the new-comer's eyes were fixed; meanwhile the fingers of his right hand mechanically played over something sticking up from his waistcoat-pocket--the bows of a pair of scissors, whose polish made them feebly responsive to the light within. in her present beholder's mind the scene formed by the girlish spar-maker composed itself into a post-raffaelite picture of extremest quality, wherein the girl's hair alone, as the focus of observation, was depicted with intensity and distinctness, and her face, shoulders, hands, and figure in general, being a blurred mass of unimportant detail lost in haze and obscurity. he hesitated no longer, but tapped at the door and entered. the young woman turned at the crunch of his boots on the sanded floor, and exclaiming, "oh, mr. percombe, how you frightened me!" quite lost her color for a moment. he replied, "you should shut your door--then you'd hear folk open it." "i can't," she said; "the chimney smokes so. mr. percombe, you look as unnatural out of your shop as a canary in a thorn-hedge. surely you have not come out here on my account--for--" "yes--to have your answer about this." he touched her head with his cane, and she winced. "do you agree?" he continued. "it is necessary that i should know at once, as the lady is soon going away, and it takes time to make up." "don't press me--it worries me. i was in hopes you had thought no more of it. i can not part with it--so there!" "now, look here, marty," said the barber, sitting down on the coffin-stool table. "how much do you get for making these spars?" "hush--father's up-stairs awake, and he don't know that i am doing his work." "well, now tell me," said the man, more softly. "how much do you get?" "eighteenpence a thousand," she said, reluctantly. "who are you making them for?" "mr. melbury, the timber-dealer, just below here." "and how many can you make in a day?" "in a day and half the night, three bundles--that's a thousand and a half." "two and threepence." the barber paused. "well, look here," he continued, with the remains of a calculation in his tone, which calculation had been the reduction to figures of the probable monetary magnetism necessary to overpower the resistant force of her present purse and the woman's love of comeliness, "here's a sovereign--a gold sovereign, almost new." he held it out between his finger and thumb. "that's as much as you'd earn in a week and a half at that rough man's work, and it's yours for just letting me snip off what you've got too much of." the girl's bosom moved a very little. "why can't the lady send to some other girl who don't value her hair--not to me?" she exclaimed. "why, simpleton, because yours is the exact shade of her own, and 'tis a shade you can't match by dyeing. but you are not going to refuse me now i've come all the way from sherton o' purpose?" "i say i won't sell it--to you or anybody." "now listen," and he drew up a little closer beside her. "the lady is very rich, and won't be particular to a few shillings; so i will advance to this on my own responsibility--i'll make the one sovereign two, rather than go back empty-handed." "no, no, no!" she cried, beginning to be much agitated. "you are a-tempting me, mr. percombe. you go on like the devil to dr. faustus in the penny book. but i don't want your money, and won't agree. why did you come? i said when you got me into your shop and urged me so much, that i didn't mean to sell my hair!" the speaker was hot and stern. "marty, now hearken. the lady that wants it wants it badly. and, between you and me, you'd better let her have it. 'twill be bad for you if you don't." "bad for me? who is she, then?" the barber held his tongue, and the girl repeated the question. "i am not at liberty to tell you. and as she is going abroad soon it makes no difference who she is at all." "she wants it to go abroad wi'?" percombe assented by a nod. the girl regarded him reflectively. "barber percombe," she said, "i know who 'tis. 'tis she at the house--mrs. charmond!" "that's my secret. however, if you agree to let me have it, i'll tell you in confidence." "i'll certainly not let you have it unless you tell me the truth. it is mrs. charmond." the barber dropped his voice. "well--it is. you sat in front of her in church the other day, and she noticed how exactly your hair matched her own. ever since then she's been hankering for it, and at last decided to get it. as she won't wear it till she goes off abroad, she knows nobody will recognize the change. i'm commissioned to get it for her, and then it is to be made up. i shouldn't have vamped all these miles for any less important employer. now, mind--'tis as much as my business with her is worth if it should be known that i've let out her name; but honor between us two, marty, and you'll say nothing that would injure me?" "i don't wish to tell upon her," said marty, coolly. "but my hair is my own, and i'm going to keep it." "now, that's not fair, after what i've told you," said the nettled barber. "you see, marty, as you are in the same parish, and in one of her cottages, and your father is ill, and wouldn't like to turn out, it would be as well to oblige her. i say that as a friend. but i won't press you to make up your mind to-night. you'll be coming to market to-morrow, i dare say, and you can call then. if you think it over you'll be inclined to bring what i want, i know." "i've nothing more to say," she answered. her companion saw from her manner that it was useless to urge her further by speech. "as you are a trusty young woman," he said, "i'll put these sovereigns up here for ornament, that you may see how handsome they are. bring the hair to-morrow, or return the sovereigns." he stuck them edgewise into the frame of a small mantle looking-glass. "i hope you'll bring it, for your sake and mine. i should have thought she could have suited herself elsewhere; but as it's her fancy it must be indulged if possible. if you cut it off yourself, mind how you do it so as to keep all the locks one way." he showed her how this was to be done. "but i sha'nt," she replied, with laconic indifference. "i value my looks too much to spoil 'em. she wants my hair to get another lover with; though if stories are true she's broke the heart of many a noble gentleman already." "lord, it's wonderful how you guess things, marty," said the barber. "i've had it from them that know that there certainly is some foreign gentleman in her eye. however, mind what i ask." "she's not going to get him through me." percombe had retired as far as the door; he came back, planted his cane on the coffin-stool, and looked her in the face. "marty south," he said, with deliberate emphasis, "you've got a lover yourself, and that's why you won't let it go!" she reddened so intensely as to pass the mild blush that suffices to heighten beauty; she put the yellow leather glove on one hand, took up the hook with the other, and sat down doggedly to her work without turning her face to him again. he regarded her head for a moment, went to the door, and with one look back at her, departed on his way homeward. marty pursued her occupation for a few minutes, then suddenly laying down the bill-hook, she jumped up and went to the back of the room, where she opened a door which disclosed a staircase so whitely scrubbed that the grain of the wood was wellnigh sodden away by such cleansing. at the top she gently approached a bedroom, and without entering, said, "father, do you want anything?" a weak voice inside answered in the negative; adding, "i should be all right by to-morrow if it were not for the tree!" "the tree again--always the tree! oh, father, don't worry so about that. you know it can do you no harm." "who have ye had talking to ye down-stairs?" "a sherton man called--nothing to trouble about," she said, soothingly. "father," she went on, "can mrs. charmond turn us out of our house if she's minded to?" "turn us out? no. nobody can turn us out till my poor soul is turned out of my body. 'tis life-hold, like ambrose winterborne's. but when my life drops 'twill be hers--not till then." his words on this subject so far had been rational and firm enough. but now he lapsed into his moaning strain: "and the tree will do it--that tree will soon be the death of me." "nonsense, you know better. how can it be?" she refrained from further speech, and descended to the ground-floor again. "thank heaven, then," she said to herself, "what belongs to me i keep." chapter iii. the lights in the village went out, house after house, till there only remained two in the darkness. one of these came from a residence on the hill-side, of which there is nothing to say at present; the other shone from the window of marty south. precisely the same outward effect was produced here, however, by her rising when the clock struck ten and hanging up a thick cloth curtain. the door it was necessary to keep ajar in hers, as in most cottages, because of the smoke; but she obviated the effect of the ribbon of light through the chink by hanging a cloth over that also. she was one of those people who, if they have to work harder than their neighbors, prefer to keep the necessity a secret as far as possible; and but for the slight sounds of wood-splintering which came from within, no wayfarer would have perceived that here the cottager did not sleep as elsewhere. eleven, twelve, one o'clock struck; the heap of spars grew higher, and the pile of chips and ends more bulky. even the light on the hill had now been extinguished; but still she worked on. when the temperature of the night without had fallen so low as to make her chilly, she opened a large blue umbrella to ward off the draught from the door. the two sovereigns confronted her from the looking-glass in such a manner as to suggest a pair of jaundiced eyes on the watch for an opportunity. whenever she sighed for weariness she lifted her gaze towards them, but withdrew it quickly, stroking her tresses with her fingers for a moment, as if to assure herself that they were still secure. when the clock struck three she arose and tied up the spars she had last made in a bundle resembling those that lay against the wall. she wrapped round her a long red woollen cravat and opened the door. the night in all its fulness met her flatly on the threshold, like the very brink of an absolute void, or the antemundane ginnung-gap believed in by her teuton forefathers. for her eyes were fresh from the blaze, and here there was no street-lamp or lantern to form a kindly transition between the inner glare and the outer dark. a lingering wind brought to her ear the creaking sound of two over-crowded branches in the neighboring wood which were rubbing each other into wounds, and other vocalized sorrows of the trees, together with the screech of owls, and the fluttering tumble of some awkward wood-pigeon ill-balanced on its roosting-bough. but the pupils of her young eyes soon expanded, and she could see well enough for her purpose. taking a bundle of spars under each arm, and guided by the serrated line of tree-tops against the sky, she went some hundred yards or more down the lane till she reached a long open shed, carpeted around with the dead leaves that lay about everywhere. night, that strange personality, which within walls brings ominous introspectiveness and self-distrust, but under the open sky banishes such subjective anxieties as too trivial for thought, inspired marty south with a less perturbed and brisker manner now. she laid the spars on the ground within the shed and returned for more, going to and fro till her whole manufactured stock were deposited here. this erection was the wagon-house of the chief man of business hereabout, mr. george melbury, the timber, bark, and copse-ware merchant for whom marty's father did work of this sort by the piece. it formed one of the many rambling out-houses which surrounded his dwelling, an equally irregular block of building, whose immense chimneys could just be discerned even now. the four huge wagons under the shed were built on those ancient lines whose proportions have been ousted by modern patterns, their shapes bulging and curving at the base and ends like trafalgar line-of-battle ships, with which venerable hulks, indeed, these vehicles evidenced a constructed spirit curiously in harmony. one was laden with sheep-cribs, another with hurdles, another with ash poles, and the fourth, at the foot of which she had placed her thatching-spars was half full of similar bundles. she was pausing a moment with that easeful sense of accomplishment which follows work done that has been a hard struggle in the doing, when she heard a woman's voice on the other side of the hedge say, anxiously, "george!" in a moment the name was repeated, with "do come indoors! what are you doing there?" the cart-house adjoined the garden, and before marty had moved she saw enter the latter from the timber-merchant's back door an elderly woman sheltering a candle with her hand, the light from which cast a moving thorn-pattern of shade on marty's face. its rays soon fell upon a man whose clothes were roughly thrown on, standing in advance of the speaker. he was a thin, slightly stooping figure, with a small nervous mouth and a face cleanly shaven; and he walked along the path with his eyes bent on the ground. in the pair marty south recognized her employer melbury and his wife. she was the second mrs. melbury, the first having died shortly after the birth of the timber-merchant's only child. "'tis no use to stay in bed," he said, as soon as she came up to where he was pacing restlessly about. "i can't sleep--i keep thinking of things, and worrying about the girl, till i'm quite in a fever of anxiety." he went on to say that he could not think why "she (marty knew he was speaking of his daughter) did not answer his letter. she must be ill--she must, certainly," he said. "no, no. 'tis all right, george," said his wife; and she assured him that such things always did appear so gloomy in the night-time, if people allowed their minds to run on them; that when morning came it was seen that such fears were nothing but shadows. "grace is as well as you or i," she declared. but he persisted that she did not see all--that she did not see as much as he. his daughter's not writing was only one part of his worry. on account of her he was anxious concerning money affairs, which he would never alarm his mind about otherwise. the reason he gave was that, as she had nobody to depend upon for a provision but himself, he wished her, when he was gone, to be securely out of risk of poverty. to this mrs. melbury replied that grace would be sure to marry well, and that hence a hundred pounds more or less from him would not make much difference. her husband said that that was what she, mrs. melbury, naturally thought; but there she was wrong, and in that lay the source of his trouble. "i have a plan in my head about her," he said; "and according to my plan she won't marry a rich man." "a plan for her not to marry well?" said his wife, surprised. "well, in one sense it is that," replied melbury. "it is a plan for her to marry a particular person, and as he has not so much money as she might expect, it might be called as you call it. i may not be able to carry it out; and even if i do, it may not be a good thing for her. i want her to marry giles winterborne." his companion repeated the name. "well, it is all right," she said, presently. "he adores the very ground she walks on; only he's close, and won't show it much." marty south appeared startled, and could not tear herself away. yes, the timber-merchant asserted, he knew that well enough. winterborne had been interested in his daughter for years; that was what had led him into the notion of their union. and he knew that she used to have no objection to him. but it was not any difficulty about that which embarrassed him. it was that, since he had educated her so well, and so long, and so far above the level of daughters thereabout, it was "wasting her" to give her to a man of no higher standing than the young man in question. "that's what i have been thinking," said mrs. melbury. "well, then, lucy, now you've hit it," answered the timber-merchant, with feeling. "there lies my trouble. i vowed to let her marry him, and to make her as valuable as i could to him by schooling her as many years and as thoroughly as possible. i mean to keep my vow. i made it because i did his father a terrible wrong; and it was a weight on my conscience ever since that time till this scheme of making amends occurred to me through seeing that giles liked her." "wronged his father?" asked mrs. melbury. "yes, grievously wronged him," said her husband. "well, don't think of it to-night," she urged. "come indoors." "no, no, the air cools my head. i shall not stay long." he was silent a while; then he told her, as nearly as marty could gather, that his first wife, his daughter grace's mother, was first the sweetheart of winterborne's father, who loved her tenderly, till he, the speaker, won her away from him by a trick, because he wanted to marry her himself. he sadly went on to say that the other man's happiness was ruined by it; that though he married winterborne's mother, it was but a half-hearted business with him. melbury added that he was afterwards very miserable at what he had done; but that as time went on, and the children grew up, and seemed to be attached to each other, he determined to do all he could to right the wrong by letting his daughter marry the lad; not only that, but to give her the best education he could afford, so as to make the gift as valuable a one as it lay in his power to bestow. "i still mean to do it," said melbury. "then do," said she. "but all these things trouble me," said he; "for i feel i am sacrificing her for my own sin; and i think of her, and often come down here and look at this." "look at what?" asked his wife. he took the candle from her hand, held it to the ground, and removed a tile which lay in the garden-path. "'tis the track of her shoe that she made when she ran down here the day before she went away all those months ago. i covered it up when she was gone; and when i come here and look at it, i ask myself again, why should she be sacrificed to a poor man?" "it is not altogether a sacrifice," said the woman. "he is in love with her, and he's honest and upright. if she encourages him, what can you wish for more?" "i wish for nothing definite. but there's a lot of things possible for her. why, mrs. charmond is wanting some refined young lady, i hear, to go abroad with her--as companion or something of the kind. she'd jump at grace." "that's all uncertain. better stick to what's sure." "true, true," said melbury; "and i hope it will be for the best. yes, let me get 'em married up as soon as i can, so as to have it over and done with." he continued looking at the imprint, while he added, "suppose she should be dying, and never make a track on this path any more?" "she'll write soon, depend upon't. come, 'tis wrong to stay here and brood so." he admitted it, but said he could not help it. "whether she write or no, i shall fetch her in a few days." and thus speaking, he covered the track, and preceded his wife indoors. melbury, perhaps, was an unlucky man in having within him the sentiment which could indulge in this foolish fondness about the imprint of a daughter's footstep. nature does not carry on her government with a view to such feelings, and when advancing years render the open hearts of those who possess them less dexterous than formerly in shutting against the blast, they must suffer "buffeting at will by rain and storm" no less than little celandines. but her own existence, and not mr. melbury's, was the centre of marty's consciousness, and it was in relation to this that the matter struck her as she slowly withdrew. "that, then, is the secret of it all," she said. "and giles winterborne is not for me, and the less i think of him the better." she returned to her cottage. the sovereigns were staring at her from the looking-glass as she had left them. with a preoccupied countenance, and with tears in her eyes, she got a pair of scissors, and began mercilessly cutting off the long locks of her hair, arranging and tying them with their points all one way, as the barber had directed. upon the pale scrubbed deal of the coffin-stool table they stretched like waving and ropy weeds over the washed gravel-bed of a clear stream. she would not turn again to the little looking-glass, out of humanity to herself, knowing what a deflowered visage would look back at her, and almost break her heart; she dreaded it as much as did her own ancestral goddess sif the reflection in the pool after the rape of her locks by loke the malicious. she steadily stuck to business, wrapped the hair in a parcel, and sealed it up, after which she raked out the fire and went to bed, having first set up an alarum made of a candle and piece of thread, with a stone attached. but such a reminder was unnecessary to-night. having tossed till about five o'clock, marty heard the sparrows walking down their long holes in the thatch above her sloping ceiling to their orifice at the eaves; whereupon she also arose, and descended to the ground-floor again. it was still dark, but she began moving about the house in those automatic initiatory acts and touches which represent among housewives the installation of another day. while thus engaged she heard the rumbling of mr. melbury's wagons, and knew that there, too, the day's toil had begun. an armful of gads thrown on the still hot embers caused them to blaze up cheerfully and bring her diminished head-gear into sudden prominence as a shadow. at this a step approached the door. "are folk astir here yet?" inquired a voice she knew well. "yes, mr. winterborne," said marty, throwing on a tilt bonnet, which completely hid the recent ravages of the scissors. "come in!" the door was flung back, and there stepped in upon the mat a man not particularly young for a lover, nor particularly mature for a person of affairs. there was reserve in his glance, and restraint upon his mouth. he carried a horn lantern which hung upon a swivel, and wheeling as it dangled marked grotesque shapes upon the shadier part of the walls. he said that he had looked in on his way down, to tell her that they did not expect her father to make up his contract if he was not well. mr. melbury would give him another week, and they would go their journey with a short load that day. "they are done," said marty, "and lying in the cart-house." "done!" he repeated. "your father has not been too ill to work after all, then?" she made some evasive reply. "i'll show you where they be, if you are going down," she added. they went out and walked together, the pattern of the air-holes in the top of the lantern being thrown upon the mist overhead, where they appeared of giant size, as if reaching the tent-shaped sky. they had no remarks to make to each other, and they uttered none. hardly anything could be more isolated or more self-contained than the lives of these two walking here in the lonely antelucan hour, when gray shades, material and mental, are so very gray. and yet, looked at in a certain way, their lonely courses formed no detached design at all, but were part of the pattern in the great web of human doings then weaving in both hemispheres, from the white sea to cape horn. the shed was reached, and she pointed out the spars. winterborne regarded them silently, then looked at her. "now, marty, i believe--" he said, and shook his head. "what?" "that you've done the work yourself." "don't you tell anybody, will you, mr. winterborne?" she pleaded, by way of answer. "because i am afraid mr. melbury may refuse my work if he knows it is mine." "but how could you learn to do it? 'tis a trade." "trade!" said she. "i'd be bound to learn it in two hours." "oh no, you wouldn't, mrs. marty." winterborne held down his lantern, and examined the cleanly split hazels as they lay. "marty," he said, with dry admiration, "your father with his forty years of practice never made a spar better than that. they are too good for the thatching of houses--they are good enough for the furniture. but i won't tell. let me look at your hands--your poor hands!" he had a kindly manner of a quietly severe tone; and when she seemed reluctant to show her hands, he took hold of one and examined it as if it were his own. her fingers were blistered. "they'll get harder in time," she said. "for if father continues ill, i shall have to go on wi' it. now i'll help put 'em up in wagon." winterborne without speaking set down his lantern, lifted her as she was about to stoop over the bundles, placed her behind him, and began throwing up the bundles himself. "rather than you should do it i will," he said. "but the men will be here directly. why, marty!--whatever has happened to your head? lord, it has shrunk to nothing--it looks an apple upon a gate-post!" her heart swelled, and she could not speak. at length she managed to groan, looking on the ground, "i've made myself ugly--and hateful--that's what i've done!" "no, no," he answered. "you've only cut your hair--i see now." "then why must you needs say that about apples and gate-posts?" "let me see." "no, no!" she ran off into the gloom of the sluggish dawn. he did not attempt to follow her. when she reached her father's door she stood on the step and looked back. mr. melbury's men had arrived, and were loading up the spars, and their lanterns appeared from the distance at which she stood to have wan circles round them, like eyes weary with watching. she observed them for a few seconds as they set about harnessing the horses, and then went indoors. chapter iv. there was now a distinct manifestation of morning in the air, and presently the bleared white visage of a sunless winter day emerged like a dead-born child. the villagers everywhere had already bestirred themselves, rising at this time of the year at the far less dreary hour of absolute darkness. it had been above an hour earlier, before a single bird had untucked his head, that twenty lights were struck in as many bedrooms, twenty pairs of shutters opened, and twenty pairs of eyes stretched to the sky to forecast the weather for the day. owls that had been catching mice in the out-houses, rabbits that had been eating the wintergreens in the gardens, and stoats that had been sucking the blood of the rabbits, discerning that their human neighbors were on the move, discreetly withdrew from publicity, and were seen and heard no more that day. the daylight revealed the whole of mr. melbury's homestead, of which the wagon-sheds had been an outlying erection. it formed three sides of an open quadrangle, and consisted of all sorts of buildings, the largest and central one being the dwelling itself. the fourth side of the quadrangle was the public road. it was a dwelling-house of respectable, roomy, almost dignified aspect; which, taken with the fact that there were the remains of other such buildings thereabout, indicated that little hintock had at some time or other been of greater importance than now, as its old name of hintock st. osmond also testified. the house was of no marked antiquity, yet of well-advanced age; older than a stale novelty, but no canonized antique; faded, not hoary; looking at you from the still distinct middle-distance of the early georgian time, and awakening on that account the instincts of reminiscence more decidedly than the remoter and far grander memorials which have to speak from the misty reaches of mediaevalism. the faces, dress, passions, gratitudes, and revenues of the great-great-grandfathers and grandmothers who had been the first to gaze from those rectangular windows, and had stood under that key-stoned doorway, could be divined and measured by homely standards of to-day. it was a house in whose reverberations queer old personal tales were yet audible if properly listened for; and not, as with those of the castle and cloister, silent beyond the possibility of echo. the garden-front remained much as it had always been, and there was a porch and entrance that way. but the principal house-door opened on the square yard or quadrangle towards the road, formerly a regular carriage entrance, though the middle of the area was now made use of for stacking timber, fagots, bundles, and other products of the wood. it was divided from the lane by a lichen-coated wall, in which hung a pair of gates, flanked by piers out of the perpendicular, with a round white ball on the top of each. the building on the left of the enclosure was a long-backed erection, now used for spar-making, sawing, crib-framing, and copse-ware manufacture in general. opposite were the wagon-sheds where marty had deposited her spars. here winterborne had remained after the girl's abrupt departure, to see that the wagon-loads were properly made up. winterborne was connected with the melbury family in various ways. in addition to the sentimental relationship which arose from his father having been the first mrs. melbury's lover, winterborne's aunt had married and emigrated with the brother of the timber-merchant many years before--an alliance that was sufficient to place winterborne, though the poorer, on a footing of social intimacy with the melburys. as in most villages so secluded as this, intermarriages were of hapsburgian frequency among the inhabitants, and there were hardly two houses in little hintock unrelated by some matrimonial tie or other. for this reason a curious kind of partnership existed between melbury and the younger man--a partnership based upon an unwritten code, by which each acted in the way he thought fair towards the other, on a give-and-take principle. melbury, with his timber and copse-ware business, found that the weight of his labor came in winter and spring. winterborne was in the apple and cider trade, and his requirements in cartage and other work came in the autumn of each year. hence horses, wagons, and in some degree men, were handed over to him when the apples began to fall; he, in return, lending his assistance to melbury in the busiest wood-cutting season, as now. before he had left the shed a boy came from the house to ask him to remain till mr. melbury had seen him. winterborne thereupon crossed over to the spar-house where two or three men were already at work, two of them being travelling spar-makers from white-hart lane, who, when this kind of work began, made their appearance regularly, and when it was over disappeared in silence till the season came again. firewood was the one thing abundant in little hintock; and a blaze of gad-cuds made the outhouse gay with its light, which vied with that of the day as yet. in the hollow shades of the roof could be seen dangling etiolated arms of ivy which had crept through the joints of the tiles and were groping in vain for some support, their leaves being dwarfed and sickly for want of sunlight; others were pushing in with such force at the eaves as to lift from their supports the shelves that were fixed there. besides the itinerant journey-workers there were also present john upjohn, engaged in the hollow-turnery trade, who lived hard by; old timothy tangs and young timothy tangs, top and bottom sawyers, at work in mr. melbury's pit outside; farmer bawtree, who kept the cider-house, and robert creedle, an old man who worked for winterborne, and stood warming his hands; these latter being enticed in by the ruddy blaze, though they had no particular business there. none of them call for any remark except, perhaps, creedle. to have completely described him it would have been necessary to write a military memoir, for he wore under his smock-frock a cast-off soldier's jacket that had seen hot service, its collar showing just above the flap of the frock; also a hunting memoir, to include the top-boots that he had picked up by chance; also chronicles of voyaging and shipwreck, for his pocket-knife had been given him by a weather-beaten sailor. but creedle carried about with him on his uneventful rounds these silent testimonies of war, sport, and adventure, and thought nothing of their associations or their stories. copse-work, as it was called, being an occupation which the secondary intelligence of the hands and arms could carry on without requiring the sovereign attention of the head, the minds of its professors wandered considerably from the objects before them; hence the tales, chronicles, and ramifications of family history which were recounted here were of a very exhaustive kind, and sometimes so interminable as to defy description. winterborne, seeing that melbury had not arrived, stepped back again outside the door; and the conversation interrupted by his momentary presence flowed anew, reaching his ears as an accompaniment to the regular dripping of the fog from the plantation boughs around. the topic at present handled was a highly popular and frequent one--the personal character of mrs. charmond, the owner of the surrounding woods and groves. "my brother-in-law told me, and i have no reason to doubt it," said creedle, "that she'd sit down to her dinner with a frock hardly higher than her elbows. 'oh, you wicked woman!' he said to himself when he first see her, 'you go to your church, and sit, and kneel, as if your knee-jints were greased with very saint's anointment, and tell off your hear-us-good-lords like a business man counting money; and yet you can eat your victuals such a figure as that!' whether she's a reformed character by this time i can't say; but i don't care who the man is, that's how she went on when my brother-in-law lived there." "did she do it in her husband's time?" "that i don't know--hardly, i should think, considering his temper. ah!" here creedle threw grieved remembrance into physical form by slowly resigning his head to obliquity and letting his eyes water. "that man! 'not if the angels of heaven come down, creedle,' he said, 'shall you do another day's work for me!' yes--he'd say anything--anything; and would as soon take a winged creature's name in vain as yours or mine! well, now i must get these spars home-along, and to-morrow, thank god, i must see about using 'em." an old woman now entered upon the scene. she was mr. melbury's servant, and passed a great part of her time in crossing the yard between the house-door and the spar-shed, whither she had come now for fuel. she had two facial aspects--one, of a soft and flexible kind, she used indoors when assisting about the parlor or upstairs; the other, with stiff lines and corners, when she was bustling among the men in the spar-house or out-of-doors. "ah, grammer oliver," said john upjohn, "it do do my heart good to see a old woman like you so dapper and stirring, when i bear in mind that after fifty one year counts as two did afore! but your smoke didn't rise this morning till twenty minutes past seven by my beater; and that's late, grammer oliver." "if you was a full-sized man, john, people might take notice of your scornful meanings. but your growing up was such a scrimped and scanty business that really a woman couldn't feel hurt if you were to spit fire and brimstone itself at her. here," she added, holding out a spar-gad to one of the workmen, from which dangled a long black-pudding--"here's something for thy breakfast, and if you want tea you must fetch it from in-doors." "mr. melbury is late this morning," said the bottom-sawyer. "yes. 'twas a dark dawn," said mrs. oliver. "even when i opened the door, so late as i was, you couldn't have told poor men from gentlemen, or john from a reasonable-sized object. and i don't think maister's slept at all well to-night. he's anxious about his daughter; and i know what that is, for i've cried bucketfuls for my own." when the old woman had gone creedle said, "he'll fret his gizzard green if he don't soon hear from that maid of his. well, learning is better than houses and lands. but to keep a maid at school till she is taller out of pattens than her mother was in 'em--'tis tempting providence." "it seems no time ago that she was a little playward girl," said young timothy tangs. "i can mind her mother," said the hollow-turner. "always a teuny, delicate piece; her touch upon your hand was as soft and cool as wind. she was inoculated for the small-pox and had it beautifully fine, just about the time that i was out of my apprenticeship--ay, and a long apprenticeship 'twas. i served that master of mine six years and three hundred and fourteen days." the hollow-turner pronounced the days with emphasis, as if, considering their number, they were a rather more remarkable fact than the years. "mr. winterborne's father walked with her at one time," said old timothy tangs. "but mr. melbury won her. she was a child of a woman, and would cry like rain if so be he huffed her. whenever she and her husband came to a puddle in their walks together he'd take her up like a half-penny doll and put her over without dirting her a speck. and if he keeps the daughter so long at boarding-school, he'll make her as nesh as her mother was. but here he comes." just before this moment winterborne had seen melbury crossing the court from his door. he was carrying an open letter in his hand, and came straight to winterborne. his gloom of the preceding night had quite gone. "i'd no sooner made up my mind, giles, to go and see why grace didn't come or write than i get a letter from her--'clifton: wednesday. my dear father,' says she, 'i'm coming home to-morrow' (that's to-day), 'but i didn't think it worth while to write long beforehand.' the little rascal, and didn't she! now, giles, as you are going to sherton market to-day with your apple-trees, why not join me and grace there, and we'll drive home all together?" he made the proposal with cheerful energy; he was hardly the same man as the man of the small dark hours. ever it happens that even among the moodiest the tendency to be cheered is stronger than the tendency to be cast down; and a soul's specific gravity stands permanently less than that of the sea of troubles into which it is thrown. winterborne, though not demonstrative, replied to this suggestion with something like alacrity. there was not much doubt that marty's grounds for cutting off her hair were substantial enough, if ambrose's eyes had been a reason for keeping it on. as for the timber-merchant, it was plain that his invitation had been given solely in pursuance of his scheme for uniting the pair. he had made up his mind to the course as a duty, and was strenuously bent upon following it out. accompanied by winterborne, he now turned towards the door of the spar-house, when his footsteps were heard by the men as aforesaid. "well, john, and lot," he said, nodding as he entered. "a rimy morning." "'tis, sir!" said creedle, energetically; for, not having as yet been able to summon force sufficient to go away and begin work, he felt the necessity of throwing some into his speech. "i don't care who the man is, 'tis the rimiest morning we've had this fall." "i heard you wondering why i've kept my daughter so long at boarding-school," resumed mr. melbury, looking up from the letter which he was reading anew by the fire, and turning to them with the suddenness that was a trait in him. "hey?" he asked, with affected shrewdness. "but you did, you know. well, now, though it is my own business more than anybody else's, i'll tell ye. when i was a boy, another boy--the pa'son's son--along with a lot of others, asked me 'who dragged whom round the walls of what?' and i said, 'sam barrett, who dragged his wife in a chair round the tower corner when she went to be churched.' they laughed at me with such torrents of scorn that i went home ashamed, and couldn't sleep for shame; and i cried that night till my pillow was wet: till at last i thought to myself there and then--'they may laugh at me for my ignorance, but that was father's fault, and none o' my making, and i must bear it. but they shall never laugh at my children, if i have any: i'll starve first!' thank god, i've been able to keep her at school without sacrifice; and her scholarship is such that she stayed on as governess for a time. let 'em laugh now if they can: mrs. charmond herself is not better informed than my girl grace." there was something between high indifference and humble emotion in his delivery, which made it difficult for them to reply. winterborne's interest was of a kind which did not show itself in words; listening, he stood by the fire, mechanically stirring the embers with a spar-gad. "you'll be, then, ready, giles?" melbury continued, awaking from a reverie. "well, what was the latest news at shottsford yesterday, mr. bawtree?" "well, shottsford is shottsford still--you can't victual your carcass there unless you've got money; and you can't buy a cup of genuine there, whether or no....but as the saying is, 'go abroad and you'll hear news of home.' it seems that our new neighbor, this young dr. what's-his-name, is a strange, deep, perusing gentleman; and there's good reason for supposing he has sold his soul to the wicked one." "'od name it all," murmured the timber-merchant, unimpressed by the news, but reminded of other things by the subject of it; "i've got to meet a gentleman this very morning? and yet i've planned to go to sherton abbas for the maid." "i won't praise the doctor's wisdom till i hear what sort of bargain he's made," said the top-sawyer. "'tis only an old woman's tale," said bawtree. "but it seems that he wanted certain books on some mysterious science or black-art, and in order that the people hereabout should not know anything about his dark readings, he ordered 'em direct from london, and not from the sherton book-seller. the parcel was delivered by mistake at the pa'son's, and he wasn't at home; so his wife opened it, and went into hysterics when she read 'em, thinking her husband had turned heathen, and 'twould be the ruin of the children. but when he came he said he knew no more about 'em than she; and found they were this mr. fitzpier's property. so he wrote 'beware!' outside, and sent 'em on by the sexton." "he must be a curious young man," mused the hollow-turner. "he must," said timothy tangs. "nonsense," said mr. melbury, authoritatively, "he's only a gentleman fond of science and philosophy and poetry, and, in fact, every kind of knowledge; and being lonely here, he passes his time in making such matters his hobby." "well," said old timothy, "'tis a strange thing about doctors that the worse they be the better they be. i mean that if you hear anything of this sort about 'em, ten to one they can cure ye as nobody else can." "true," said bawtree, emphatically. "and for my part i shall take my custom from old jones and go to this one directly i've anything the matter with me. that last medicine old jones gave me had no taste in it at all." mr. melbury, as became a well-informed man, did not listen to these recitals, being moreover preoccupied with the business appointment which had come into his head. he walked up and down, looking on the floor--his usual custom when undecided. that stiffness about the arm, hip, and knee-joint which was apparent when he walked was the net product of the divers sprains and over-exertions that had been required of him in handling trees and timber when a young man, for he was of the sort called self-made, and had worked hard. he knew the origin of every one of these cramps: that in his left shoulder had come of carrying a pollard, unassisted, from tutcombe bottom home; that in one leg was caused by the crash of an elm against it when they were felling; that in the other was from lifting a bole. on many a morrow after wearying himself by these prodigious muscular efforts, he had risen from his bed fresh as usual; his lassitude had departed, apparently forever; and confident in the recuperative power of his youth, he had repeated the strains anew. but treacherous time had been only hiding ill results when they could be guarded against, for greater accumulation when they could not. in his declining years the store had been unfolded in the form of rheumatisms, pricks, and spasms, in every one of which melbury recognized some act which, had its consequence been contemporaneously made known, he would wisely have abstained from repeating. on a summons by grammer oliver to breakfast, he left the shed. reaching the kitchen, where the family breakfasted in winter to save house-labor, he sat down by the fire, and looked a long time at the pair of dancing shadows cast by each fire-iron and dog-knob on the whitewashed chimney-corner--a yellow one from the window, and a blue one from the fire. "i don't quite know what to do to-day," he said to his wife at last. "i've recollected that i promised to meet mrs. charmond's steward in round wood at twelve o'clock, and yet i want to go for grace." "why not let giles fetch her by himself? 'twill bring 'em together all the quicker." "i could do that--but i should like to go myself. i always have gone, without fail, every time hitherto. it has been a great pleasure to drive into sherton, and wait and see her arrive; and perhaps she'll be disappointed if i stay away." "you may be disappointed, but i don't think she will, if you send giles," said mrs. melbury, dryly. "very well--i'll send him." melbury was often persuaded by the quietude of his wife's words when strenuous argument would have had no effect. this second mrs. melbury was a placid woman, who had been nurse to his child grace before her mother's death. after that melancholy event little grace had clung to the nurse with much affection; and ultimately melbury, in dread lest the only woman who cared for the girl should be induced to leave her, persuaded the mild lucy to marry him. the arrangement--for it was little more--had worked satisfactorily enough; grace had thriven, and melbury had not repented. he returned to the spar-house and found giles near at hand, to whom he explained the change of plan. "as she won't arrive till five o'clock, you can get your business very well over in time to receive her," said melbury. "the green gig will do for her; you'll spin along quicker with that, and won't be late upon the road. her boxes can be called for by one of the wagons." winterborne, knowing nothing of the timber-merchant's restitutory aims, quietly thought all this to be a kindly chance. wishing even more than her father to despatch his apple-tree business in the market before grace's arrival, he prepared to start at once. melbury was careful that the turnout should be seemly. the gig-wheels, for instance, were not always washed during winter-time before a journey, the muddy roads rendering that labor useless; but they were washed to-day. the harness was blacked, and when the rather elderly white horse had been put in, and winterborne was in his seat ready to start, mr. melbury stepped out with a blacking-brush, and with his own hands touched over the yellow hoofs of the animal. "you see, giles," he said, as he blacked, "coming from a fashionable school, she might feel shocked at the homeliness of home; and 'tis these little things that catch a dainty woman's eye if they are neglected. we, living here alone, don't notice how the whitey-brown creeps out of the earth over us; but she, fresh from a city--why, she'll notice everything!" "that she will," said giles. "and scorn us if we don't mind." "not scorn us." "no, no, no--that's only words. she's too good a girl to do that. but when we consider what she knows, and what she has seen since she last saw us, 'tis as well to meet her views as nearly as possible. why, 'tis a year since she was in this old place, owing to her going abroad in the summer, which i agreed to, thinking it best for her; and naturally we shall look small, just at first--i only say just at first." mr. melbury's tone evinced a certain exultation in the very sense of that inferiority he affected to deplore; for this advanced and refined being, was she not his own all the time? not so giles; he felt doubtful--perhaps a trifle cynical--for that strand was wound into him with the rest. he looked at his clothes with misgiving, then with indifference. it was his custom during the planting season to carry a specimen apple-tree to market with him as an advertisement of what he dealt in. this had been tied across the gig; and as it would be left behind in the town, it would cause no inconvenience to miss grace melbury coming home. he drove away, the twigs nodding with each step of the horse; and melbury went in-doors. before the gig had passed out of sight, mr. melbury reappeared and shouted after-- "here, giles," he said, breathlessly following with some wraps, "it may be very chilly to-night, and she may want something extra about her. and, giles," he added, when the young man, having taken the articles, put the horse in motion once more, "tell her that i should have come myself, but i had particular business with mrs. charmond's agent, which prevented me. don't forget." he watched winterborne out of sight, saying, with a jerk--a shape into which emotion with him often resolved itself--"there, now, i hope the two will bring it to a point and have done with it! 'tis a pity to let such a girl throw herself away upon him--a thousand pities!...and yet 'tis my duty for his father's sake." chapter v. winterborne sped on his way to sherton abbas without elation and without discomposure. had he regarded his inner self spectacularly, as lovers are now daily more wont to do, he might have felt pride in the discernment of a somewhat rare power in him--that of keeping not only judgment but emotion suspended in difficult cases. but he noted it not. neither did he observe what was also the fact, that though he cherished a true and warm feeling towards grace melbury, he was not altogether her fool just now. it must be remembered that he had not seen her for a year. arrived at the entrance to a long flat lane, which had taken the spirit out of many a pedestrian in times when, with the majority, to travel meant to walk, he saw before him the trim figure of a young woman in pattens, journeying with that steadfast concentration which means purpose and not pleasure. he was soon near enough to see that she was marty south. click, click, click went the pattens; and she did not turn her head. she had, however, become aware before this that the driver of the approaching gig was giles. she had shrunk from being overtaken by him thus; but as it was inevitable, she had braced herself up for his inspection by closing her lips so as to make her mouth quite unemotional, and by throwing an additional firmness into her tread. "why do you wear pattens, marty? the turnpike is clean enough, although the lanes are muddy." "they save my boots." "but twelve miles in pattens--'twill twist your feet off. come, get up and ride with me." she hesitated, removed her pattens, knocked the gravel out of them against the wheel, and mounted in front of the nodding specimen apple-tree. she had so arranged her bonnet with a full border and trimmings that her lack of long hair did not much injure her appearance; though giles, of course, saw that it was gone, and may have guessed her motive in parting with it, such sales, though infrequent, being not unheard of in that locality. but nature's adornment was still hard by--in fact, within two feet of him, though he did not know it. in marty's basket was a brown paper packet, and in the packet the chestnut locks, which, by reason of the barber's request for secrecy, she had not ventured to intrust to other hands. giles asked, with some hesitation, how her father was getting on. he was better, she said; he would be able to work in a day or two; he would be quite well but for his craze about the tree falling on him. "you know why i don't ask for him so often as i might, i suppose?" said winterborne. "or don't you know?" "i think i do." "because of the houses?" she nodded. "yes. i am afraid it may seem that my anxiety is about those houses, which i should lose by his death, more than about him. marty, i do feel anxious about the houses, since half my income depends upon them; but i do likewise care for him; and it almost seems wrong that houses should be leased for lives, so as to lead to such mixed feelings." "after father's death they will be mrs. charmond's?" "they'll be hers." "they are going to keep company with my hair," she thought. thus talking, they reached the town. by no pressure would she ride up the street with him. "that's the right of another woman," she said, with playful malice, as she put on her pattens. "i wonder what you are thinking of! thank you for the lift in that handsome gig. good-by." he blushed a little, shook his head at her, and drove on ahead into the streets--the churches, the abbey, and other buildings on this clear bright morning having the liny distinctness of architectural drawings, as if the original dream and vision of the conceiving master-mason, some mediaeval vilars or other unknown to fame, were for a few minutes flashed down through the centuries to an unappreciative age. giles saw their eloquent look on this day of transparency, but could not construe it. he turned into the inn-yard. marty, following the same track, marched promptly to the hair-dresser's, mr. percombe's. percombe was the chief of his trade in sherton abbas. he had the patronage of such county offshoots as had been obliged to seek the shelter of small houses in that ancient town, of the local clergy, and so on, for some of whom he had made wigs, while others among them had compensated for neglecting him in their lifetime by patronizing him when they were dead, and letting him shave their corpses. on the strength of all this he had taken down his pole, and called himself "perruquier to the aristocracy." nevertheless, this sort of support did not quite fill his children's mouths, and they had to be filled. so, behind his house there was a little yard, reached by a passage from the back street, and in that yard was a pole, and under the pole a shop of quite another description than the ornamental one in the front street. here on saturday nights from seven till ten he took an almost innumerable succession of twopences from the farm laborers who flocked thither in crowds from the country. and thus he lived. marty, of course, went to the front shop, and handed her packet to him silently. "thank you," said the barber, quite joyfully. "i hardly expected it after what you said last night." she turned aside, while a tear welled up and stood in each eye at this reminder. "nothing of what i told you," he whispered, there being others in the shop. "but i can trust you, i see." she had now reached the end of this distressing business, and went listlessly along the street to attend to other errands. these occupied her till four o'clock, at which time she recrossed the market-place. it was impossible to avoid rediscovering winterborne every time she passed that way, for standing, as he always did at this season of the year, with his specimen apple-tree in the midst, the boughs rose above the heads of the crowd, and brought a delightful suggestion of orchards among the crowded buildings there. when her eye fell upon him for the last time he was standing somewhat apart, holding the tree like an ensign, and looking on the ground instead of pushing his produce as he ought to have been doing. he was, in fact, not a very successful seller either of his trees or of his cider, his habit of speaking his mind, when he spoke at all, militating against this branch of his business. while she regarded him he suddenly lifted his eyes in a direction away from marty, his face simultaneously kindling with recognition and surprise. she followed his gaze, and saw walking across to him a flexible young creature in whom she perceived the features of her she had known as miss grace melbury, but now looking glorified and refined above her former level. winterborne, being fixed to the spot by his apple-tree, could not advance to meet her; he held out his spare hand with his hat in it, and with some embarrassment beheld her coming on tiptoe through the mud to the middle of the square where he stood. miss melbury's arrival so early was, as marty could see, unexpected by giles, which accounted for his not being ready to receive her. indeed, her father had named five o'clock as her probable time, for which reason that hour had been looming out all the day in his forward perspective, like an important edifice on a plain. now here she was come, he knew not how, and his arranged welcome stultified. his face became gloomy at her necessity for stepping into the road, and more still at the little look of embarrassment which appeared on hers at having to perform the meeting with him under an apple-tree ten feet high in the middle of the market-place. having had occasion to take off the new gloves she had bought to come home in, she held out to him a hand graduating from pink at the tips of the fingers to white at the palm; and the reception formed a scene, with the tree over their heads, which was not by any means an ordinary one in sherton abbas streets. nevertheless, the greeting on her looks and lips was of a restrained type, which perhaps was not unnatural. for true it was that giles winterborne, well-attired and well-mannered as he was for a yeoman, looked rough beside her. it had sometimes dimly occurred to him, in his ruminating silence at little hintock, that external phenomena--such as the lowness or height or color of a hat, the fold of a coat, the make of a boot, or the chance attitude or occupation of a limb at the instant of view--may have a great influence upon feminine opinion of a man's worth--so frequently founded on non-essentials; but a certain causticity of mental tone towards himself and the world in general had prevented to-day, as always, any enthusiastic action on the strength of that reflection; and her momentary instinct of reserve at first sight of him was the penalty he paid for his laxness. he gave away the tree to a by-stander, as soon as he could find one who would accept the cumbersome gift, and the twain moved on towards the inn at which he had put up. marty made as if to step forward for the pleasure of being recognized by miss melbury; but abruptly checking herself, she glided behind a carrier's van, saying, dryly, "no; i baint wanted there," and critically regarded winterborne's companion. it would have been very difficult to describe grace melbury with precision, either now or at any time. nay, from the highest point of view, to precisely describe a human being, the focus of a universe--how impossible! but, apart from transcendentalism, there never probably lived a person who was in herself more completely a reductio ad absurdum of attempts to appraise a woman, even externally, by items of face and figure. speaking generally, it may be said that she was sometimes beautiful, at other times not beautiful, according to the state of her health and spirits. in simple corporeal presentment she was of a fair and clear complexion, rather pale than pink, slim in build and elastic in movement. her look expressed a tendency to wait for others' thoughts before uttering her own; possibly also to wait for others' deeds before her own doing. in her small, delicate mouth, which had perhaps hardly settled down to its matured curves, there was a gentleness that might hinder sufficient self-assertion for her own good. she had well-formed eyebrows which, had her portrait been painted, would probably have been done in prout's or vandyke brown. there was nothing remarkable in her dress just now, beyond a natural fitness and a style that was recent for the streets of sherton. but, indeed, had it been the reverse, and quite striking, it would have meant just as little. for there can be hardly anything less connected with a woman's personality than drapery which she has neither designed, manufactured, cut, sewed, or even seen, except by a glance of approval when told that such and such a shape and color must be had because it has been decided by others as imperative at that particular time. what people, therefore, saw of her in a cursory view was very little; in truth, mainly something that was not she. the woman herself was a shadowy, conjectural creature who had little to do with the outlines presented to sherton eyes; a shape in the gloom, whose true description could only be approximated by putting together a movement now and a glance then, in that patient and long-continued attentiveness which nothing but watchful loving-kindness ever troubles to give. there was a little delay in their setting out from the town, and marty south took advantage of it to hasten forward, with the view of escaping them on the way, lest they should feel compelled to spoil their tete-a-tete by asking her to ride. she walked fast, and one-third of the journey was done, and the evening rapidly darkening, before she perceived any sign of them behind her. then, while ascending a hill, she dimly saw their vehicle drawing near the lowest part of the incline, their heads slightly bent towards each other; drawn together, no doubt, by their souls, as the heads of a pair of horses well in hand are drawn in by the rein. she walked still faster. but between these and herself there was a carriage, apparently a brougham, coming in the same direction, with lighted lamps. when it overtook her--which was not soon, on account of her pace--the scene was much darker, and the lights glared in her eyes sufficiently to hide the details of the equipage. it occurred to marty that she might take hold behind this carriage and so keep along with it, to save herself the mortification of being overtaken and picked up for pity's sake by the coming pair. accordingly, as the carriage drew abreast of her in climbing the long ascent, she walked close to the wheels, the rays of the nearest lamp penetrating her very pores. she had only just dropped behind when the carriage stopped, and to her surprise the coachman asked her, over his shoulder, if she would ride. what made the question more surprising was that it came in obedience to an order from the interior of the vehicle. marty gladly assented, for she was weary, very weary, after working all night and keeping afoot all day. she mounted beside the coachman, wondering why this good-fortune had happened to her. he was rather a great man in aspect, and she did not like to inquire of him for some time. at last she said, "who has been so kind as to ask me to ride?" "mrs. charmond," replied her statuesque companion. marty was stirred at the name, so closely connected with her last night's experiences. "is this her carriage?" she whispered. "yes; she's inside." marty reflected, and perceived that mrs. charmond must have recognized her plodding up the hill under the blaze of the lamp; recognized, probably, her stubbly poll (since she had kept away her face), and thought that those stubbles were the result of her own desire. marty south was not so very far wrong. inside the carriage a pair of bright eyes looked from a ripely handsome face, and though behind those bright eyes was a mind of unfathomed mysteries, beneath them there beat a heart capable of quick extempore warmth--a heart which could, indeed, be passionately and imprudently warm on certain occasions. at present, after recognizing the girl, she had acted on a mere impulse, possibly feeling gratified at the denuded appearance which signified the success of her agent in obtaining what she had required. "'tis wonderful that she should ask ye," observed the magisterial coachman, presently. "i have never known her do it before, for as a rule she takes no interest in the village folk at all." marty said no more, but occasionally turned her head to see if she could get a glimpse of the olympian creature who as the coachman had truly observed, hardly ever descended from her clouds into the tempe of the parishioners. but she could discern nothing of the lady. she also looked for miss melbury and winterborne. the nose of their horse sometimes came quite near the back of mrs. charmond's carriage. but they never attempted to pass it till the latter conveyance turned towards the park gate, when they sped by. here the carriage drew up that the gate might be opened, and in the momentary silence marty heard a gentle oral sound, soft as a breeze. "what's that?" she whispered. "mis'ess yawning." "why should she yawn?" "oh, because she's been used to such wonderfully good life, and finds it dull here. she'll soon be off again on account of it." "so rich and so powerful, and yet to yawn!" the girl murmured. "then things don't fay with she any more than with we!" marty now alighted; the lamp again shone upon her, and as the carriage rolled on, a soft voice said to her from the interior, "good-night." "good-night, ma'am," said marty. but she had not been able to see the woman who began so greatly to interest her--the second person of her own sex who had operated strongly on her mind that day. chapter vi. meanwhile, winterborne and grace melbury had also undergone their little experiences of the same homeward journey. as he drove off with her out of the town the glances of people fell upon them, the younger thinking that mr. winterborne was in a pleasant place, and wondering in what relation he stood towards her. winterborne himself was unconscious of this. occupied solely with the idea of having her in charge, he did not notice much with outward eye, neither observing how she was dressed, nor the effect of the picture they together composed in the landscape. their conversation was in briefest phrase for some time, grace being somewhat disconcerted, through not having understood till they were about to start that giles was to be her sole conductor in place of her father. when they were in the open country he spoke. "don't brownley's farm-buildings look strange to you, now they have been moved bodily from the hollow where the old ones stood to the top of the hill?" she admitted that they did, though she should not have seen any difference in them if he had not pointed it out. "they had a good crop of bitter-sweets; they couldn't grind them all" (nodding towards an orchard where some heaps of apples had been left lying ever since the ingathering). she said "yes," but looking at another orchard. "why, you are looking at john-apple-trees! you know bitter-sweets--you used to well enough!" "i am afraid i have forgotten, and it is getting too dark to distinguish." winterborne did not continue. it seemed as if the knowledge and interest which had formerly moved grace's mind had quite died away from her. he wondered whether the special attributes of his image in the past had evaporated like these other things. however that might be, the fact at present was merely this, that where he was seeing john-apples and farm-buildings she was beholding a far remoter scene--a scene no less innocent and simple, indeed, but much contrasting--a broad lawn in the fashionable suburb of a fast city, the evergreen leaves shining in the evening sun, amid which bounding girls, gracefully clad in artistic arrangements of blue, brown, red, black, and white, were playing at games, with laughter and chat, in all the pride of life, the notes of piano and harp trembling in the air from the open windows adjoining. moreover, they were girls--and this was a fact which grace melbury's delicate femininity could not lose sight of--whose parents giles would have addressed with a deferential sir or madam. beside this visioned scene the homely farmsteads did not quite hold their own from her present twenty-year point of survey. for all his woodland sequestration, giles knew the primitive simplicity of the subject he had started, and now sounded a deeper note. "'twas very odd what we said to each other years ago; i often think of it. i mean our saying that if we still liked each other when you were twenty and i twenty-five, we'd--" "it was child's tattle." "h'm!" said giles, suddenly. "i mean we were young," said she, more considerately. that gruff manner of his in making inquiries reminded her that he was unaltered in much. "yes....i beg your pardon, miss melbury; your father sent me to meet you to-day." "i know it, and i am glad of it." he seemed satisfied with her tone and went on: "at that time you were sitting beside me at the back of your father's covered car, when we were coming home from gypsying, all the party being squeezed in together as tight as sheep in an auction-pen. it got darker and darker, and i said--i forget the exact words--but i put my arm round your waist and there you let it stay till your father, sitting in front suddenly stopped telling his story to farmer bollen, to light his pipe. the flash shone into the car, and showed us all up distinctly; my arm flew from your waist like lightning; yet not so quickly but that some of 'em had seen, and laughed at us. yet your father, to our amazement, instead of being angry, was mild as milk, and seemed quite pleased. have you forgot all that, or haven't you?" she owned that she remembered it very well, now that he mentioned the circumstances. "but, goodness! i must have been in short frocks," she said. "come now, miss melbury, that won't do! short frocks, indeed! you know better, as well as i." grace thereupon declared that she would not argue with an old friend she valued so highly as she valued him, saying the words with the easy elusiveness that will be polite at all costs. it might possibly be true, she added, that she was getting on in girlhood when that event took place; but if it were so, then she was virtually no less than an old woman now, so far did the time seem removed from her present. "do you ever look at things philosophically instead of personally?" she asked. "i can't say that i do," answered giles, his eyes lingering far ahead upon a dark spot, which proved to be a brougham. "i think you may, sometimes, with advantage," said she. "look at yourself as a pitcher drifting on the stream with other pitchers, and consider what contrivances are most desirable for avoiding cracks in general, and not only for saving your poor one. shall i tell you all about bath or cheltenham, or places on the continent that i visited last summer?" "with all my heart." she then described places and persons in such terms as might have been used for that purpose by any woman to any man within the four seas, so entirely absent from that description was everything specially appertaining to her own existence. when she had done she said, gayly, "now do you tell me in return what has happened in hintock since i have been away." "anything to keep the conversation away from her and me," said giles within him. it was true cultivation had so far advanced in the soil of miss melbury's mind as to lead her to talk by rote of anything save of that she knew well, and had the greatest interest in developing--that is to say, herself. he had not proceeded far with his somewhat bald narration when they drew near the carriage that had been preceding them for some time. miss melbury inquired if he knew whose carriage it was. winterborne, although he had seen it, had not taken it into account. on examination, he said it was mrs. charmond's. grace watched the vehicle and its easy roll, and seemed to feel more nearly akin to it than to the one she was in. "pooh! we can polish off the mileage as well as they, come to that," said winterborne, reading her mind; and rising to emulation at what it bespoke, he whipped on the horse. this it was which had brought the nose of mr. melbury's old gray close to the back of mrs. charmond's much-eclipsing vehicle. "there's marty south sitting up with the coachman," said he, discerning her by her dress. "ah, poor marty! i must ask her to come to see me this very evening. how does she happen to be riding there?" "i don't know. it is very singular." thus these people with converging destinies went along the road together, till winterborne, leaving the track of the carriage, turned into little hintock, where almost the first house was the timber-merchant's. pencils of dancing light streamed out of the windows sufficiently to show the white laurestinus flowers, and glance over the polished leaves of laurel. the interior of the rooms could be seen distinctly, warmed up by the fire-flames, which in the parlor were reflected from the glass of the pictures and bookcase, and in the kitchen from the utensils and ware. "let us look at the dear place for a moment before we call them," she said. in the kitchen dinner was preparing; for though melbury dined at one o'clock at other times, to-day the meal had been kept back for grace. a rickety old spit was in motion, its end being fixed in the fire-dog, and the whole kept going by means of a cord conveyed over pulleys along the ceiling to a large stone suspended in a corner of the room. old grammer oliver came and wound it up with a rattle like that of a mill. in the parlor a large shade of mrs. melbury's head fell on the wall and ceiling; but before the girl had regarded this room many moments their presence was discovered, and her father and stepmother came out to welcome her. the character of the melbury family was of that kind which evinces some shyness in showing strong emotion among each other: a trait frequent in rural households, and one which stands in curiously inverse relation to most of the peculiarities distinguishing villagers from the people of towns. thus hiding their warmer feelings under commonplace talk all round, grace's reception produced no extraordinary demonstrations. but that more was felt than was enacted appeared from the fact that her father, in taking her in-doors, quite forgot the presence of giles without, as did also grace herself. he said nothing, but took the gig round to the yard and called out from the spar-house the man who particularly attended to these matters when there was no conversation to draw him off among the copse-workers inside. winterborne then returned to the door with the intention of entering the house. the family had gone into the parlor, and were still absorbed in themselves. the fire was, as before, the only light, and it irradiated grace's face and hands so as to make them look wondrously smooth and fair beside those of the two elders; shining also through the loose hair about her temples as sunlight through a brake. her father was surveying her in a dazed conjecture, so much had she developed and progressed in manner and stature since he last had set eyes on her. observing these things, winterborne remained dubious by the door, mechanically tracing with his fingers certain time-worn letters carved in the jambs--initials of by-gone generations of householders who had lived and died there. no, he declared to himself, he would not enter and join the family; they had forgotten him, and it was enough for to-day that he had brought her home. still, he was a little surprised that her father's eagerness to send him for grace should have resulted in such an anticlimax as this. he walked softly away into the lane towards his own house, looking back when he reached the turning, from which he could get a last glimpse of the timber-merchant's roof. he hazarded guesses as to what grace was saying just at that moment, and murmured, with some self-derision, "nothing about me!" he looked also in the other direction, and saw against the sky the thatched hip and solitary chimney of marty's cottage, and thought of her too, struggling bravely along under that humble shelter, among her spar-gads and pots and skimmers. at the timber-merchant's, in the mean time, the conversation flowed; and, as giles winterborne had rightly enough deemed, on subjects in which he had no share. among the excluding matters there was, for one, the effect upon mr. melbury of the womanly mien and manners of his daughter, which took him so much unawares that, though it did not make him absolutely forget the existence of her conductor homeward, thrust giles's image back into quite the obscurest cellarage of his brain. another was his interview with mrs. charmond's agent that morning, at which the lady herself had been present for a few minutes. melbury had purchased some standing timber from her a long time before, and now that the date had come for felling it he was left to pursue almost his own course. this was what the household were actually talking of during giles's cogitation without; and melbury's satisfaction with the clear atmosphere that had arisen between himself and the deity of the groves which enclosed his residence was the cause of a counterbalancing mistiness on the side towards winterborne. "so thoroughly does she trust me," said melbury, "that i might fell, top, or lop, on my own judgment, any stick o' timber whatever in her wood, and fix the price o't, and settle the matter. but, name it all! i wouldn't do such a thing. however, it may be useful to have this good understanding with her....i wish she took more interest in the place, and stayed here all the year round." "i am afraid 'tis not her regard for you, but her dislike of hintock, that makes her so easy about the trees," said mrs. melbury. when dinner was over, grace took a candle and began to ramble pleasurably through the rooms of her old home, from which she had latterly become wellnigh an alien. each nook and each object revived a memory, and simultaneously modified it. the chambers seemed lower than they had appeared on any previous occasion of her return, the surfaces of both walls and ceilings standing in such relations to the eye that it could not avoid taking microscopic note of their irregularities and old fashion. her own bedroom wore at once a look more familiar than when she had left it, and yet a face estranged. the world of little things therein gazed at her in helpless stationariness, as though they had tried and been unable to make any progress without her presence. over the place where her candle had been accustomed to stand, when she had used to read in bed till the midnight hour, there was still the brown spot of smoke. she did not know that her father had taken especial care to keep it from being cleaned off. having concluded her perambulation of this now uselessly commodious edifice, grace began to feel that she had come a long journey since the morning; and when her father had been up himself, as well as his wife, to see that her room was comfortable and the fire burning, she prepared to retire for the night. no sooner, however, was she in bed than her momentary sleepiness took itself off, and she wished she had stayed up longer. she amused herself by listening to the old familiar noises that she could hear to be still going on down-stairs, and by looking towards the window as she lay. the blind had been drawn up, as she used to have it when a girl, and she could just discern the dim tree-tops against the sky on the neighboring hill. beneath this meeting-line of light and shade nothing was visible save one solitary point of light, which blinked as the tree-twigs waved to and fro before its beams. from its position it seemed to radiate from the window of a house on the hill-side. the house had been empty when she was last at home, and she wondered who inhabited the place now. her conjectures, however, were not intently carried on, and she was watching the light quite idly, when it gradually changed color, and at length shone blue as sapphire. thus it remained several minutes, and then it passed through violet to red. her curiosity was so widely awakened by the phenomenon that she sat up in bed, and stared steadily at the shine. an appearance of this sort, sufficient to excite attention anywhere, was no less than a marvel in hintock, as grace had known the hamlet. almost every diurnal and nocturnal effect in that woodland place had hitherto been the direct result of the regular terrestrial roll which produced the season's changes; but here was something dissociated from these normal sequences, and foreign to local habit and knowledge. it was about this moment that grace heard the household below preparing to retire, the most emphatic noise in the proceeding being that of her father bolting the doors. then the stairs creaked, and her father and mother passed her chamber. the last to come was grammer oliver. grace slid out of bed, ran across the room, and lifting the latch, said, "i am not asleep, grammer. come in and talk to me." before the old woman had entered, grace was again under the bedclothes. grammer set down her candlestick, and seated herself on the edge of miss melbury's coverlet. "i want you to tell me what light that is i see on the hill-side," said grace. mrs. oliver looked across. "oh, that," she said, "is from the doctor's. he's often doing things of that sort. perhaps you don't know that we've a doctor living here now--mr. fitzpiers by name?" grace admitted that she had not heard of him. "well, then, miss, he's come here to get up a practice. i know him very well, through going there to help 'em scrub sometimes, which your father said i might do, if i wanted to, in my spare time. being a bachelor-man, he've only a lad in the house. oh yes, i know him very well. sometimes he'll talk to me as if i were his own mother." "indeed." "yes. 'grammer,' he said one day, when i asked him why he came here where there's hardly anybody living, 'i'll tell you why i came here. i took a map, and i marked on it where dr. jones's practice ends to the north of this district, and where mr. taylor's ends on the south, and little jimmy green's on the east, and somebody else's to the west. then i took a pair of compasses, and found the exact middle of the country that was left between these bounds, and that middle was little hintock; so here i am....' but, lord, there: poor young man!" "why?" "he said, 'grammer oliver, i've been here three months, and although there are a good many people in the hintocks and the villages round, and a scattered practice is often a very good one, i don't seem to get many patients. and there's no society at all; and i'm pretty near melancholy mad,' he said, with a great yawn. 'i should be quite if it were not for my books, and my lab--laboratory, and what not. grammer, i was made for higher things.' and then he'd yawn and yawn again." "was he really made for higher things, do you think? i mean, is he clever?" "well, no. how can he be clever? he may be able to jine up a broken man or woman after a fashion, and put his finger upon an ache if you tell him nearly where 'tis; but these young men--they should live to my time of life, and then they'd see how clever they were at five-and-twenty! and yet he's a projick, a real projick, and says the oddest of rozums. 'ah, grammer,' he said, at another time, 'let me tell you that everything is nothing. there's only me and not me in the whole world.' and he told me that no man's hands could help what they did, any more than the hands of a clock....yes, he's a man of strange meditations, and his eyes seem to see as far as the north star." "he will soon go away, no doubt." "i don't think so." grace did not say "why?" and grammer hesitated. at last she went on: "don't tell your father or mother, miss, if i let you know a secret." grace gave the required promise. "well, he talks of buying me; so he won't go away just yet." "buying you!--how?" "not my soul--my body, when i'm dead. one day when i was there cleaning, he said, 'grammer, you've a large brain--a very large organ of brain,' he said. 'a woman's is usually four ounces less than a man's; but yours is man's size.' well, then--hee, hee!--after he'd flattered me a bit like that, he said he'd give me ten pounds to have me as a natomy after my death. well, knowing i'd no chick nor chiel left, and nobody with any interest in me, i thought, faith, if i can be of any use to my fellow-creatures after i'm gone they are welcome to my services; so i said i'd think it over, and would most likely agree and take the ten pounds. now this is a secret, miss, between us two. the money would be very useful to me; and i see no harm in it." "of course there's no harm. but oh, grammer, how can you think to do it? i wish you hadn't told me." "i wish i hadn't--if you don't like to know it, miss. but you needn't mind. lord--hee, hee!--i shall keep him waiting many a year yet, bless ye!" "i hope you will, i am sure." the girl thereupon fell into such deep reflection that conversation languished, and grammer oliver, taking her candle, wished miss melbury good-night. the latter's eyes rested on the distant glimmer, around which she allowed her reasoning fancy to play in vague eddies that shaped the doings of the philosopher behind that light on the lines of intelligence just received. it was strange to her to come back from the world to little hintock and find in one of its nooks, like a tropical plant in a hedgerow, a nucleus of advanced ideas and practices which had nothing in common with the life around. chemical experiments, anatomical projects, and metaphysical conceptions had found a strange home here. thus she remained thinking, the imagined pursuits of the man behind the light intermingling with conjectural sketches of his personality, till her eyes fell together with their own heaviness, and she slept. chapter vii. kaleidoscopic dreams of a weird alchemist-surgeon, grammer oliver's skeleton, and the face of giles winterborne, brought grace melbury to the morning of the next day. it was fine. a north wind was blowing--that not unacceptable compromise between the atmospheric cutlery of the eastern blast and the spongy gales of the west quarter. she looked from her window in the direction of the light of the previous evening, and could just discern through the trees the shape of the surgeon's house. somehow, in the broad, practical daylight, that unknown and lonely gentleman seemed to be shorn of much of the interest which had invested his personality and pursuits in the hours of darkness, and as grace's dressing proceeded he faded from her mind. meanwhile, winterborne, though half assured of her father's favor, was rendered a little restless by miss melbury's behavior. despite his dry self-control, he could not help looking continually from his own door towards the timber-merchant's, in the probability of somebody's emergence therefrom. his attention was at length justified by the appearance of two figures, that of mr. melbury himself, and grace beside him. they stepped out in a direction towards the densest quarter of the wood, and winterborne walked contemplatively behind them, till all three were soon under the trees. although the time of bare boughs had now set in, there were sheltered hollows amid the hintock plantations and copses in which a more tardy leave-taking than on windy summits was the rule with the foliage. this caused here and there an apparent mixture of the seasons; so that in some of the dells that they passed by holly-berries in full red were found growing beside oak and hazel whose leaves were as yet not far removed from green, and brambles whose verdure was rich and deep as in the month of august. to grace these well-known peculiarities were as an old painting restored. now could be beheld that change from the handsome to the curious which the features of a wood undergo at the ingress of the winter months. angles were taking the place of curves, and reticulations of surfaces--a change constituting a sudden lapse from the ornate to the primitive on nature's canvas, and comparable to a retrogressive step from the art of an advanced school of painting to that of the pacific islander. winterborne followed, and kept his eye upon the two figures as they threaded their way through these sylvan phenomena. mr. melbury's long legs, and gaiters drawn in to the bone at the ankles, his slight stoop, his habit of getting lost in thought and arousing himself with an exclamation of "hah!" accompanied with an upward jerk of the head, composed a personage recognizable by his neighbors as far as he could be seen. it seemed as if the squirrels and birds knew him. one of the former would occasionally run from the path to hide behind the arm of some tree, which the little animal carefully edged round pari passu with melbury and his daughters movement onward, assuming a mock manner, as though he were saying, "ho, ho; you are only a timber-merchant, and carry no gun!" they went noiselessly over mats of starry moss, rustled through interspersed tracts of leaves, skirted trunks with spreading roots, whose mossed rinds made them like hands wearing green gloves; elbowed old elms and ashes with great forks, in which stood pools of water that overflowed on rainy days, and ran down their stems in green cascades. on older trees still than these, huge lobes of fungi grew like lungs. here, as everywhere, the unfulfilled intention, which makes life what it is, was as obvious as it could be among the depraved crowds of a city slum. the leaf was deformed, the curve was crippled, the taper was interrupted; the lichen eat the vigor of the stalk, and the ivy slowly strangled to death the promising sapling. they dived amid beeches under which nothing grew, the younger boughs still retaining their hectic leaves, that rustled in the breeze with a sound almost metallic, like the sheet-iron foliage of the fabled jarnvid wood. some flecks of white in grace's drapery had enabled giles to keep her and her father in view till this time; but now he lost sight of them, and was obliged to follow by ear--no difficult matter, for on the line of their course every wood-pigeon rose from its perch with a continued clash, dashing its wings against the branches with wellnigh force enough to break every quill. by taking the track of this noise he soon came to a stile. was it worth while to go farther? he examined the doughy soil at the foot of the stile, and saw among the large sole-and-heel tracks an impression of a slighter kind from a boot that was obviously not local, for winterborne knew all the cobblers' patterns in that district, because they were very few to know. the mud-picture was enough to make him swing himself over and proceed. the character of the woodland now changed. the bases of the smaller trees were nibbled bare by rabbits, and at divers points heaps of fresh-made chips, and the newly-cut stool of a tree, stared white through the undergrowth. there had been a large fall of timber this year, which explained the meaning of some sounds that soon reached him. a voice was shouting intermittently in a sort of human bark, which reminded giles that there was a sale of trees and fagots that very day. melbury would naturally be present. thereupon winterborne remembered that he himself wanted a few fagots, and entered upon the scene. a large group of buyers stood round the auctioneer, or followed him when, between his pauses, he wandered on from one lot of plantation produce to another, like some philosopher of the peripatetic school delivering his lectures in the shady groves of the lyceum. his companions were timber-dealers, yeomen, farmers, villagers, and others; mostly woodland men, who on that account could afford to be curious in their walking-sticks, which consequently exhibited various monstrosities of vegetation, the chief being cork-screw shapes in black and white thorn, brought to that pattern by the slow torture of an encircling woodbine during their growth, as the chinese have been said to mould human beings into grotesque toys by continued compression in infancy. two women, wearing men's jackets on their gowns, conducted in the rear of the halting procession a pony-cart containing a tapped barrel of beer, from which they drew and replenished horns that were handed round, with bread-and-cheese from a basket. the auctioneer adjusted himself to circumstances by using his walking-stick as a hammer, and knocked down the lot on any convenient object that took his fancy, such as the crown of a little boy's head, or the shoulders of a by-stander who had no business there except to taste the brew; a proceeding which would have been deemed humorous but for the air of stern rigidity which that auctioneer's face preserved, tending to show that the eccentricity was a result of that absence of mind which is engendered by the press of affairs, and no freak of fancy at all. mr. melbury stood slightly apart from the rest of the peripatetics, and grace beside him, clinging closely to his arm, her modern attire looking almost odd where everything else was old-fashioned, and throwing over the familiar garniture of the trees a homeliness that seemed to demand improvement by the addition of a few contemporary novelties also. grace seemed to regard the selling with the interest which attaches to memories revived after an interval of obliviousness. winterborne went and stood close to them; the timber-merchant spoke, and continued his buying; grace merely smiled. to justify his presence there winterborne began bidding for timber and fagots that he did not want, pursuing the occupation in an abstracted mood, in which the auctioneer's voice seemed to become one of the natural sounds of the woodland. a few flakes of snow descended, at the sight of which a robin, alarmed at these signs of imminent winter, and seeing that no offence was meant by the human invasion, came and perched on the tip of the fagots that were being sold, and looked into the auctioneer's face, while waiting for some chance crumb from the bread-basket. standing a little behind grace, winterborne observed how one flake would sail downward and settle on a curl of her hair, and how another would choose her shoulder, and another the edge of her bonnet, which took up so much of his attention that his biddings proceeded incoherently; and when the auctioneer said, every now and then, with a nod towards him, "yours, mr. winterborne," he had no idea whether he had bought fagots, poles, or logwood. he regretted, with some causticity of humor, that her father should show such inequalities of temperament as to keep grace tightly on his arm to-day, when he had quite lately seemed anxious to recognize their betrothal as a fact. and thus musing, and joining in no conversation with other buyers except when directly addressed, he followed the assemblage hither and thither till the end of the auction, when giles for the first time realized what his purchases had been. hundreds of fagots, and divers lots of timber, had been set down to him, when all he had required had been a few bundles of spray for his odd man robert creedle's use in baking and lighting fires. business being over, he turned to speak to the timber merchant. but melbury's manner was short and distant; and grace, too, looked vexed and reproachful. winterborne then discovered that he had been unwittingly bidding against her father, and picking up his favorite lots in spite of him. with a very few words they left the spot and pursued their way homeward. giles was extremely sorry at what he had done, and remained standing under the trees, all the other men having strayed silently away. he saw melbury and his daughter pass down a glade without looking back. while they moved slowly through it a lady appeared on horseback in the middle distance, the line of her progress converging upon that of melbury's. they met, melbury took off his hat, and she reined in her horse. a conversation was evidently in progress between grace and her father and this equestrian, in whom he was almost sure that he recognized mrs. charmond, less by her outline than by the livery of the groom who had halted some yards off. the interlocutors did not part till after a prolonged pause, during which much seemed to be said. when melbury and grace resumed their walk it was with something of a lighter tread than before. winterborne then pursued his own course homeward. he was unwilling to let coldness grow up between himself and the melburys for any trivial reason, and in the evening he went to their house. on drawing near the gate his attention was attracted by the sight of one of the bedrooms blinking into a state of illumination. in it stood grace lighting several candles, her right hand elevating the taper, her left hand on her bosom, her face thoughtfully fixed on each wick as it kindled, as if she saw in every flame's growth the rise of a life to maturity. he wondered what such unusual brilliancy could mean to-night. on getting in-doors he found her father and step-mother in a state of suppressed excitement, which at first he could not comprehend. "i am sorry about my biddings to-day," said giles. "i don't know what i was doing. i have come to say that any of the lots you may require are yours." "oh, never mind--never mind," replied the timber-merchant, with a slight wave of his hand, "i have so much else to think of that i nearly had forgot it. just now, too, there are matters of a different kind from trade to attend to, so don't let it concern ye." as the timber-merchant spoke, as it were, down to him from a higher moral plane than his own, giles turned to mrs. melbury. "grace is going to the house to-morrow," she said, quietly. "she is looking out her things now. i dare say she is wanting me this minute to assist her." thereupon mrs. melbury left the room. nothing is more remarkable than the independent personality of the tongue now and then. mr. melbury knew that his words had been a sort of boast. he decried boasting, particularly to giles; yet whenever the subject was grace, his judgment resigned the ministry of speech in spite of him. winterborne felt surprise, pleasure, and also a little apprehension at the news. he repeated mrs. melbury's words. "yes," said paternal pride, not sorry to have dragged out of him what he could not in any circumstances have kept in. "coming home from the woods this afternoon we met mrs. charmond out for a ride. she spoke to me on a little matter of business, and then got acquainted with grace. 'twas wonderful how she took to grace in a few minutes; that freemasonry of education made 'em close at once. naturally enough she was amazed that such an article--ha, ha!--could come out of my house. at last it led on to mis'ess grace being asked to the house. so she's busy hunting up her frills and furbelows to go in." as giles remained in thought without responding, melbury continued: "but i'll call her down-stairs." "no, no; don't do that, since she's busy," said winterborne. melbury, feeling from the young man's manner that his own talk had been too much at giles and too little to him, repented at once. his face changed, and he said, in lower tones, with an effort, "she's yours, giles, as far as i am concerned." "thanks--my best thanks....but i think, since it is all right between us about the biddings, that i'll not interrupt her now. i'll step homeward, and call another time." on leaving the house he looked up at the bedroom again. grace, surrounded by a sufficient number of candles to answer all purposes of self-criticism, was standing before a cheval-glass that her father had lately bought expressly for her use; she was bonneted, cloaked, and gloved, and glanced over her shoulder into the mirror, estimating her aspect. her face was lit with the natural elation of a young girl hoping to inaugurate on the morrow an intimate acquaintance with a new, interesting, and powerful friend. chapter viii. the inspiriting appointment which had led grace melbury to indulge in a six-candle illumination for the arrangement of her attire, carried her over the ground the next morning with a springy tread. her sense of being properly appreciated on her own native soil seemed to brighten the atmosphere and herbage around her, as the glowworm's lamp irradiates the grass. thus she moved along, a vessel of emotion going to empty itself on she knew not what. twenty minutes' walking through copses, over a stile, and along an upland lawn brought her to the verge of a deep glen, at the bottom of which hintock house appeared immediately beneath her eye. to describe it as standing in a hollow would not express the situation of the manor-house; it stood in a hole, notwithstanding that the hole was full of beauty. from the spot which grace had reached a stone could easily have been thrown over or into, the birds'-nested chimneys of the mansion. its walls were surmounted by a battlemented parapet; but the gray lead roofs were quite visible behind it, with their gutters, laps, rolls, and skylights, together with incised letterings and shoe-patterns cut by idlers thereon. the front of the house exhibited an ordinary manorial presentation of elizabethan windows, mullioned and hooded, worked in rich snuff-colored freestone from local quarries. the ashlar of the walls, where not overgrown with ivy and other creepers, was coated with lichen of every shade, intensifying its luxuriance with its nearness to the ground, till, below the plinth, it merged in moss. above the house to the back was a dense plantation, the roots of whose trees were above the level of the chimneys. the corresponding high ground on which grace stood was richly grassed, with only an old tree here and there. a few sheep lay about, which, as they ruminated, looked quietly into the bedroom windows. the situation of the house, prejudicial to humanity, was a stimulus to vegetation, on which account an endless shearing of the heavy-armed ivy was necessary, and a continual lopping of trees and shrubs. it was an edifice built in times when human constitutions were damp-proof, when shelter from the boisterous was all that men thought of in choosing a dwelling-place, the insidious being beneath their notice; and its hollow site was an ocular reminder, by its unfitness for modern lives, of the fragility to which these have declined. the highest architectural cunning could have done nothing to make hintock house dry and salubrious; and ruthless ignorance could have done little to make it unpicturesque. it was vegetable nature's own home; a spot to inspire the painter and poet of still life--if they did not suffer too much from the relaxing atmosphere--and to draw groans from the gregariously disposed. grace descended the green escarpment by a zigzag path into the drive, which swept round beneath the slope. the exterior of the house had been familiar to her from her childhood, but she had never been inside, and the approach to knowing an old thing in a new way was a lively experience. it was with a little flutter that she was shown in; but she recollected that mrs. charmond would probably be alone. up to a few days before this time that lady had been accompanied in her comings, stayings, and goings by a relative believed to be her aunt; latterly, however, these two ladies had separated, owing, it was supposed, to a quarrel, and mrs. charmond had been left desolate. being presumably a woman who did not care for solitude, this deprivation might possibly account for her sudden interest in grace. mrs. charmond was at the end of a gallery opening from the hall when miss melbury was announced, and saw her through the glass doors between them. she came forward with a smile on her face, and told the young girl it was good of her to come. "ah! you have noticed those," she said, seeing that grace's eyes were attracted by some curious objects against the walls. "they are man-traps. my husband was a connoisseur in man-traps and spring-guns and such articles, collecting them from all his neighbors. he knew the histories of all these--which gin had broken a man's leg, which gun had killed a man. that one, i remember his saying, had been set by a game-keeper in the track of a notorious poacher; but the keeper, forgetting what he had done, went that way himself, received the charge in the lower part of his body, and died of the wound. i don't like them here, but i've never yet given directions for them to be taken away." she added, playfully, "man-traps are of rather ominous significance where a person of our sex lives, are they not?" grace was bound to smile; but that side of womanliness was one which her inexperience had no great zest in contemplating. "they are interesting, no doubt, as relics of a barbarous time happily past," she said, looking thoughtfully at the varied designs of these instruments of torture--some with semi-circular jaws, some with rectangular; most of them with long, sharp teeth, but a few with none, so that their jaws looked like the blank gums of old age. "well, we must not take them too seriously," said mrs. charmond, with an indolent turn of her head, and they moved on inward. when she had shown her visitor different articles in cabinets that she deemed likely to interest her, some tapestries, wood-carvings, ivories, miniatures, and so on--always with a mien of listlessness which might either have been constitutional, or partly owing to the situation of the place--they sat down to an early cup of tea. "will you pour it out, please? do," she said, leaning back in her chair, and placing her hand above her forehead, while her almond eyes--those long eyes so common to the angelic legions of early italian art--became longer, and her voice more languishing. she showed that oblique-mannered softness which is perhaps most frequent in women of darker complexion and more lymphatic temperament than mrs. charmond's was; who lingeringly smile their meanings to men rather than speak them, who inveigle rather than prompt, and take advantage of currents rather than steer. "i am the most inactive woman when i am here," she said. "i think sometimes i was born to live and do nothing, nothing, nothing but float about, as we fancy we do sometimes in dreams. but that cannot be really my destiny, and i must struggle against such fancies." "i am so sorry you do not enjoy exertion--it is quite sad! i wish i could tend you and make you very happy." there was something so sympathetic, so appreciative, in the sound of grace's voice, that it impelled people to play havoc with their customary reservations in talking to her. "it is tender and kind of you to feel that," said mrs. charmond. "perhaps i have given you the notion that my languor is more than it really is. but this place oppresses me, and i have a plan of going abroad a good deal. i used to go with a relative, but that arrangement has dropped through." regarding grace with a final glance of criticism, she seemed to make up her mind to consider the young girl satisfactory, and continued: "now i am often impelled to record my impressions of times and places. i have often thought of writing a 'new sentimental journey.' but i cannot find energy enough to do it alone. when i am at different places in the south of europe i feel a crowd of ideas and fancies thronging upon me continually, but to unfold writing-materials, take up a cold steel pen, and put these impressions down systematically on cold, smooth paper--that i cannot do. so i have thought that if i always could have somebody at my elbow with whom i am in sympathy, i might dictate any ideas that come into my head. and directly i had made your acquaintance the other day it struck me that you would suit me so well. would you like to undertake it? you might read to me, too, if desirable. will you think it over, and ask your parents if they are willing?" "oh yes," said grace. "i am almost sure they would be very glad." "you are so accomplished, i hear; i should be quite honored by such intellectual company." grace, modestly blushing, deprecated any such idea. "do you keep up your lucubrations at little hintock?" "oh no. lucubrations are not unknown at little hintock; but they are not carried on by me." "what--another student in that retreat?" "there is a surgeon lately come, and i have heard that he reads a great deal--i see his light sometimes through the trees late at night." "oh yes--a doctor--i believe i was told of him. it is a strange place for him to settle in." "it is a convenient centre for a practice, they say. but he does not confine his studies to medicine, it seems. he investigates theology and metaphysics and all sorts of subjects." "what is his name?" "fitzpiers. he represents a very old family, i believe, the fitzpierses of buckbury-fitzpiers--not a great many miles from here." "i am not sufficiently local to know the history of the family. i was never in the county till my husband brought me here." mrs. charmond did not care to pursue this line of investigation. whatever mysterious merit might attach to family antiquity, it was one which, though she herself could claim it, her adaptable, wandering weltburgerliche nature had grown tired of caring about--a peculiarity that made her a contrast to her neighbors. "it is of rather more importance to know what the man is himself than what his family is," she said, "if he is going to practise upon us as a surgeon. have you seen him?" grace had not. "i think he is not a very old man," she added. "has he a wife?" "i am not aware that he has." "well, i hope he will be useful here. i must get to know him when i come back. it will be very convenient to have a medical man--if he is clever--in one's own parish. i get dreadfully nervous sometimes, living in such an outlandish place; and sherton is so far to send to. no doubt you feel hintock to be a great change after watering-place life." "i do. but it is home. it has its advantages and its disadvantages." grace was thinking less of the solitude than of the attendant circumstances. they chatted on for some time, grace being set quite at her ease by her entertainer. mrs. charmond was far too well-practised a woman not to know that to show a marked patronage to a sensitive young girl who would probably be very quick to discern it, was to demolish her dignity rather than to establish it in that young girl's eyes. so, being violently possessed with her idea of making use of this gentle acquaintance, ready and waiting at her own door, she took great pains to win her confidence at starting. just before grace's departure the two chanced to pause before a mirror which reflected their faces in immediate juxtaposition, so as to bring into prominence their resemblances and their contrasts. both looked attractive as glassed back by the faithful reflector; but grace's countenance had the effect of making mrs. charmond appear more than her full age. there are complexions which set off each other to great advantage, and there are those which antagonize, the one killing or damaging its neighbor unmercifully. this was unhappily the case here. mrs. charmond fell into a meditation, and replied abstractedly to a cursory remark of her companion's. however, she parted from her young friend in the kindliest tones, promising to send and let her know as soon as her mind was made up on the arrangement she had suggested. when grace had ascended nearly to the top of the adjoining slope she looked back, and saw that mrs. charmond still stood at the door, meditatively regarding her. often during the previous night, after his call on the melburys, winterborne's thoughts ran upon grace's announced visit to hintock house. why could he not have proposed to walk with her part of the way? something told him that she might not, on such an occasion, care for his company. he was still more of that opinion when, standing in his garden next day, he saw her go past on the journey with such a pretty pride in the event. he wondered if her father's ambition, which had purchased for her the means of intellectual light and culture far beyond those of any other native of the village, would conduce to the flight of her future interests above and away from the local life which was once to her the movement of the world. nevertheless, he had her father's permission to win her if he could; and to this end it became desirable to bring matters soon to a crisis, if he ever hoped to do so. if she should think herself too good for him, he could let her go and make the best of his loss; but until he had really tested her he could not say that she despised his suit. the question was how to quicken events towards an issue. he thought and thought, and at last decided that as good a way as any would be to give a christmas party, and ask grace and her parents to come as chief guests. these ruminations were occupying him when there became audible a slight knocking at his front door. he descended the path and looked out, and beheld marty south, dressed for out-door work. "why didn't you come, mr. winterborne?" she said. "i've been waiting there hours and hours, and at last i thought i must try to find you." "bless my soul, i'd quite forgot," said giles. what he had forgotten was that there was a thousand young fir-trees to be planted in a neighboring spot which had been cleared by the wood-cutters, and that he had arranged to plant them with his own hands. he had a marvellous power of making trees grow. although he would seem to shovel in the earth quite carelessly, there was a sort of sympathy between himself and the fir, oak, or beech that he was operating on, so that the roots took hold of the soil in a few days. when, on the other hand, any of the journeymen planted, although they seemed to go through an identically similar process, one quarter of the trees would die away during the ensuing august. hence winterborne found delight in the work even when, as at present, he contracted to do it on portions of the woodland in which he had no personal interest. marty, who turned her hand to anything, was usually the one who performed the part of keeping the trees in a perpendicular position while he threw in the mould. he accompanied her towards the spot, being stimulated yet further to proceed with the work by the knowledge that the ground was close to the way-side along which grace must pass on her return from hintock house. "you've a cold in the head, marty," he said, as they walked. "that comes of cutting off your hair." "i suppose it do. yes; i've three headaches going on in my head at the same time." "three headaches!" "yes, a rheumatic headache in my poll, a sick headache over my eyes, and a misery headache in the middle of my brain. however, i came out, for i thought you might be waiting and grumbling like anything if i was not there." the holes were already dug, and they set to work. winterborne's fingers were endowed with a gentle conjuror's touch in spreading the roots of each little tree, resulting in a sort of caress, under which the delicate fibres all laid themselves out in their proper directions for growth. he put most of these roots towards the south-west; for, he said, in forty years' time, when some great gale is blowing from that quarter, the trees will require the strongest holdfast on that side to stand against it and not fall. "how they sigh directly we put 'em upright, though while they are lying down they don't sigh at all," said marty. "do they?" said giles. "i've never noticed it." she erected one of the young pines into its hole, and held up her finger; the soft musical breathing instantly set in, which was not to cease night or day till the grown tree should be felled--probably long after the two planters should be felled themselves. "it seems to me," the girl continued, "as if they sigh because they are very sorry to begin life in earnest--just as we be." "just as we be?" he looked critically at her. "you ought not to feel like that, marty." her only reply was turning to take up the next tree; and they planted on through a great part of the day, almost without another word. winterborne's mind ran on his contemplated evening-party, his abstraction being such that he hardly was conscious of marty's presence beside him. from the nature of their employment, in which he handled the spade and she merely held the tree, it followed that he got good exercise and she got none. but she was an heroic girl, and though her out-stretched hand was chill as a stone, and her cheeks blue, and her cold worse than ever, she would not complain while he was disposed to continue work. but when he paused she said, "mr. winterborne, can i run down the lane and back to warm my feet?" "why, yes, of course," he said, awakening anew to her existence. "though i was just thinking what a mild day it is for the season. now i warrant that cold of yours is twice as bad as it was. you had no business to chop that hair off, marty; it serves you almost right. look here, cut off home at once." "a run down the lane will be quite enough." "no, it won't. you ought not to have come out to-day at all." "but i should like to finish the--" "marty, i tell you to go home," said he, peremptorily. "i can manage to keep the rest of them upright with a stick or something." she went away without saying any more. when she had gone down the orchard a little distance she looked back. giles suddenly went after her. "marty, it was for your good that i was rough, you know. but warm yourself in your own way, i don't care." when she had run off he fancied he discerned a woman's dress through the holly-bushes which divided the coppice from the road. it was grace at last, on her way back from the interview with mrs. charmond. he threw down the tree he was planting, and was about to break through the belt of holly when he suddenly became aware of the presence of another man, who was looking over the hedge on the opposite side of the way upon the figure of the unconscious grace. he appeared as a handsome and gentlemanly personage of six or eight and twenty, and was quizzing her through an eye-glass. seeing that winterborne was noticing him, he let his glass drop with a click upon the rail which protected the hedge, and walked away in the opposite direction. giles knew in a moment that this must be mr. fitzpiers. when he was gone, winterborne pushed through the hollies, and emerged close beside the interesting object of their contemplation. chapter ix. "i heard the bushes move long before i saw you," she began. "i said first, 'it is some terrible beast;' next, 'it is a poacher;' next, 'it is a friend!'" he regarded her with a slight smile, weighing, not her speech, but the question whether he should tell her that she had been watched. he decided in the negative. "you have been to the house?" he said. "but i need not ask." the fact was that there shone upon miss melbury's face a species of exaltation, which saw no environing details nor his own occupation; nothing more than his bare presence. "why need you not ask?" "your face is like the face of moses when he came down from the mount." she reddened a little and said, "how can you be so profane, giles winterborne?" "how can you think so much of that class of people? well, i beg pardon; i didn't mean to speak so freely. how do you like her house and her?" "exceedingly. i had not been inside the walls since i was a child, when it used to be let to strangers, before mrs. charmond's late husband bought the property. she is so nice!" and grace fell into such an abstracted gaze at the imaginary image of mrs. charmond and her niceness that it almost conjured up a vision of that lady in mid-air before them. "she has only been here a month or two, it seems, and cannot stay much longer, because she finds it so lonely and damp in winter. she is going abroad. only think, she would like me to go with her." giles's features stiffened a little at the news. "indeed; what for? but i won't keep you standing here. hoi, robert!" he cried to a swaying collection of clothes in the distance, which was the figure of creedle his man. "go on filling in there till i come back." "i'm a-coming, sir; i'm a-coming." "well, the reason is this," continued she, as they went on together--"mrs. charmond has a delightful side to her character--a desire to record her impressions of travel, like alexandre dumas, and mery, and sterne, and others. but she cannot find energy enough to do it herself." and grace proceeded to explain mrs. charmond's proposal at large. "my notion is that mery's style will suit her best, because he writes in that soft, emotional, luxurious way she has," grace said, musingly. "indeed!" said winterborne, with mock awe. "suppose you talk over my head a little longer, miss grace melbury?" "oh, i didn't mean it!" she said, repentantly, looking into his eyes. "and as for myself, i hate french books. and i love dear old hintock, and the people in it, fifty times better than all the continent. but the scheme; i think it an enchanting notion, don't you, giles?" "it is well enough in one sense, but it will take you away," said he, mollified. "only for a short time. we should return in may." "well, miss melbury, it is a question for your father." winterborne walked with her nearly to her house. he had awaited her coming, mainly with the view of mentioning to her his proposal to have a christmas party; but homely christmas gatherings in the venerable and jovial hintock style seemed so primitive and uncouth beside the lofty matters of her converse and thought that he refrained. as soon as she was gone he turned back towards the scene of his planting, and could not help saying to himself as he walked, that this engagement of his was a very unpromising business. her outing to-day had not improved it. a woman who could go to hintock house and be friendly with its mistress, enter into the views of its mistress, talk like her, and dress not much unlike her, why, she would hardly be contented with him, a yeoman, now immersed in tree-planting, even though he planted them well. "and yet she's a true-hearted girl," he said, thinking of her words about hintock. "i must bring matters to a point, and there's an end of it." when he reached the plantation he found that marty had come back, and dismissing creedle, he went on planting silently with the girl as before. "suppose, marty," he said, after a while, looking at her extended arm, upon which old scratches from briers showed themselves purple in the cold wind--"suppose you know a person, and want to bring that person to a good understanding with you, do you think a christmas party of some sort is a warming-up thing, and likely to be useful in hastening on the matter?" "is there to be dancing?" "there might be, certainly." "will he dance with she?" "well, yes." "then it might bring things to a head, one way or the other; i won't be the one to say which." "it shall be done," said winterborne, not to her, though he spoke the words quite loudly. and as the day was nearly ended, he added, "here, marty, i'll send up a man to plant the rest to-morrow. i've other things to think of just now." she did not inquire what other things, for she had seen him walking with grace melbury. she looked towards the western sky, which was now aglow like some vast foundery wherein new worlds were being cast. across it the bare bough of a tree stretched horizontally, revealing every twig against the red, and showing in dark profile every beck and movement of three pheasants that were settling themselves down on it in a row to roost. "it will be fine to-morrow," said marty, observing them with the vermilion light of the sun in the pupils of her eyes, "for they are a-croupied down nearly at the end of the bough. if it were going to be stormy they'd squeeze close to the trunk. the weather is almost all they have to think of, isn't it, mr. winterborne? and so they must be lighter-hearted than we." "i dare say they are," said winterborne. before taking a single step in the preparations, winterborne, with no great hopes, went across that evening to the timber-merchant's to ascertain if grace and her parents would honor him with their presence. having first to set his nightly gins in the garden, to catch the rabbits that ate his winter-greens, his call was delayed till just after the rising of the moon, whose rays reached the hintock houses but fitfully as yet, on account of the trees. melbury was crossing his yard on his way to call on some one at the larger village, but he readily turned and walked up and down the path with the young man. giles, in his self-deprecatory sense of living on a much smaller scale than the melburys did, would not for the world imply that his invitation was to a gathering of any importance. so he put it in the mild form of "can you come in for an hour, when you have done business, the day after to-morrow; and mrs. and miss melbury, if they have nothing more pressing to do?" melbury would give no answer at once. "no, i can't tell you to-day," he said. "i must talk it over with the women. as far as i am concerned, my dear giles, you know i'll come with pleasure. but how do i know what grace's notions may be? you see, she has been away among cultivated folks a good while; and now this acquaintance with mrs. charmond--well, i'll ask her. i can say no more." when winterborne was gone the timber-merchant went on his way. he knew very well that grace, whatever her own feelings, would either go or not go, according as he suggested; and his instinct was, for the moment, to suggest the negative. his errand took him past the church, and the way to his destination was either across the church-yard or along-side it, the distances being the same. for some reason or other he chose the former way. the moon was faintly lighting up the gravestones, and the path, and the front of the building. suddenly mr. melbury paused, turned ill upon the grass, and approached a particular headstone, where he read, "in memory of john winterborne," with the subjoined date and age. it was the grave of giles's father. the timber-merchant laid his hand upon the stone, and was humanized. "jack, my wronged friend!" he said. "i'll be faithful to my plan of making amends to 'ee." when he reached home that evening, he said to grace and mrs. melbury, who were working at a little table by the fire, "giles wants us to go down and spend an hour with him the day after to-morrow; and i'm thinking, that as 'tis giles who asks us, we'll go." they assented without demur, and accordingly the timber-merchant sent giles the next morning an answer in the affirmative. winterborne, in his modesty, or indifference, had mentioned no particular hour in his invitation; and accordingly mr. melbury and his family, expecting no other guests, chose their own time, which chanced to be rather early in the afternoon, by reason of the somewhat quicker despatch than usual of the timber-merchant's business that day. to show their sense of the unimportance of the occasion, they walked quite slowly to the house, as if they were merely out for a ramble, and going to nothing special at all; or at most intending to pay a casual call and take a cup of tea. at this hour stir and bustle pervaded the interior of winterborne's domicile from cellar to apple-loft. he had planned an elaborate high tea for six o'clock or thereabouts, and a good roaring supper to come on about eleven. being a bachelor of rather retiring habits, the whole of the preparations devolved upon himself and his trusty man and familiar, robert creedle, who did everything that required doing, from making giles's bed to catching moles in his field. he was a survival from the days when giles's father held the homestead, and giles was a playing boy. these two, with a certain dilatoriousness which appertained to both, were now in the heat of preparation in the bake-house, expecting nobody before six o'clock. winterborne was standing before the brick oven in his shirt-sleeves, tossing in thorn sprays, and stirring about the blazing mass with a long-handled, three-pronged beelzebub kind of fork, the heat shining out upon his streaming face and making his eyes like furnaces, the thorns crackling and sputtering; while creedle, having ranged the pastry dishes in a row on the table till the oven should be ready, was pressing out the crust of a final apple-pie with a rolling-pin. a great pot boiled on the fire, and through the open door of the back kitchen a boy was seen seated on the fender, emptying the snuffers and scouring the candlesticks, a row of the latter standing upside down on the hob to melt out the grease. looking up from the rolling-pin, creedle saw passing the window first the timber-merchant, in his second-best suit, mrs. melbury in her best silk, and grace in the fashionable attire which, in part brought home with her from the continent, she had worn on her visit to mrs. charmond's. the eyes of the three had been attracted to the proceedings within by the fierce illumination which the oven threw out upon the operators and their utensils. "lord, lord! if they baint come a'ready!" said creedle. "no--hey?" said giles, looking round aghast; while the boy in the background waved a reeking candlestick in his delight. as there was no help for it, winterborne went to meet them in the door-way. "my dear giles, i see we have made a mistake in the time," said the timber-merchant's wife, her face lengthening with concern. "oh, it is not much difference. i hope you'll come in." "but this means a regular randyvoo!" said mr. melbury, accusingly, glancing round and pointing towards the bake-house with his stick. "well, yes," said giles. "and--not great hintock band, and dancing, surely?" "i told three of 'em they might drop in if they'd nothing else to do," giles mildly admitted. "now, why the name didn't ye tell us 'twas going to be a serious kind of thing before? how should i know what folk mean if they don't say? now, shall we come in, or shall we go home and come back along in a couple of hours?" "i hope you'll stay, if you'll be so good as not to mind, now you are here. i shall have it all right and tidy in a very little time. i ought not to have been so backward." giles spoke quite anxiously for one of his undemonstrative temperament; for he feared that if the melburys once were back in their own house they would not be disposed to turn out again. "'tis we ought not to have been so forward; that's what 'tis," said mr. melbury, testily. "don't keep us here in the sitting-room; lead on to the bakehouse, man. now we are here we'll help ye get ready for the rest. here, mis'ess, take off your things, and help him out in his baking, or he won't get done to-night. i'll finish heating the oven, and set you free to go and skiver up them ducks." his eye had passed with pitiless directness of criticism into yet remote recesses of winterborne's awkwardly built premises, where the aforesaid birds were hanging. "and i'll help finish the tarts," said grace, cheerfully. "i don't know about that," said her father. "'tisn't quite so much in your line as it is in your mother-law's and mine." "of course i couldn't let you, grace!" said giles, with some distress. "i'll do it, of course," said mrs. melbury, taking off her silk train, hanging it up to a nail, carefully rolling back her sleeves, pinning them to her shoulders, and stripping giles of his apron for her own use. so grace pottered idly about, while her father and his wife helped on the preparations. a kindly pity of his household management, which winterborne saw in her eyes whenever he caught them, depressed him much more than her contempt would have done. creedle met giles at the pump after a while, when each of the others was absorbed in the difficulties of a cuisine based on utensils, cupboards, and provisions that were strange to them. he groaned to the young man in a whisper, "this is a bruckle het, maister, i'm much afeared! who'd ha' thought they'd ha' come so soon?" the bitter placidity of winterborne's look adumbrated the misgivings he did not care to express. "have you got the celery ready?" he asked, quickly. "now that's a thing i never could mind; no, not if you'd paid me in silver and gold. and i don't care who the man is, i says that a stick of celery that isn't scrubbed with the scrubbing-brush is not clean." "very well, very well! i'll attend to it. you go and get 'em comfortable in-doors." he hastened to the garden, and soon returned, tossing the stalks to creedle, who was still in a tragic mood. "if ye'd ha' married, d'ye see, maister," he said, "this caddle couldn't have happened to us." everything being at last under way, the oven set, and all done that could insure the supper turning up ready at some time or other, giles and his friends entered the parlor, where the melburys again dropped into position as guests, though the room was not nearly so warm and cheerful as the blazing bakehouse. others now arrived, among them farmer bawtree and the hollow-turner, and tea went off very well. grace's disposition to make the best of everything, and to wink at deficiencies in winterborne's menage, was so uniform and persistent that he suspected her of seeing even more deficiencies than he was aware of. that suppressed sympathy which had showed in her face ever since her arrival told him as much too plainly. "this muddling style of house-keeping is what you've not lately been used to, i suppose?" he said, when they were a little apart. "no; but i like it; it reminds me so pleasantly that everything here in dear old hintock is just as it used to be. the oil is--not quite nice; but everything else is." "the oil?" "on the chairs, i mean; because it gets on one's dress. still, mine is not a new one." giles found that creedle, in his zeal to make things look bright, had smeared the chairs with some greasy kind of furniture-polish, and refrained from rubbing it dry in order not to diminish the mirror-like effect that the mixture produced as laid on. giles apologized and called creedle; but he felt that the fates were against him. chapter x. supper-time came, and with it the hot-baked meats from the oven, laid on a snowy cloth fresh from the press, and reticulated with folds, as in flemish "last suppers." creedle and the boy fetched and carried with amazing alacrity, the latter, to mollify his superior and make things pleasant, expressing his admiration of creedle's cleverness when they were alone. "i s'pose the time when you learned all these knowing things, mr. creedle, was when you was in the militia?" "well, yes. i seed the world at that time somewhat, certainly, and many ways of strange dashing life. not but that giles has worked hard in helping me to bring things to such perfection to-day. 'giles,' says i, though he's maister. not that i should call'n maister by rights, for his father growed up side by side with me, as if one mother had twinned us and been our nourishing." "i s'pose your memory can reach a long way back into history, mr. creedle?" "oh yes. ancient days, when there was battles and famines and hang-fairs and other pomps, seem to me as yesterday. ah, many's the patriarch i've seed come and go in this parish! there, he's calling for more plates. lord, why can't 'em turn their plates bottom upward for pudding, as they used to do in former days?" meanwhile, in the adjoining room giles was presiding in a half-unconscious state. he could not get over the initial failures in his scheme for advancing his suit, and hence he did not know that he was eating mouthfuls of bread and nothing else, and continually snuffing the two candles next him till he had reduced them to mere glimmers drowned in their own grease. creedle now appeared with a specially prepared dish, which he served by elevating the little three-legged pot that contained it, and tilting the contents into a dish, exclaiming, simultaneously, "draw back, gentlemen and ladies, please!" a splash followed. grace gave a quick, involuntary nod and blink, and put her handkerchief to her face. "good heavens! what did you do that for, creedle?" said giles, sternly, and jumping up. "'tis how i do it when they baint here, maister," mildly expostulated creedle, in an aside audible to all the company. "well, yes--but--" replied giles. he went over to grace, and hoped none of it had gone into her eye. "oh no," she said. "only a sprinkle on my face. it was nothing." "kiss it and make it well," gallantly observed mr. bawtree. miss melbury blushed. the timber-merchant said, quickly, "oh, it is nothing! she must bear these little mishaps." but there could be discerned in his face something which said "i ought to have foreseen this." giles himself, since the untoward beginning of the feast, had not quite liked to see grace present. he wished he had not asked such people as bawtree and the hollow-turner. he had done it, in dearth of other friends, that the room might not appear empty. in his mind's eye, before the event, they had been the mere background or padding of the scene, but somehow in reality they were the most prominent personages there. after supper they played cards, bawtree and the hollow-turner monopolizing the new packs for an interminable game, in which a lump of chalk was incessantly used--a game those two always played wherever they were, taking a solitary candle and going to a private table in a corner with the mien of persons bent on weighty matters. the rest of the company on this account were obliged to put up with old packs for their round game, that had been lying by in a drawer ever since the time that giles's grandmother was alive. each card had a great stain in the middle of its back, produced by the touch of generations of damp and excited thumbs now fleshless in the grave; and the kings and queens wore a decayed expression of feature, as if they were rather an impecunious dethroned race of monarchs hiding in obscure slums than real regal characters. every now and then the comparatively few remarks of the players at the round game were harshly intruded on by the measured jingle of farmer bawtree and the hollow-turner from the back of the room: "and i' will hold' a wa'-ger with you' that all' these marks' are thirt'-y two!" accompanied by rapping strokes with the chalk on the table; then an exclamation, an argument, a dealing of the cards; then the commencement of the rhymes anew. the timber-merchant showed his feelings by talking with a satisfied sense of weight in his words, and by praising the party in a patronizing tone, when winterborne expressed his fear that he and his were not enjoying themselves. "oh yes, yes; pretty much. what handsome glasses those are! i didn't know you had such glasses in the house. now, lucy" (to his wife), "you ought to get some like them for ourselves." and when they had abandoned cards, and winterborne was talking to melbury by the fire, it was the timber-merchant who stood with his back to the mantle in a proprietary attitude, from which post of vantage he critically regarded giles's person, rather as a superficies than as a solid with ideas and feelings inside it, saying, "what a splendid coat that one is you have on, giles! i can't get such coats. you dress better than i." after supper there was a dance, the bandsmen from great hintock having arrived some time before. grace had been away from home so long that she had forgotten the old figures, and hence did not join in the movement. then giles felt that all was over. as for her, she was thinking, as she watched the gyrations, of a very different measure that she had been accustomed to tread with a bevy of sylph-like creatures in muslin, in the music-room of a large house, most of whom were now moving in scenes widely removed from this, both as regarded place and character. a woman she did not know came and offered to tell her fortune with the abandoned cards. grace assented to the proposal, and the woman told her tale unskilfully, for want of practice, as she declared. mr. melbury was standing by, and exclaimed, contemptuously, "tell her fortune, indeed! her fortune has been told by men of science--what do you call 'em? phrenologists. you can't teach her anything new. she's been too far among the wise ones to be astonished at anything she can hear among us folks in hintock." at last the time came for breaking up, melbury and his family being the earliest to leave, the two card-players still pursuing their game doggedly in the corner, where they had completely covered giles's mahogany table with chalk scratches. the three walked home, the distance being short and the night clear. "well, giles is a very good fellow," said mr. melbury, as they struck down the lane under boughs which formed a black filigree in which the stars seemed set. "certainly he is," said grace, quickly, and in such a tone as to show that he stood no lower, if no higher, in her regard than he had stood before. when they were opposite an opening through which, by day, the doctor's house could be seen, they observed a light in one of his rooms, although it was now about two o'clock. "the doctor is not abed yet," said mrs. melbury. "hard study, no doubt," said her husband. "one would think that, as he seems to have nothing to do about here by day, he could at least afford to go to bed early at night. 'tis astonishing how little we see of him." melbury's mind seemed to turn with much relief to the contemplation of mr. fitzpiers after the scenes of the evening. "it is natural enough," he replied. "what can a man of that sort find to interest him in hintock? i don't expect he'll stay here long." his mind reverted to giles's party, and when they were nearly home he spoke again, his daughter being a few steps in advance: "it is hardly the line of life for a girl like grace, after what she's been accustomed to. i didn't foresee that in sending her to boarding-school and letting her travel, and what not, to make her a good bargain for giles, i should be really spoiling her for him. ah, 'tis a thousand pities! but he ought to have her--he ought!" at this moment the two exclusive, chalk-mark men, having at last really finished their play, could be heard coming along in the rear, vociferously singing a song to march-time, and keeping vigorous step to the same in far-reaching strides-- "she may go, oh! she may go, oh! she may go to the d---- for me!" the timber-merchant turned indignantly to mrs. melbury. "that's the sort of society we've been asked to meet," he said. "for us old folk it didn't matter; but for grace--giles should have known better!" meanwhile, in the empty house from which the guests had just cleared out, the subject of their discourse was walking from room to room surveying the general displacement of furniture with no ecstatic feeling; rather the reverse, indeed. at last he entered the bakehouse, and found there robert creedle sitting over the embers, also lost in contemplation. winterborne sat down beside him. "well, robert, you must be tired. you'd better get on to bed." "ay, ay, giles--what do i call ye? maister, i would say. but 'tis well to think the day is done, when 'tis done." winterborne had abstractedly taken the poker, and with a wrinkled forehead was ploughing abroad the wood-embers on the broad hearth, till it was like a vast scorching sahara, with red-hot bowlders lying about everywhere. "do you think it went off well, creedle?" he asked. "the victuals did; that i know. and the drink did; that i steadfastly believe, from the holler sound of the barrels. good, honest drink 'twere, the headiest mead i ever brewed; and the best wine that berries could rise to; and the briskest horner-and-cleeves cider ever wrung down, leaving out the spice and sperrits i put into it, while that egg-flip would ha' passed through muslin, so little curdled 'twere. 'twas good enough to make any king's heart merry--ay, to make his whole carcass smile. still, i don't deny i'm afeared some things didn't go well with he and his." creedle nodded in a direction which signified where the melburys lived. "i'm afraid, too, that it was a failure there!" "if so, 'twere doomed to be so. not but what that snail might as well have come upon anybody else's plate as hers." "what snail?" "well, maister, there was a little one upon the edge of her plate when i brought it out; and so it must have been in her few leaves of wintergreen." "how the deuce did a snail get there?" "that i don't know no more than the dead; but there my gentleman was." "but, robert, of all places, that was where he shouldn't have been!" "well, 'twas his native home, come to that; and where else could we expect him to be? i don't care who the man is, snails and caterpillars always will lurk in close to the stump of cabbages in that tantalizing way." "he wasn't alive, i suppose?" said giles, with a shudder on grace's account. "oh no. he was well boiled. i warrant him well boiled. god forbid that a live snail should be seed on any plate of victuals that's served by robert creedle....but lord, there; i don't mind 'em myself--them small ones, for they were born on cabbage, and they've lived on cabbage, so they must be made of cabbage. but she, the close-mouthed little lady, she didn't say a word about it; though 'twould have made good small conversation as to the nater of such creatures; especially as wit ran short among us sometimes." "oh yes--'tis all over!" murmured giles to himself, shaking his head over the glooming plain of embers, and lining his forehead more than ever. "do you know, robert," he said, "that she's been accustomed to servants and everything superfine these many years? how, then, could she stand our ways?" "well, all i can say is, then, that she ought to hob-and-nob elsewhere. they shouldn't have schooled her so monstrous high, or else bachelor men shouldn't give randys, or if they do give 'em, only to their own race." "perhaps that's true," said winterborne, rising and yawning a sigh. chapter xi. "'tis a pity--a thousand pities!" her father kept saying next morning at breakfast, grace being still in her bedroom. but how could he, with any self-respect, obstruct winterborne's suit at this stage, and nullify a scheme he had labored to promote--was, indeed, mechanically promoting at this moment? a crisis was approaching, mainly as a result of his contrivances, and it would have to be met. but here was the fact, which could not be disguised: since seeing what an immense change her last twelve months of absence had produced in his daughter, after the heavy sum per annum that he had been spending for several years upon her education, he was reluctant to let her marry giles winterborne, indefinitely occupied as woodsman, cider-merchant, apple-farmer, and what not, even were she willing to marry him herself. "she will be his wife if you don't upset her notion that she's bound to accept him as an understood thing," said mrs. melbury. "bless ye, she'll soon shake down here in hintock, and be content with giles's way of living, which he'll improve with what money she'll have from you. 'tis the strangeness after her genteel life that makes her feel uncomfortable at first. why, when i saw hintock the first time i thought i never could like it. but things gradually get familiar, and stone floors seem not so very cold and hard, and the hooting of the owls not so very dreadful, and loneliness not so very lonely, after a while." "yes, i believe ye. that's just it. i know grace will gradually sink down to our level again, and catch our manners and way of speaking, and feel a drowsy content in being giles's wife. but i can't bear the thought of dragging down to that old level as promising a piece of maidenhood as ever lived--fit to ornament a palace wi'--that i've taken so much trouble to lift up. fancy her white hands getting redder every day, and her tongue losing its pretty up-country curl in talking, and her bounding walk becoming the regular hintock shail and wamble!" "she may shail, but she'll never wamble," replied his wife, decisively. when grace came down-stairs he complained of her lying in bed so late; not so much moved by a particular objection to that form of indulgence as discomposed by these other reflections. the corners of her pretty mouth dropped a little down. "you used to complain with justice when i was a girl," she said. "but i am a woman now, and can judge for myself....but it is not that; it is something else!" instead of sitting down she went outside the door. he was sorry. the petulance that relatives show towards each other is in truth directed against that intangible causality which has shaped the situation no less for the offenders than the offended, but is too elusive to be discerned and cornered by poor humanity in irritated mood. melbury followed her. she had rambled on to the paddock, where the white frost lay, and where starlings in flocks of twenties and thirties were walking about, watched by a comfortable family of sparrows perched in a line along the string-course of the chimney, preening themselves in the rays of the sun. "come in to breakfast, my girl," he said. "and as to giles, use your own mind. whatever pleases you will please me." "i am promised to him, father; and i cannot help thinking that in honor i ought to marry him, whenever i do marry." he had a strong suspicion that somewhere in the bottom of her heart there pulsed an old simple indigenous feeling favorable to giles, though it had become overlaid with implanted tastes. but he would not distinctly express his views on the promise. "very well," he said. "but i hope i sha'n't lose you yet. come in to breakfast. what did you think of the inside of hintock house the other day?" "i liked it much." "different from friend winterborne's?" she said nothing; but he who knew her was aware that she meant by her silence to reproach him with drawing cruel comparisons. "mrs. charmond has asked you to come again--when, did you say?" "she thought tuesday, but would send the day before to let me know if it suited her." and with this subject upon their lips they entered to breakfast. tuesday came, but no message from mrs. charmond. nor was there any on wednesday. in brief, a fortnight slipped by without a sign, and it looked suspiciously as if mrs. charmond were not going further in the direction of "taking up" grace at present. her father reasoned thereon. immediately after his daughter's two indubitable successes with mrs. charmond--the interview in the wood and a visit to the house--she had attended winterborne's party. no doubt the out-and-out joviality of that gathering had made it a topic in the neighborhood, and that every one present as guests had been widely spoken of--grace, with her exceptional qualities, above all. what, then, so natural as that mrs. charmond should have heard the village news, and become quite disappointed in her expectations of grace at finding she kept such company? full of this post hoc argument, mr. melbury overlooked the infinite throng of other possible reasons and unreasons for a woman changing her mind. for instance, while knowing that his grace was attractive, he quite forgot that mrs. charmond had also great pretensions to beauty. in his simple estimate, an attractive woman attracted all around. so it was settled in his mind that her sudden mingling with the villagers at the unlucky winterborne's was the cause of her most grievous loss, as he deemed it, in the direction of hintock house. "'tis a thousand pities!" he would repeat to himself. "i am ruining her for conscience' sake!" it was one morning later on, while these things were agitating his mind, that, curiously enough, something darkened the window just as they finished breakfast. looking up, they saw giles in person mounted on horseback, and straining his neck forward, as he had been doing for some time, to catch their attention through the window. grace had been the first to see him, and involuntarily exclaimed, "there he is--and a new horse!" on their faces as they regarded giles were written their suspended thoughts and compound feelings concerning him, could he have read them through those old panes. but he saw nothing: his features just now were, for a wonder, lit up with a red smile at some other idea. so they rose from breakfast and went to the door, grace with an anxious, wistful manner, her father in a reverie, mrs. melbury placid and inquiring. "we have come out to look at your horse," she said. it could be seen that he was pleased at their attention, and explained that he had ridden a mile or two to try the animal's paces. "i bought her," he added, with warmth so severely repressed as to seem indifference, "because she has been used to carry a lady." still mr. melbury did not brighten. mrs. melbury said, "and is she quiet?" winterborne assured her that there was no doubt of it. "i took care of that. she's five-and-twenty, and very clever for her age." "well, get off and come in," said melbury, brusquely; and giles dismounted accordingly. this event was the concrete result of winterborne's thoughts during the past week or two. the want of success with his evening party he had accepted in as philosophic a mood as he was capable of; but there had been enthusiasm enough left in him one day at sherton abbas market to purchase this old mare, which had belonged to a neighboring parson with several daughters, and was offered him to carry either a gentleman or a lady, and to do odd jobs of carting and agriculture at a pinch. this obliging quadruped seemed to furnish giles with a means of reinstating himself in melbury's good opinion as a man of considerateness by throwing out future possibilities to grace. the latter looked at him with intensified interest this morning, in the mood which is altogether peculiar to woman's nature, and which, when reduced into plain words, seems as impossible as the penetrability of matter--that of entertaining a tender pity for the object of her own unnecessary coldness. the imperturbable poise which marked winterborne in general was enlivened now by a freshness and animation that set a brightness in his eye and on his cheek. mrs. melbury asked him to have some breakfast, and he pleasurably replied that he would join them, with his usual lack of tactical observation, not perceiving that they had all finished the meal, that the hour was inconveniently late, and that the note piped by the kettle denoted it to be nearly empty; so that fresh water had to be brought in, trouble taken to make it boil, and a general renovation of the table carried out. neither did he know, so full was he of his tender ulterior object in buying that horse, how many cups of tea he was gulping down one after another, nor how the morning was slipping, nor how he was keeping the family from dispersing about their duties. then he told throughout the humorous story of the horse's purchase, looking particularly grim at some fixed object in the room, a way he always looked when he narrated anything that amused him. while he was still thinking of the scene he had described, grace rose and said, "i have to go and help my mother now, mr. winterborne." "h'm!" he ejaculated, turning his eyes suddenly upon her. she repeated her words with a slight blush of awkwardness; whereupon giles, becoming suddenly conscious, too conscious, jumped up, saying, "to be sure, to be sure!" wished them quickly good-morning, and bolted out of the house. nevertheless he had, upon the whole, strengthened his position, with her at least. time, too, was on his side, for (as her father saw with some regret) already the homeliness of hintock life was fast becoming effaced from her observation as a singularity; just as the first strangeness of a face from which we have for years been separated insensibly passes off with renewed intercourse, and tones itself down into simple identity with the lineaments of the past. thus mr. melbury went out of the house still unreconciled to the sacrifice of the gem he had been at such pains in mounting. he fain could hope, in the secret nether chamber of his mind, that something would happen, before the balance of her feeling had quite turned in winterborne's favor, to relieve his conscience and preserve her on her elevated plane. he could not forget that mrs. charmond had apparently abandoned all interest in his daughter as suddenly as she had conceived it, and was as firmly convinced as ever that the comradeship which grace had shown with giles and his crew by attending his party had been the cause. matters lingered on thus. and then, as a hoop by gentle knocks on this side and on that is made to travel in specific directions, the little touches of circumstance in the life of this young girl shaped the curves of her career. chapter xii. it was a day of rather bright weather for the season. miss melbury went out for a morning walk, and her ever-regardful father, having an hour's leisure, offered to walk with her. the breeze was fresh and quite steady, filtering itself through the denuded mass of twigs without swaying them, but making the point of each ivy-leaf on the trunks scratch its underlying neighbor restlessly. grace's lips sucked in this native air of hers like milk. they soon reached a place where the wood ran down into a corner, and went outside it towards comparatively open ground. having looked round about, they were intending to re-enter the copse when a fox quietly emerged with a dragging brush, trotted past them tamely as a domestic cat, and disappeared amid some dead fern. they walked on, her father merely observing, after watching the animal, "they are hunting somewhere near." farther up they saw in the mid-distance the hounds running hither and thither, as if there were little or no scent that day. soon divers members of the hunt appeared on the scene, and it was evident from their movements that the chase had been stultified by general puzzle-headedness as to the whereabouts of the intended victim. in a minute a farmer rode up to the two pedestrians, panting with acteonic excitement, and grace being a few steps in advance, he addressed her, asking if she had seen the fox. "yes," said she. "we saw him some time ago--just out there." "did you cry halloo?" "we said nothing." "then why the d---- didn't you, or get the old buffer to do it for you?" said the man, as he cantered away. she looked rather disconcerted at this reply, and observing her father's face, saw that it was quite red. "he ought not to have spoken to ye like that!" said the old man, in the tone of one whose heart was bruised, though it was not by the epithet applied to himself. "and he wouldn't if he had been a gentleman. 'twas not the language to use to a woman of any niceness. you, so well read and cultivated--how could he expect ye to know what tom-boy field-folk are in the habit of doing? if so be you had just come from trimming swedes or mangolds--joking with the rough work-folk and all that--i could have stood it. but hasn't it cost me near a hundred a year to lift you out of all that, so as to show an example to the neighborhood of what a woman can be? grace, shall i tell you the secret of it? 'twas because i was in your company. if a black-coated squire or pa'son had been walking with you instead of me he wouldn't have spoken so." "no, no, father; there's nothing in you rough or ill-mannered!" "i tell you it is that! i've noticed, and i've noticed it many times, that a woman takes her color from the man she's walking with. the woman who looks an unquestionable lady when she's with a polished-up fellow, looks a mere tawdry imitation article when she's hobbing and nobbing with a homely blade. you sha'n't be treated like that for long, or at least your children sha'n't. you shall have somebody to walk with you who looks more of a dandy than i--please god you shall!" "but, my dear father," she said, much distressed, "i don't mind at all. i don't wish for more honor than i already have!" "a perplexing and ticklish possession is a daughter," according to menander or some old greek poet, and to nobody was one ever more so than to melbury, by reason of her very dearness to him. as for grace, she began to feel troubled; she did not perhaps wish there and then to unambitiously devote her life to giles winterborne, but she was conscious of more and more uneasiness at the possibility of being the social hope of the family. "you would like to have more honor, if it pleases me?" asked her father, in continuation of the subject. despite her feeling she assented to this. his reasoning had not been without its weight upon her. "grace," he said, just before they had reached the house, "if it costs me my life you shall marry well! to-day has shown me that whatever a young woman's niceness, she stands for nothing alone. you shall marry well." he breathed heavily, and his breathing was caught up by the breeze, which seemed to sigh a soft remonstrance. she looked calmly at him. "and how about mr. winterborne?" she asked. "i mention it, father, not as a matter of sentiment, but as a question of keeping faith." the timber-merchant's eyes fell for a moment. "i don't know--i don't know," he said. "'tis a trying strait. well, well; there's no hurry. we'll wait and see how he gets on." that evening he called her into his room, a snug little apartment behind the large parlor. it had at one time been part of the bakehouse, with the ordinary oval brick oven in the wall; but mr. melbury, in turning it into an office, had built into the cavity an iron safe, which he used for holding his private papers. the door of the safe was now open, and his keys were hanging from it. "sit down, grace, and keep me company," he said. "you may amuse yourself by looking over these." he threw out a heap of papers before her. "what are they?" she asked. "securities of various sorts." he unfolded them one by one. "papers worth so much money each. now here's a lot of turnpike bonds for one thing. would you think that each of these pieces of paper is worth two hundred pounds?" "no, indeed, if you didn't say so." "'tis so, then. now here are papers of another sort. they are for different sums in the three-per-cents. now these are port breedy harbor bonds. we have a great stake in that harbor, you know, because i send off timber there. open the rest at your pleasure. they'll interest ye." "yes, i will, some day," said she, rising. "nonsense, open them now. you ought to learn a little of such matters. a young lady of education should not be ignorant of money affairs altogether. suppose you should be left a widow some day, with your husband's title-deeds and investments thrown upon your hands--" "don't say that, father--title-deeds; it sounds so vain!" "it does not. come to that, i have title-deeds myself. there, that piece of parchment represents houses in sherton abbas." "yes, but--" she hesitated, looked at the fire, and went on in a low voice: "if what has been arranged about me should come to anything, my sphere will be quite a middling one." "your sphere ought not to be middling," he exclaimed, not in passion, but in earnest conviction. "you said you never felt more at home, more in your element, anywhere than you did that afternoon with mrs. charmond, when she showed you her house and all her knick-knacks, and made you stay to tea so nicely in her drawing-room--surely you did!" "yes, i did say so," admitted grace. "was it true?" "yes, i felt so at the time. the feeling is less strong now, perhaps." "ah! now, though you don't see it, your feeling at the time was the right one, because your mind and body were just in full and fresh cultivation, so that going there with her was like meeting like. since then you've been biding with us, and have fallen back a little, and so you don't feel your place so strongly. now, do as i tell ye, and look over these papers and see what you'll be worth some day. for they'll all be yours, you know; who have i got to leave 'em to but you? perhaps when your education is backed up by what these papers represent, and that backed up by another such a set and their owner, men such as that fellow was this morning may think you a little more than a buffer's girl." so she did as commanded, and opened each of the folded representatives of hard cash that her father put before her. to sow in her heart cravings for social position was obviously his strong desire, though in direct antagonism to a better feeling which had hitherto prevailed with him, and had, indeed, only succumbed that morning during the ramble. she wished that she was not his worldly hope; the responsibility of such a position was too great. she had made it for herself mainly by her appearance and attractive behavior to him since her return. "if i had only come home in a shabby dress, and tried to speak roughly, this might not have happened," she thought. she deplored less the fact than the sad possibilities that might lie hidden therein. her father then insisted upon her looking over his checkbook and reading the counterfoils. this, also, she obediently did, and at last came to two or three which had been drawn to defray some of the late expenses of her clothes, board, and education. "i, too, cost a good deal, like the horses and wagons and corn," she said, looking up sorrily. "i didn't want you to look at those; i merely meant to give you an idea of my investment transactions. but if you do cost as much as they, never mind. you'll yield a better return." "don't think of me like that!" she begged. "a mere chattel." "a what? oh, a dictionary word. well, as that's in your line i don't forbid it, even if it tells against me," he said, good-humoredly. and he looked her proudly up and down. a few minutes later grammer oliver came to tell them that supper was ready, and in giving the information she added, incidentally, "so we shall soon lose the mistress of hintock house for some time, i hear, maister melbury. yes, she's going off to foreign parts to-morrow, for the rest of the winter months; and be-chok'd if i don't wish i could do the same, for my wynd-pipe is furred like a flue." when the old woman had left the room, melbury turned to his daughter and said, "so, grace, you've lost your new friend, and your chance of keeping her company and writing her travels is quite gone from ye!" grace said nothing. "now," he went on, emphatically, "'tis winterborne's affair has done this. oh yes, 'tis. so let me say one word. promise me that you will not meet him again without my knowledge." "i never do meet him, father, either without your knowledge or with it." "so much the better. i don't like the look of this at all. and i say it not out of harshness to him, poor fellow, but out of tenderness to you. for how could a woman, brought up delicately as you have been, bear the roughness of a life with him?" she sighed; it was a sigh of sympathy with giles, complicated by a sense of the intractability of circumstances. at that same hour, and almost at that same minute, there was a conversation about winterborne in progress in the village street, opposite mr. melbury's gates, where timothy tangs the elder and robert creedle had accidentally met. the sawyer was asking creedle if he had heard what was all over the parish, the skin of his face being drawn two ways on the matter--towards brightness in respect of it as news, and towards concern in respect of it as circumstance. "why, that poor little lonesome thing, marty south, is likely to lose her father. he was almost well, but is much worse again. a man all skin and grief he ever were, and if he leave little hintock for a better land, won't it make some difference to your maister winterborne, neighbor creedle?" "can i be a prophet in israel?" said creedle. "won't it! i was only shaping of such a thing yesterday in my poor, long-seeing way, and all the work of the house upon my one shoulders! you know what it means? it is upon john south's life that all mr. winterborne's houses hang. if so be south die, and so make his decease, thereupon the law is that the houses fall without the least chance of absolution into her hands at the house. i told him so; but the words of the faithful be only as wind!" chapter xiii. the news was true. the life--the one fragile life--that had been used as a measuring-tape of time by law, was in danger of being frayed away. it was the last of a group of lives which had served this purpose, at the end of whose breathings the small homestead occupied by south himself, the larger one of giles winterborne, and half a dozen others that had been in the possession of various hintock village families for the previous hundred years, and were now winterborne's, would fall in and become part of the encompassing estate. yet a short two months earlier marty's father, aged fifty-five years, though something of a fidgety, anxious being, would have been looked on as a man whose existence was so far removed from hazardous as any in the parish, and as bidding fair to be prolonged for another quarter of a century. winterborne walked up and down his garden next day thinking of the contingency. the sense that the paths he was pacing, the cabbage-plots, the apple-trees, his dwelling, cider-cellar, wring-house, stables, and weathercock, were all slipping away over his head and beneath his feet, as if they were painted on a magic-lantern slide, was curious. in spite of john south's late indisposition he had not anticipated danger. to inquire concerning his health had been to show less sympathy than to remain silent, considering the material interest he possessed in the woodman's life, and he had, accordingly, made a point of avoiding marty's house. while he was here in the garden somebody came to fetch him. it was marty herself, and she showed her distress by her unconsciousness of a cropped poll. "father is still so much troubled in his mind about that tree," she said. "you know the tree i mean, mr. winterborne? the tall one in front of the house, that he thinks will blow down and kill us. can you come and see if you can persuade him out of his notion? i can do nothing." he accompanied her to the cottage, and she conducted him upstairs. john south was pillowed up in a chair between the bed and the window exactly opposite the latter, towards which his face was turned. "ah, neighbor winterborne," he said. "i wouldn't have minded if my life had only been my own to lose; i don't vallie it in much of itself, and can let it go if 'tis required of me. but to think what 'tis worth to you, a young man rising in life, that do trouble me! it seems a trick of dishonesty towards ye to go off at fifty-five! i could bear up, i know i could, if it were not for the tree--yes, the tree, 'tis that's killing me. there he stands, threatening my life every minute that the wind do blow. he'll come down upon us and squat us dead; and what will ye do when the life on your property is taken away?" "never you mind me--that's of no consequence," said giles. "think of yourself alone." he looked out of the window in the direction of the woodman's gaze. the tree was a tall elm, familiar to him from childhood, which stood at a distance of two-thirds its own height from the front of south's dwelling. whenever the wind blew, as it did now, the tree rocked, naturally enough; and the sight of its motion and sound of its sighs had gradually bred the terrifying illusion in the woodman's mind that it would descend and kill him. thus he would sit all day, in spite of persuasion, watching its every sway, and listening to the melancholy gregorian melodies which the air wrung out of it. this fear it apparently was, rather than any organic disease which was eating away the health of john south. as the tree waved, south waved his head, making it his flugel-man with abject obedience. "ah, when it was quite a small tree," he said, "and i was a little boy, i thought one day of chopping it off with my hook to make a clothes-line prop with. but i put off doing it, and then i again thought that i would; but i forgot it, and didn't. and at last it got too big, and now 'tis my enemy, and will be the death o' me. little did i think, when i let that sapling stay, that a time would come when it would torment me, and dash me into my grave." "no, no," said winterborne and marty, soothingly. but they thought it possible that it might hasten him into his grave, though in another way than by falling. "i tell you what," added winterborne, "i'll climb up this afternoon and shroud off the lower boughs, and then it won't be so heavy, and the wind won't affect it so." "she won't allow it--a strange woman come from nobody knows where--she won't have it done." "you mean mrs. charmond? oh, she doesn't know there's such a tree on her estate. besides, shrouding is not felling, and i'll risk that much." he went out, and when afternoon came he returned, took a billhook from the woodman's shed, and with a ladder climbed into the lower part of the tree, where he began lopping off--"shrouding," as they called it at hintock--the lowest boughs. each of these quivered under his attack, bent, cracked, and fell into the hedge. having cut away the lowest tier, he stepped off the ladder, climbed a few steps higher, and attacked those at the next level. thus he ascended with the progress of his work far above the top of the ladder, cutting away his perches as he went, and leaving nothing but a bare stem below him. the work was troublesome, for the tree was large. the afternoon wore on, turning dark and misty about four o'clock. from time to time giles cast his eyes across towards the bedroom window of south, where, by the flickering fire in the chamber, he could see the old man watching him, sitting motionless with a hand upon each arm of the chair. beside him sat marty, also straining her eyes towards the skyey field of his operations. a curious question suddenly occurred to winterborne, and he stopped his chopping. he was operating on another person's property to prolong the years of a lease by whose termination that person would considerably benefit. in that aspect of the case he doubted if he ought to go on. on the other hand he was working to save a man's life, and this seemed to empower him to adopt arbitrary measures. the wind had died down to a calm, and while he was weighing the circumstances he saw coming along the road through the increasing mist a figure which, indistinct as it was, he knew well. it was grace melbury, on her way out from the house, probably for a short evening walk before dark. he arranged himself for a greeting from her, since she could hardly avoid passing immediately beneath the tree. but grace, though she looked up and saw him, was just at that time too full of the words of her father to give him any encouragement. the years-long regard that she had had for him was not kindled by her return into a flame of sufficient brilliancy to make her rebellious. thinking that she might not see him, he cried, "miss melbury, here i am." she looked up again. she was near enough to see the expression of his face, and the nails in his soles, silver-bright with constant walking. but she did not reply; and dropping her glance again, went on. winterborne's face grew strange; he mused, and proceeded automatically with his work. grace meanwhile had not gone far. she had reached a gate, whereon she had leaned sadly, and whispered to herself, "what shall i do?" a sudden fog came on, and she curtailed her walk, passing under the tree again on her return. again he addressed her. "grace," he said, when she was close to the trunk, "speak to me." she shook her head without stopping, and went on to a little distance, where she stood observing him from behind the hedge. her coldness had been kindly meant. if it was to be done, she had said to herself, it should be begun at once. while she stood out of observation giles seemed to recognize her meaning; with a sudden start he worked on, climbing higher, and cutting himself off more and more from all intercourse with the sublunary world. at last he had worked himself so high up the elm, and the mist had so thickened, that he could only just be discerned as a dark-gray spot on the light-gray sky: he would have been altogether out of notice but for the stroke of his billhook and the flight of a bough downward, and its crash upon the hedge at intervals. it was not to be done thus, after all: plainness and candor were best. she went back a third time; he did not see her now, and she lingeringly gazed up at his unconscious figure, loath to put an end to any kind of hope that might live on in him still. "giles-- mr. winterborne," she said. he was so high amid the fog that he did not hear. "mr. winterborne!" she cried again, and this time he stopped, looked down, and replied. "my silence just now was not accident," she said, in an unequal voice. "my father says it is best not to think too much of that--engagement, or understanding between us, that you know of. i, too, think that upon the whole he is right. but we are friends, you know, giles, and almost relations." "very well," he answered, as if without surprise, in a voice which barely reached down the tree. "i have nothing to say in objection--i cannot say anything till i've thought a while." she added, with emotion in her tone, "for myself, i would have married you--some day--i think. but i give way, for i see it would be unwise." he made no reply, but sat back upon a bough, placed his elbow in a fork, and rested his head upon his hand. thus he remained till the fog and the night had completely enclosed him from her view. grace heaved a divided sigh, with a tense pause between, and moved onward, her heart feeling uncomfortably big and heavy, and her eyes wet. had giles, instead of remaining still, immediately come down from the tree to her, would she have continued in that filial acquiescent frame of mind which she had announced to him as final? if it be true, as women themselves have declared, that one of their sex is never so much inclined to throw in her lot with a man for good and all as five minutes after she has told him such a thing cannot be, the probabilities are that something might have been done by the appearance of winterborne on the ground beside grace. but he continued motionless and silent in that gloomy niflheim or fog-land which involved him, and she proceeded on her way. the spot seemed now to be quite deserted. the light from south's window made rays on the fog, but did not reach the tree. a quarter of an hour passed, and all was blackness overhead. giles had not yet come down. then the tree seemed to shiver, then to heave a sigh; a movement was audible, and winterborne dropped almost noiselessly to the ground. he had thought the matter out, and having returned the ladder and billhook to their places, pursued his way homeward. he would not allow this incident to affect his outer conduct any more than the danger to his leaseholds had done, and went to bed as usual. two simultaneous troubles do not always make a double trouble; and thus it came to pass that giles's practical anxiety about his houses, which would have been enough to keep him awake half the night at any other time, was displaced and not reinforced by his sentimental trouble about grace melbury. this severance was in truth more like a burial of her than a rupture with her; but he did not realize so much at present; even when he arose in the morning he felt quite moody and stern: as yet the second note in the gamut of such emotions, a tender regret for his loss, had not made itself heard. a load of oak timber was to be sent away that morning to a builder whose works were in a town many miles off. the proud trunks were taken up from the silent spot which had known them through the buddings and sheddings of their growth for the foregoing hundred years; chained down like slaves to a heavy timber carriage with enormous red wheels, and four of the most powerful of melbury's horses were harnessed in front to draw them. the horses wore their bells that day. there were sixteen to the team, carried on a frame above each animal's shoulders, and tuned to scale, so as to form two octaves, running from the highest note on the right or off-side of the leader to the lowest on the left or near-side of the shaft-horse. melbury was among the last to retain horse-bells in that neighborhood; for, living at little hintock, where the lanes yet remained as narrow as before the days of turnpike roads, these sound-signals were still as useful to him and his neighbors as they had ever been in former times. much backing was saved in the course of a year by the warning notes they cast ahead; moreover, the tones of all the teams in the district being known to the carters of each, they could tell a long way off on a dark night whether they were about to encounter friends or strangers. the fog of the previous evening still lingered so heavily over the woods that the morning could not penetrate the trees till long after its time. the load being a ponderous one, the lane crooked, and the air so thick, winterborne set out, as he often did, to accompany the team as far as the corner, where it would turn into a wider road. so they rumbled on, shaking the foundations of the roadside cottages by the weight of their progress, the sixteen bells chiming harmoniously over all, till they had risen out of the valley and were descending towards the more open route, the sparks rising from their creaking skid and nearly setting fire to the dead leaves alongside. then occurred one of the very incidents against which the bells were an endeavor to guard. suddenly there beamed into their eyes, quite close to them, the two lamps of a carriage, shorn of rays by the fog. its approach had been quite unheard, by reason of their own noise. the carriage was a covered one, while behind it could be discerned another vehicle laden with luggage. winterborne went to the head of the team, and heard the coachman telling the carter that he must turn back. the carter declared that this was impossible. "you can turn if you unhitch your string-horses," said the coachman. "it is much easier for you to turn than for us," said winterborne. "we've five tons of timber on these wheels if we've an ounce." "but i've another carriage with luggage at my back." winterborne admitted the strength of the argument. "but even with that," he said, "you can back better than we. and you ought to, for you could hear our bells half a mile off." "and you could see our lights." "we couldn't, because of the fog." "well, our time's precious," said the coachman, haughtily. "you are only going to some trumpery little village or other in the neighborhood, while we are going straight to italy." "driving all the way, i suppose," said winterborne, sarcastically. the argument continued in these terms till a voice from the interior of the carriage inquired what was the matter. it was a lady's. she was briefly informed of the timber people's obstinacy; and then giles could hear her telling the footman to direct the timber people to turn their horses' heads. the message was brought, and winterborne sent the bearer back to say that he begged the lady's pardon, but that he could not do as she requested; that though he would not assert it to be impossible, it was impossible by comparison with the slight difficulty to her party to back their light carriages. as fate would have it, the incident with grace melbury on the previous day made giles less gentle than he might otherwise have shown himself, his confidence in the sex being rudely shaken. in fine, nothing could move him, and the carriages were compelled to back till they reached one of the sidings or turnouts constructed in the bank for the purpose. then the team came on ponderously, and the clanging of its sixteen bells as it passed the discomfited carriages, tilted up against the bank, lent a particularly triumphant tone to the team's progress--a tone which, in point of fact, did not at all attach to its conductor's feelings. giles walked behind the timber, and just as he had got past the yet stationary carriages he heard a soft voice say, "who is that rude man? not melbury?" the sex of the speaker was so prominent in the voice that winterborne felt a pang of regret. "no, ma'am. a younger man, in a smaller way of business in little hintock. winterborne is his name." thus they parted company. "why, mr. winterborne," said the wagoner, when they were out of hearing, "that was she--mrs. charmond! who'd ha' thought it? what in the world can a woman that does nothing be cock-watching out here at this time o' day for? oh, going to italy--yes to be sure, i heard she was going abroad, she can't endure the winter here." winterborne was vexed at the incident; the more so that he knew mr. melbury, in his adoration of hintock house, would be the first to blame him if it became known. but saying no more, he accompanied the load to the end of the lane, and then turned back with an intention to call at south's to learn the result of the experiment of the preceding evening. it chanced that a few minutes before this time grace melbury, who now rose soon enough to breakfast with her father, in spite of the unwontedness of the hour, had been commissioned by him to make the same inquiry at south's. marty had been standing at the door when miss melbury arrived. almost before the latter had spoken, mrs. charmond's carriages, released from the obstruction up the lane, came bowling along, and the two girls turned to regard the spectacle. mrs. charmond did not see them, but there was sufficient light for them to discern her outline between the carriage windows. a noticeable feature in her tournure was a magnificent mass of braided locks. "how well she looks this morning!" said grace, forgetting mrs. charmond's slight in her generous admiration. "her hair so becomes her worn that way. i have never seen any more beautiful!" "nor have i, miss," said marty, dryly, unconsciously stroking her crown. grace watched the carriages with lingering regret till they were out of sight. she then learned of marty that south was no better. before she had come away winterborne approached the house, but seeing that one of the two girls standing on the door-step was grace, he suddenly turned back again and sought the shelter of his own home till she should have gone away. chapter xiv. the encounter with the carriages having sprung upon winterborne's mind the image of mrs. charmond, his thoughts by a natural channel went from her to the fact that several cottages and other houses in the two hintocks, now his own, would fall into her possession in the event of south's death. he marvelled what people could have been thinking about in the past to invent such precarious tenures as these; still more, what could have induced his ancestors at hintock, and other village people, to exchange their old copyholds for life-leases. but having naturally succeeded to these properties through his father, he had done his best to keep them in order, though he was much struck with his father's negligence in not insuring south's life. after breakfast, still musing on the circumstances, he went upstairs, turned over his bed, and drew out a flat canvas bag which lay between the mattress and the sacking. in this he kept his leases, which had remained there unopened ever since his father's death. it was the usual hiding-place among rural lifeholders for such documents. winterborne sat down on the bed and looked them over. they were ordinary leases for three lives, which a member of the south family, some fifty years before this time, had accepted of the lord of the manor in lieu of certain copyholds and other rights, in consideration of having the dilapidated houses rebuilt by said lord. they had come into his father's possession chiefly through his mother, who was a south. pinned to the parchment of one of the indentures was a letter, which winterborne had never seen before. it bore a remote date, the handwriting being that of some solicitor or agent, and the signature the landholder's. it was to the effect that at any time before the last of the stated lives should drop, mr. giles winterborne, senior, or his representative, should have the privilege of adding his own and his son's life to the life remaining on payment of a merely nominal sum; the concession being in consequence of the elder winterborne's consent to demolish one of the houses and relinquish its site, which stood at an awkward corner of the lane and impeded the way. the house had been pulled down years before. why giles's father had not taken advantage of his privilege to insert his own and his son's lives it was impossible to say. the likelihood was that death alone had hindered him in the execution of his project, as it surely was, the elder winterborne having been a man who took much pleasure in dealing with house property in his small way. since one of the souths still survived, there was not much doubt that giles could do what his father had left undone, as far as his own life was concerned. this possibility cheered him much, for by those houses hung many things. melbury's doubt of the young man's fitness to be the husband of grace had been based not a little on the precariousness of his holdings in little and great hintock. he resolved to attend to the business at once, the fine for renewal being a sum that he could easily muster. his scheme, however, could not be carried out in a day; and meanwhile he would run up to south's, as he had intended to do, to learn the result of the experiment with the tree. marty met him at the door. "well, marty," he said; and was surprised to read in her face that the case was not so hopeful as he had imagined. "i am sorry for your labor," she said. "it is all lost. he says the tree seems taller than ever." winterborne looked round at it. taller the tree certainly did seem, the gauntness of its now naked stem being more marked than before. "it quite terrified him when he first saw what you had done to it this morning," she added. "he declares it will come down upon us and cleave us, like 'the sword of the lord and of gideon.'" "well; can i do anything else?" asked he. "the doctor says the tree ought to be cut down." "oh--you've had the doctor?" "i didn't send for him. mrs. charmond, before she left, heard that father was ill, and told him to attend him at her expense." "that was very good of her. and he says it ought to be cut down. we mustn't cut it down without her knowledge, i suppose." he went up-stairs. there the old man sat, staring at the now gaunt tree as if his gaze were frozen on to its trunk. unluckily the tree waved afresh by this time, a wind having sprung up and blown the fog away, and his eyes turned with its wavings. they heard footsteps--a man's, but of a lighter type than usual. "there is doctor fitzpiers again," she said, and descended. presently his tread was heard on the naked stairs. mr. fitzpiers entered the sick-chamber just as a doctor is more or less wont to do on such occasions, and pre-eminently when the room is that of a humble cottager, looking round towards the patient with that preoccupied gaze which so plainly reveals that he has wellnigh forgotten all about the case and the whole circumstances since he dismissed them from his mind at his last exit from the same apartment. he nodded to winterborne, with whom he was already a little acquainted, recalled the case to his thoughts, and went leisurely on to where south sat. fitzpiers was, on the whole, a finely formed, handsome man. his eyes were dark and impressive, and beamed with the light either of energy or of susceptivity--it was difficult to say which; it might have been a little of both. that quick, glittering, practical eye, sharp for the surface of things and for nothing beneath it, he had not. but whether his apparent depth of vision was real, or only an artistic accident of his corporeal moulding, nothing but his deeds could reveal. his face was rather soft than stern, charming than grand, pale than flushed; his nose--if a sketch of his features be de rigueur for a person of his pretensions--was artistically beautiful enough to have been worth doing in marble by any sculptor not over-busy, and was hence devoid of those knotty irregularities which often mean power; while the double-cyma or classical curve of his mouth was not without a looseness in its close. nevertheless, either from his readily appreciative mien, or his reflective manner, or the instinct towards profound things which was said to possess him, his presence bespoke the philosopher rather than the dandy or macaroni--an effect which was helped by the absence of trinkets or other trivialities from his attire, though this was more finished and up to date than is usually the case among rural practitioners. strict people of the highly respectable class, knowing a little about him by report, might have said that he seemed likely to err rather in the possession of too many ideas than too few; to be a dreamy 'ist of some sort, or too deeply steeped in some false kind of 'ism. however this may be, it will be seen that he was undoubtedly a somewhat rare kind of gentleman and doctor to have descended, as from the clouds, upon little hintock. "this is an extraordinary case," he said at last to winterborne, after examining south by conversation, look, and touch, and learning that the craze about the elm was stronger than ever. "come down-stairs, and i'll tell you what i think." they accordingly descended, and the doctor continued, "the tree must be cut down, or i won't answer for his life." "'tis mrs. charmond's tree, and i suppose we must get permission?" said giles. "if so, as she is gone away, i must speak to her agent." "oh--never mind whose tree it is--what's a tree beside a life! cut it down. i have not the honor of knowing mrs. charmond as yet, but i am disposed to risk that much with her." "'tis timber," rejoined giles, more scrupulous than he would have been had not his own interests stood so closely involved. "they'll never fell a stick about here without it being marked first, either by her or the agent." "then we'll inaugurate a new era forthwith. how long has he complained of the tree?" asked the doctor of marty. "weeks and weeks, sir. the shape of it seems to haunt him like an evil spirit. he says that it is exactly his own age, that it has got human sense, and sprouted up when he was born on purpose to rule him, and keep him as its slave. others have been like it afore in hintock." they could hear south's voice up-stairs "oh, he's rocking this way; he must come! and then my poor life, that's worth houses upon houses, will be squashed out o' me. oh! oh!" "that's how he goes on," she added. "and he'll never look anywhere else but out of the window, and scarcely have the curtains drawn." "down with it, then, and hang mrs. charmond," said mr. fitzpiers. "the best plan will be to wait till the evening, when it is dark, or early in the morning before he is awake, so that he doesn't see it fall, for that would terrify him worse than ever. keep the blind down till i come, and then i'll assure him, and show him that his trouble is over." the doctor then departed, and they waited till the evening. when it was dusk, and the curtains drawn, winterborne directed a couple of woodmen to bring a crosscut-saw, and the tall, threatening tree was soon nearly off at its base. he would not fell it completely then, on account of the possible crash, but next morning, before south was awake, they went and lowered it cautiously, in a direction away from the cottage. it was a business difficult to do quite silently; but it was done at last, and the elm of the same birth-year as the woodman's lay stretched upon the ground. the weakest idler that passed could now set foot on marks formerly made in the upper forks by the shoes of adventurous climbers only; once inaccessible nests could be examined microscopically; and on swaying extremities where birds alone had perched, the by-standers sat down. as soon as it was broad daylight the doctor came, and winterborne entered the house with him. marty said that her father was wrapped up and ready, as usual, to be put into his chair. they ascended the stairs, and soon seated him. he began at once to complain of the tree, and the danger to his life and winterborne's house-property in consequence. the doctor signalled to giles, who went and drew back the printed cotton curtains. "'tis gone, see," said mr. fitzpiers. as soon as the old man saw the vacant patch of sky in place of the branched column so familiar to his gaze, he sprang up, speechless, his eyes rose from their hollows till the whites showed all round; he fell back, and a bluish whiteness overspread him. greatly alarmed, they put him on the bed. as soon as he came a little out of his fit, he gasped, "oh, it is gone!--where?--where?" his whole system seemed paralyzed by amazement. they were thunder-struck at the result of the experiment, and did all they could. nothing seemed to avail. giles and fitzpiers went and came, but uselessly. he lingered through the day, and died that evening as the sun went down. "d--d if my remedy hasn't killed him!" murmured the doctor. chapter xv. when melbury heard what had happened he seemed much moved, and walked thoughtfully about the premises. on south's own account he was genuinely sorry; and on winterborne's he was the more grieved in that this catastrophe had so closely followed the somewhat harsh dismissal of giles as the betrothed of his daughter. he was quite angry with circumstances for so heedlessly inflicting on giles a second trouble when the needful one inflicted by himself was all that the proper order of events demanded. "i told giles's father when he came into those houses not to spend too much money on lifehold property held neither for his own life nor his son's," he exclaimed. "but he wouldn't listen to me. and now giles has to suffer for it." "poor giles!" murmured grace. "now, grace, between us two, it is very, very remarkable. it is almost as if i had foreseen this; and i am thankful for your escape, though i am sincerely sorry for giles. had we not dismissed him already, we could hardly have found it in our hearts to dismiss him now. so i say, be thankful. i'll do all i can for him as a friend; but as a pretender to the position of my son-in law, that can never be thought of more." and yet at that very moment the impracticability to which poor winterborne's suit had been reduced was touching grace's heart to a warmer sentiment on his behalf than she had felt for years concerning him. he, meanwhile, was sitting down alone in the old familiar house which had ceased to be his, taking a calm if somewhat dismal survey of affairs. the pendulum of the clock bumped every now and then against one side of the case in which it swung, as the muffled drum to his worldly march. looking out of the window he could perceive that a paralysis had come over creedle's occupation of manuring the garden, owing, obviously, to a conviction that they might not be living there long enough to profit by next season's crop. he looked at the leases again and the letter attached. there was no doubt that he had lost his houses by an accident which might easily have been circumvented if he had known the true conditions of his holding. the time for performance had now lapsed in strict law; but might not the intention be considered by the landholder when she became aware of the circumstances, and his moral right to retain the holdings for the term of his life be conceded? his heart sank within him when he perceived that despite all the legal reciprocities and safeguards prepared and written, the upshot of the matter amounted to this, that it depended upon the mere caprice--good or ill--of the woman he had met the day before in such an unfortunate way, whether he was to possess his houses for life or no. while he was sitting and thinking a step came to the door, and melbury appeared, looking very sorry for his position. winterborne welcomed him by a word and a look, and went on with his examination of the parchments. his visitor sat down. "giles," he said, "this is very awkward, and i am sorry for it. what are you going to do?" giles informed him of the real state of affairs, and how barely he had missed availing himself of his chance of renewal. "what a misfortune! why was this neglected? well, the best thing you can do is to write and tell her all about it, and throw yourself upon her generosity." "i would rather not," murmured giles. "but you must," said melbury. in short, he argued so cogently that giles allowed himself to be persuaded, and the letter to mrs. charmond was written and sent to hintock house, whence, as he knew, it would at once be forwarded to her. melbury feeling that he had done so good an action in coming as almost to extenuate his previous arbitrary conduct to nothing, went home; and giles was left alone to the suspense of waiting for a reply from the divinity who shaped the ends of the hintock population. by this time all the villagers knew of the circumstances, and being wellnigh like one family, a keen interest was the result all round. everybody thought of giles; nobody thought of marty. had any of them looked in upon her during those moonlight nights which preceded the burial of her father, they would have seen the girl absolutely alone in the house with the dead man. her own chamber being nearest the stairs, the coffin had been placed there for convenience; and at a certain hour of the night, when the moon arrived opposite the window, its beams streamed across the still profile of south, sublimed by the august presence of death, and onward a few feet farther upon the face of his daughter, lying in her little bed in the stillness of a repose almost as dignified as that of her companion--the repose of a guileless soul that had nothing more left on earth to lose, except a life which she did not overvalue. south was buried, and a week passed, and winterborne watched for a reply from mrs. charmond. melbury was very sanguine as to its tenor; but winterborne had not told him of the encounter with her carriage, when, if ever he had heard an affronted tone on a woman's lips, he had heard it on hers. the postman's time for passing was just after melbury's men had assembled in the spar-house; and winterborne, who when not busy on his own account would lend assistance there, used to go out into the lane every morning and meet the post-man at the end of one of the green rides through the hazel copse, in the straight stretch of which his laden figure could be seen a long way off. grace also was very anxious; more anxious than her father; more, perhaps, than winterborne himself. this anxiety led her into the spar-house on some pretext or other almost every morning while they were awaiting the reply. fitzpiers too, though he did not personally appear, was much interested, and not altogether easy in his mind; for he had been informed by an authority of what he had himself conjectured, that if the tree had been allowed to stand, the old man would have gone on complaining, but might have lived for twenty years. eleven times had winterborne gone to that corner of the ride, and looked up its long straight slope through the wet grays of winter dawn. but though the postman's bowed figure loomed in view pretty regularly, he brought nothing for giles. on the twelfth day the man of missives, while yet in the extreme distance, held up his hand, and winterborne saw a letter in it. he took it into the spar-house before he broke the seal, and those who were there gathered round him while he read, grace looking in at the door. the letter was not from mrs. charmond herself, but her agent at sherton. winterborne glanced it over and looked up. "it's all over," he said. "ah!" said they altogether. "her lawyer is instructed to say that mrs. charmond sees no reason for disturbing the natural course of things, particularly as she contemplates pulling the houses down," he said, quietly. "only think of that!" said several. winterborne had turned away, and said vehemently to himself, "then let her pull 'em down, and be d--d to her!" creedle looked at him with a face of seven sorrows, saying, "ah, 'twas that sperrit that lost 'em for ye, maister!" winterborne subdued his feelings, and from that hour, whatever they were, kept them entirely to himself. there could be no doubt that, up to this last moment, he had nourished a feeble hope of regaining grace in the event of this negotiation turning out a success. not being aware of the fact that her father could have settled upon her a fortune sufficient to enable both to live in comfort, he deemed it now an absurdity to dream any longer of such a vanity as making her his wife, and sank into silence forthwith. yet whatever the value of taciturnity to a man among strangers, it is apt to express more than talkativeness when he dwells among friends. the countryman who is obliged to judge the time of day from changes in external nature sees a thousand successive tints and traits in the landscape which are never discerned by him who hears the regular chime of a clock, because they are never in request. in like manner do we use our eyes on our taciturn comrade. the infinitesimal movement of muscle, curve, hair, and wrinkle, which when accompanied by a voice goes unregarded, is watched and translated in the lack of it, till virtually the whole surrounding circle of familiars is charged with the reserved one's moods and meanings. this was the condition of affairs between winterborne and his neighbors after his stroke of ill-luck. he held his tongue; and they observed him, and knew that he was discomposed. mr. melbury, in his compunction, thought more of the matter than any one else, except his daughter. had winterborne been going on in the old fashion, grace's father could have alluded to his disapproval of the alliance every day with the greatest frankness; but to speak any further on the subject he could not find it in his heart to do now. he hoped that giles would of his own accord make some final announcement that he entirely withdrew his pretensions to grace, and so get the thing past and done with. for though giles had in a measure acquiesced in the wish of her family, he could make matters unpleasant if he chose to work upon grace; and hence, when melbury saw the young man approaching along the road one day, he kept friendliness and frigidity exactly balanced in his eye till he could see whether giles's manner was presumptive or not. his manner was that of a man who abandoned all claims. "i am glad to meet ye, mr. melbury," he said, in a low voice, whose quality he endeavored to make as practical as possible. "i am afraid i shall not be able to keep that mare i bought, and as i don't care to sell her, i should like--if you don't object--to give her to miss melbury. the horse is very quiet, and would be quite safe for her." mr. melbury was rather affected at this. "you sha'n't hurt your pocket like that on our account, giles. grace shall have the horse, but i'll pay you what you gave for her, and any expense you may have been put to for her keep." he would not hear of any other terms, and thus it was arranged. they were now opposite melbury's house, and the timber-merchant pressed winterborne to enter, grace being out of the way. "pull round the settle, giles," said the timber-merchant, as soon as they were within. "i should like to have a serious talk with you." thereupon he put the case to winterborne frankly, and in quite a friendly way. he declared that he did not like to be hard on a man when he was in difficulty; but he really did not see how winterborne could marry his daughter now, without even a house to take her to. giles quite acquiesced in the awkwardness of his situation. but from a momentary feeling that he would like to know grace's mind from her own lips, he did not speak out positively there and then. he accordingly departed somewhat abruptly, and went home to consider whether he would seek to bring about a meeting with her. in the evening, while he sat quietly pondering, he fancied that he heard a scraping on the wall outside his house. the boughs of a monthly rose which grew there made such a noise sometimes, but as no wind was stirring he knew that it could not be the rose-tree. he took up the candle and went out. nobody was near. as he turned, the light flickered on the whitewashed rough case of the front, and he saw words written thereon in charcoal, which he read as follows: "o giles, you've lost your dwelling-place, and therefore, giles, you'll lose your grace." giles went in-doors. he had his suspicions as to the scrawler of those lines, but he could not be sure. what suddenly filled his heart far more than curiosity about their authorship was a terrible belief that they were turning out to be true, try to see grace as he might. they decided the question for him. he sat down and wrote a formal note to melbury, in which he briefly stated that he was placed in such a position as to make him share to the full melbury's view of his own and his daughter's promise, made some years before; to wish that it should be considered as cancelled, and they themselves quite released from any obligation on account of it. having fastened up this their plenary absolution, he determined to get it out of his hands and have done with it; to which end he went off to melbury's at once. it was now so late that the family had all retired; he crept up to the house, thrust the note under the door, and stole away as silently as he had come. melbury himself was the first to rise the next morning, and when he had read the letter his relief was great. "very honorable of giles, very honorable," he kept saying to himself. "i shall not forget him. now to keep her up to her own true level." it happened that grace went out for an early ramble that morning, passing through the door and gate while her father was in the spar-house. to go in her customary direction she could not avoid passing winterborne's house. the morning sun was shining flat upon its white surface, and the words, which still remained, were immediately visible to her. she read them. her face flushed to crimson. she could see giles and creedle talking together at the back; the charred spar-gad with which the lines had been written lay on the ground beneath the wall. feeling pretty sure that winterborne would observe her action, she quickly went up to the wall, rubbed out "lose" and inserted "keep" in its stead. then she made the best of her way home without looking behind her. giles could draw an inference now if he chose. there could not be the least doubt that gentle grace was warming to more sympathy with, and interest in, giles winterborne than ever she had done while he was her promised lover; that since his misfortune those social shortcomings of his, which contrasted so awkwardly with her later experiences of life, had become obscured by the generous revival of an old romantic attachment to him. though mentally trained and tilled into foreignness of view, as compared with her youthful time, grace was not an ambitious girl, and might, if left to herself, have declined winterborne without much discontent or unhappiness. her feelings just now were so far from latent that the writing on the wall had thus quickened her to an unusual rashness. having returned from her walk she sat at breakfast silently. when her step-mother had left the room she said to her father, "i have made up my mind that i should like my engagement to giles to continue, for the present at any rate, till i can see further what i ought to do." melbury looked much surprised. "nonsense," he said, sharply. "you don't know what you are talking about. look here." he handed across to her the letter received from giles. she read it, and said no more. could he have seen her write on the wall? she did not know. fate, it seemed, would have it this way, and there was nothing to do but to acquiesce. it was a few hours after this that winterborne, who, curiously enough, had not perceived grace writing, was clearing away the tree from the front of south's late dwelling. he saw marty standing in her door-way, a slim figure in meagre black, almost without womanly contours as yet. he went up to her and said, "marty, why did you write that on my wall last night? it was you, you know." "because it was the truth. i didn't mean to let it stay, mr. winterborne; but when i was going to rub it out you came, and i was obliged to run off." "having prophesied one thing, why did you alter it to another? your predictions can't be worth much." "i have not altered it." "but you have." "no." "it is altered. go and see." she went, and read that, in spite of losing his dwelling-place, he would keep his grace. marty came back surprised. "well, i never," she said. "who can have made such nonsense of it?" "who, indeed?" said he. "i have rubbed it all out, as the point of it is quite gone." "you'd no business to rub it out. i didn't tell you to. i meant to let it stay a little longer." "some idle boy did it, no doubt," she murmured. as this seemed very probable, and the actual perpetrator was unsuspected, winterborne said no more, and dismissed the matter from his mind. from this day of his life onward for a considerable time, winterborne, though not absolutely out of his house as yet, retired into the background of human life and action thereabout--a feat not particularly difficult of performance anywhere when the doer has the assistance of a lost prestige. grace, thinking that winterborne saw her write, made no further sign, and the frail bark of fidelity that she had thus timidly launched was stranded and lost. chapter xvi. dr. fitzpiers lived on the slope of the hill, in a house of much less pretension, both as to architecture and as to magnitude, than the timber-merchant's. the latter had, without doubt, been once the manorial residence appertaining to the snug and modest domain of little hintock, of which the boundaries were now lost by its absorption with others of its kind into the adjoining estate of mrs. charmond. though the melburys themselves were unaware of the fact, there was every reason to believe--at least so the parson said--that the owners of that little manor had been melbury's own ancestors, the family name occurring in numerous documents relating to transfers of land about the time of the civil wars. mr. fitzpiers's dwelling, on the contrary, was small, cottage-like, and comparatively modern. it had been occupied, and was in part occupied still, by a retired farmer and his wife, who, on the surgeon's arrival in quest of a home, had accommodated him by receding from their front rooms into the kitchen quarter, whence they administered to his wants, and emerged at regular intervals to receive from him a not unwelcome addition to their income. the cottage and its garden were so regular in their arrangement that they might have been laid out by a dutch designer of the time of william and mary. in a low, dense hedge, cut to wedge-shape, was a door over which the hedge formed an arch, and from the inside of the door a straight path, bordered with clipped box, ran up the slope of the garden to the porch, which was exactly in the middle of the house front, with two windows on each side. right and left of the path were first a bed of gooseberry bushes; next of currant; next of raspberry; next of strawberry; next of old-fashioned flowers; at the corners opposite the porch being spheres of box resembling a pair of school globes. over the roof of the house could be seen the orchard, on yet higher ground, and behind the orchard the forest-trees, reaching up to the crest of the hill. opposite the garden door and visible from the parlor window was a swing-gate leading into a field, across which there ran a footpath. the swing-gate had just been repainted, and on one fine afternoon, before the paint was dry, and while gnats were still dying thereon, the surgeon was standing in his sitting-room abstractedly looking out at the different pedestrians who passed and repassed along that route. being of a philosophical stamp, he perceived that the character of each of these travellers exhibited itself in a somewhat amusing manner by his or her method of handling the gate. as regarded the men, there was not much variety: they gave the gate a kick and passed through. the women were more contrasting. to them the sticky wood-work was a barricade, a disgust, a menace, a treachery, as the case might be. the first that he noticed was a bouncing woman with her skirts tucked up and her hair uncombed. she grasped the gate without looking, giving it a supplementary push with her shoulder, when the white imprint drew from her an exclamation in language not too refined. she went to the green bank, sat down and rubbed herself in the grass, cursing the while. "ha! ha! ha!" laughed the doctor. the next was a girl, with her hair cropped short, in whom the surgeon recognized the daughter of his late patient, the woodman south. moreover, a black bonnet that she wore by way of mourning unpleasantly reminded him that he had ordered the felling of a tree which had caused her parent's death and winterborne's losses. she walked and thought, and not recklessly; but her preoccupation led her to grasp unsuspectingly the bar of the gate, and touch it with her arm. fitzpiers felt sorry that she should have soiled that new black frock, poor as it was, for it was probably her only one. she looked at her hand and arm, seemed but little surprised, wiped off the disfigurement with an almost unmoved face, and as if without abandoning her original thoughts. thus she went on her way. then there came over the green quite a different sort of personage. she walked as delicately as if she had been bred in town, and as firmly as if she had been bred in the country; she seemed one who dimly knew her appearance to be attractive, but who retained some of the charm of being ignorant of that fact by forgetting it in a general pensiveness. she approached the gate. to let such a creature touch it even with a tip of her glove was to fitzpiers almost like letting her proceed to tragical self-destruction. he jumped up and looked for his hat, but was unable to find the right one; glancing again out of the window he saw that he was too late. having come up, she stopped, looked at the gate, picked up a little stick, and using it as a bayonet, pushed open the obstacle without touching it at all. he steadily watched her till she had passed out of sight, recognizing her as the very young lady whom he had seen once before and been unable to identify. whose could that emotional face be? all the others he had seen in hintock as yet oppressed him with their crude rusticity; the contrast offered by this suggested that she hailed from elsewhere. precisely these thoughts had occurred to him at the first time of seeing her; but he now went a little further with them, and considered that as there had been no carriage seen or heard lately in that spot she could not have come a very long distance. she must be somebody staying at hintock house? possibly mrs. charmond, of whom he had heard so much--at any rate an inmate, and this probability was sufficient to set a mild radiance in the surgeon's somewhat dull sky. fitzpiers sat down to the book he had been perusing. it happened to be that of a german metaphysician, for the doctor was not a practical man, except by fits, and much preferred the ideal world to the real, and the discovery of principles to their application. the young lady remained in his thoughts. he might have followed her; but he was not constitutionally active, and preferred a conjectural pursuit. however, when he went out for a ramble just before dusk he insensibly took the direction of hintock house, which was the way that grace had been walking, it having happened that her mind had run on mrs. charmond that day, and she had walked to the brow of a hill whence the house could be seen, returning by another route. fitzpiers in his turn reached the edge of the glen, overlooking the manor-house. the shutters were shut, and only one chimney smoked. the mere aspect of the place was enough to inform him that mrs. charmond had gone away and that nobody else was staying there. fitzpiers felt a vague disappointment that the young lady was not mrs. charmond, of whom he had heard so much; and without pausing longer to gaze at a carcass from which the spirit had flown, he bent his steps homeward. later in the evening fitzpiers was summoned to visit a cottage patient about two miles distant. like the majority of young practitioners in his position he was far from having assumed the dignity of being driven his rounds by a servant in a brougham that flashed the sunlight like a mirror; his way of getting about was by means of a gig which he drove himself, hitching the rein of the horse to the gate post, shutter hook, or garden paling of the domicile under visitation, or giving pennies to little boys to hold the animal during his stay--pennies which were well earned when the cases to be attended were of a certain cheerful kind that wore out the patience of the little boys. on this account of travelling alone, the night journeys which fitzpiers had frequently to take were dismal enough, a serious apparent perversity in nature ruling that whenever there was to be a birth in a particularly inaccessible and lonely place, that event should occur in the night. the surgeon, having been of late years a town man, hated the solitary midnight woodland. he was not altogether skilful with the reins, and it often occurred to his mind that if in some remote depths of the trees an accident were to happen, the fact of his being alone might be the death of him. hence he made a practice of picking up any countryman or lad whom he chanced to pass by, and under the disguise of treating him to a nice drive, obtained his companionship on the journey, and his convenient assistance in opening gates. the doctor had started on his way out of the village on the night in question when the light of his lamps fell upon the musing form of winterborne, walking leisurely along, as if he had no object in life. winterborne was a better class of companion than the doctor usually could get, and he at once pulled up and asked him if he would like a drive through the wood that fine night. giles seemed rather surprised at the doctor's friendliness, but said that he had no objection, and accordingly mounted beside mr. fitzpiers. they drove along under the black boughs which formed a network upon the stars, all the trees of a species alike in one respect, and no two of them alike in another. looking up as they passed under a horizontal bough they sometimes saw objects like large tadpoles lodged diametrically across it, which giles explained to be pheasants there at roost; and they sometimes heard the report of a gun, which reminded him that others knew what those tadpole shapes represented as well as he. presently the doctor said what he had been going to say for some time: "is there a young lady staying in this neighborhood--a very attractive girl--with a little white boa round her neck, and white fur round her gloves?" winterborne of course knew in a moment that grace, whom he had caught the doctor peering at, was represented by these accessaries. with a wary grimness, partly in his character, partly induced by the circumstances, he evaded an answer by saying, "i saw a young lady talking to mrs. charmond the other day; perhaps it was she." fitzpiers concluded from this that winterborne had not seen him looking over the hedge. "it might have been," he said. "she is quite a gentlewoman--the one i mean. she cannot be a permanent resident in hintock or i should have seen her before. nor does she look like one." "she is not staying at hintock house?" "no; it is closed." "then perhaps she is staying at one of the cottages, or farmhouses?" "oh no--you mistake. she was a different sort of girl altogether." as giles was nobody, fitzpiers treated him accordingly, and apostrophized the night in continuation: "'she moved upon this earth a shape of brightness, a power, that from its objects scarcely drew one impulse of her being--in her lightness most like some radiant cloud of morning dew, which wanders through the waste air's pathless blue, to nourish some far desert: she did seem beside me, gathering beauty as she grew, like the bright shade of some immortal dream which walks, when tempests sleep, the wave of life's dark stream.'" the consummate charm of the lines seemed to winterborne, though he divined that they were a quotation, to be somehow the result of his lost love's charms upon fitzpiers. "you seem to be mightily in love with her, sir," he said, with a sensation of heart-sickness, and more than ever resolved not to mention grace by name. "oh no--i am not that, winterborne; people living insulated, as i do by the solitude of this place, get charged with emotive fluid like a leyden-jar with electric, for want of some conductor at hand to disperse it. human love is a subjective thing--the essence itself of man, as that great thinker spinoza the philosopher says--ipsa hominis essentia--it is joy accompanied by an idea which we project against any suitable object in the line of our vision, just as the rainbow iris is projected against an oak, ash, or elm tree indifferently. so that if any other young lady had appeared instead of the one who did appear, i should have felt just the same interest in her, and have quoted precisely the same lines from shelley about her, as about this one i saw. such miserable creatures of circumstance are we all!" "well, it is what we call being in love down in these parts, whether or no," said winterborne. "you are right enough if you admit that i am in love with something in my own head, and no thing in itself outside it at all." "is it part of a country doctor's duties to learn that view of things, may i ask, sir?" said winterborne, adopting the socratic {greek word: irony} with such well-assumed simplicity that fitzpiers answered, readily, "oh no. the real truth is, winterborne, that medical practice in places like this is a very rule-of-thumb matter; a bottle of bitter stuff for this and that old woman--the bitterer the better--compounded from a few simple stereotyped prescriptions; occasional attendance at births, where mere presence is almost sufficient, so healthy and strong are the people; and a lance for an abscess now and then. investigation and experiment cannot be carried on without more appliances than one has here--though i have attempted it a little." giles did not enter into this view of the case; what he had been struck with was the curious parallelism between mr. fitzpiers's manner and grace's, as shown by the fact of both of them straying into a subject of discourse so engrossing to themselves that it made them forget it was foreign to him. nothing further passed between himself and the doctor in relation to grace till they were on their way back. they had stopped at a way-side inn for a glass of brandy and cider hot, and when they were again in motion, fitzpiers, possibly a little warmed by the liquor, resumed the subject by saying, "i should like very much to know who that young lady was." "what difference can it make, if she's only the tree your rainbow falls on?" "ha! ha! true." "you have no wife, sir?" "i have no wife, and no idea of one. i hope to do better things than marry and settle in hintock. not but that it is well for a medical man to be married, and sometimes, begad, 'twould be pleasant enough in this place, with the wind roaring round the house, and the rain and the boughs beating against it. i hear that you lost your life-holds by the death of south?" "i did. i lost in more ways than one." they had reached the top of hintock lane or street, if it could be called such where three-quarters of the road-side consisted of copse and orchard. one of the first houses to be passed was melbury's. a light was shining from a bedroom window facing lengthwise of the lane. winterborne glanced at it, and saw what was coming. he had withheld an answer to the doctor's inquiry to hinder his knowledge of grace; but, as he thought to himself, "who hath gathered the wind in his fists? who hath bound the waters in a garment?" he could not hinder what was doomed to arrive, and might just as well have been outspoken. as they came up to the house, grace's figure was distinctly visible, drawing the two white curtains together which were used here instead of blinds. "why, there she is!" said fitzpiers. "how does she come there?" "in the most natural way in the world. it is her home. mr. melbury is her father." "oh, indeed--indeed--indeed! how comes he to have a daughter of that stamp?" winterborne laughed coldly. "won't money do anything," he said, "if you've promising material to work upon? why shouldn't a hintock girl, taken early from home, and put under proper instruction, become as finished as any other young lady, if she's got brains and good looks to begin with?" "no reason at all why she shouldn't," murmured the surgeon, with reflective disappointment. "only i didn't anticipate quite that kind of origin for her." "and you think an inch or two less of her now." there was a little tremor in winterborne's voice as he spoke. "well," said the doctor, with recovered warmth, "i am not so sure that i think less of her. at first it was a sort of blow; but, dammy! i'll stick up for her. she's charming, every inch of her!" "so she is," said winterborne, "but not to me." from this ambiguous expression of the reticent woodlander's, dr. fitzpiers inferred that giles disliked miss melbury because of some haughtiness in her bearing towards him, and had, on that account, withheld her name. the supposition did not tend to diminish his admiration for her. chapter xvii. grace's exhibition of herself, in the act of pulling-to the window-curtains, had been the result of an unfortunate incident in the house that day--nothing less than the illness of grammer oliver, a woman who had never till now lain down for such a reason in her life. like others to whom unbroken years of health has made the idea of keeping their bed almost as repugnant as death itself, she had continued on foot till she literally fell on the floor; and though she had, as yet, been scarcely a day off duty, she had sickened into quite a different personage from the independent grammer of the yard and spar-house. ill as she was, on one point she was firm. on no account would she see a doctor; in other words, fitzpiers. the room in which grace had been discerned was not her own, but the old woman's. on the girl's way to bed she had received a message from grammer, to the effect that she would much like to speak to her that night. grace entered, and set the candle on a low chair beside the bed, so that the profile of grammer as she lay cast itself in a keen shadow upon the whitened wall, her large head being still further magnified by an enormous turban, which was, really, her petticoat wound in a wreath round her temples. grace put the room a little in order, and approaching the sick woman, said, "i am come, grammer, as you wish. do let us send for the doctor before it gets later." "i will not have him," said grammer oliver, decisively. "then somebody to sit up with you." "can't abear it! no; i wanted to see you, miss grace, because 'ch have something on my mind. dear miss grace, i took that money of the doctor, after all!" "what money?" "the ten pounds." grace did not quite understand. "the ten pounds he offered me for my head, because i've a large brain. i signed a paper when i took the money, not feeling concerned about it at all. i have not liked to tell ye that it was really settled with him, because you showed such horror at the notion. well, having thought it over more at length, i wish i hadn't done it; and it weighs upon my mind. john south's death of fear about the tree makes me think that i shall die of this....'ch have been going to ask him again to let me off, but i hadn't the face." "why?" "i've spent some of the money--more'n two pounds o't. it do wherrit me terribly; and i shall die o' the thought of that paper i signed with my holy cross, as south died of his trouble." "if you ask him to burn the paper he will, i'm sure, and think no more of it." "'ch have done it once already, miss. but he laughed cruel like. 'yours is such a fine brain, grammer,' 'er said, 'that science couldn't afford to lose you. besides, you've taken my money.'...don't let your father know of this, please, on no account whatever!" "no, no. i will let you have the money to return to him." grammer rolled her head negatively upon the pillow. "even if i should be well enough to take it to him, he won't like it. though why he should so particular want to look into the works of a poor old woman's head-piece like mine when there's so many other folks about, i don't know. i know how he'll answer me: 'a lonely person like you, grammer,' er woll say. 'what difference is it to you what becomes of ye when the breath's out of your body?' oh, it do trouble me! if you only knew how he do chevy me round the chimmer in my dreams, you'd pity me. how i could do it i can't think! but 'ch was always so rackless!...if i only had anybody to plead for me!" "mrs. melbury would, i am sure." "ay; but he wouldn't hearken to she! it wants a younger face than hers to work upon such as he." grace started with comprehension. "you don't think he would do it for me?" she said. "oh, wouldn't he!" "i couldn't go to him, grammer, on any account. i don't know him at all." "ah, if i were a young lady," said the artful grammer, "and could save a poor old woman's skellington from a heathen doctor instead of a christian grave, i would do it, and be glad to. but nobody will do anything for a poor old familiar friend but push her out of the way." "you are very ungrateful, grammer, to say that. but you are ill, i know, and that's why you speak so. now believe me, you are not going to die yet. remember you told me yourself that you meant to keep him waiting many a year." "ay, one can joke when one is well, even in old age; but in sickness one's gayety falters to grief; and that which seemed small looks large; and the grim far-off seems near." grace's eyes had tears in them. "i don't like to go to him on such an errand, grammer," she said, brokenly. "but i will, to ease your mind." it was with extreme reluctance that grace cloaked herself next morning for the undertaking. she was all the more indisposed to the journey by reason of grammer's allusion to the effect of a pretty face upon dr. fitzpiers; and hence she most illogically did that which, had the doctor never seen her, would have operated to stultify the sole motive of her journey; that is to say, she put on a woollen veil, which hid all her face except an occasional spark of her eyes. her own wish that nothing should be known of this strange and grewsome proceeding, no less than grammer oliver's own desire, led grace to take every precaution against being discovered. she went out by the garden door as the safest way, all the household having occupations at the other side. the morning looked forbidding enough when she stealthily opened it. the battle between frost and thaw was continuing in mid-air: the trees dripped on the garden-plots, where no vegetables would grow for the dripping, though they were planted year after year with that curious mechanical regularity of country people in the face of hopelessness; the moss which covered the once broad gravel terrace was swamped; and grace stood irresolute. then she thought of poor grammer, and her dreams of the doctor running after her, scalpel in hand, and the possibility of a case so curiously similar to south's ending in the same way; thereupon she stepped out into the drizzle. the nature of her errand, and grammer oliver's account of the compact she had made, lent a fascinating horror to grace's conception of fitzpiers. she knew that he was a young man; but her single object in seeking an interview with him put all considerations of his age and social aspect from her mind. standing as she stood, in grammer oliver's shoes, he was simply a remorseless jove of the sciences, who would not have mercy, and would have sacrifice; a man whom, save for this, she would have preferred to avoid knowing. but since, in such a small village, it was improbable that any long time could pass without their meeting, there was not much to deplore in her having to meet him now. but, as need hardly be said, miss melbury's view of the doctor as a merciless, unwavering, irresistible scientist was not quite in accordance with fact. the real dr. fitzpiers was a man of too many hobbies to show likelihood of rising to any great eminence in the profession he had chosen, or even to acquire any wide practice in the rural district he had marked out as his field of survey for the present. in the course of a year his mind was accustomed to pass in a grand solar sweep through all the zodiacal signs of the intellectual heaven. sometimes it was in the ram, sometimes in the bull; one month he would be immersed in alchemy, another in poesy; one month in the twins of astrology and astronomy; then in the crab of german literature and metaphysics. in justice to him it must be stated that he took such studies as were immediately related to his own profession in turn with the rest, and it had been in a month of anatomical ardor without the possibility of a subject that he had proposed to grammer oliver the terms she had mentioned to her mistress. as may be inferred from the tone of his conversation with winterborne, he had lately plunged into abstract philosophy with much zest; perhaps his keenly appreciative, modern, unpractical mind found this a realm more to his taste than any other. though his aims were desultory, fitzpiers's mental constitution was not without its admirable side; a keen inquirer he honestly was, even if the midnight rays of his lamp, visible so far through the trees of hintock, lighted rank literatures of emotion and passion as often as, or oftener than, the books and materiel of science. but whether he meditated the muses or the philosophers, the loneliness of hintock life was beginning to tell upon his impressionable nature. winter in a solitary house in the country, without society, is tolerable, nay, even enjoyable and delightful, given certain conditions, but these are not the conditions which attach to the life of a professional man who drops down into such a place by mere accident. they were present to the lives of winterborne, melbury, and grace; but not to the doctor's. they are old association--an almost exhaustive biographical or historical acquaintance with every object, animate and inanimate, within the observer's horizon. he must know all about those invisible ones of the days gone by, whose feet have traversed the fields which look so gray from his windows; recall whose creaking plough has turned those sods from time to time; whose hands planted the trees that form a crest to the opposite hill; whose horses and hounds have torn through that underwood; what birds affect that particular brake; what domestic dramas of love, jealousy, revenge, or disappointment have been enacted in the cottages, the mansion, the street, or on the green. the spot may have beauty, grandeur, salubrity, convenience; but if it lack memories it will ultimately pall upon him who settles there without opportunity of intercourse with his kind. in such circumstances, maybe, an old man dreams of an ideal friend, till he throws himself into the arms of any impostor who chooses to wear that title on his face. a young man may dream of an ideal friend likewise, but some humor of the blood will probably lead him to think rather of an ideal mistress, and at length the rustle of a woman's dress, the sound of her voice, or the transit of her form across the field of his vision, will enkindle his soul with a flame that blinds his eyes. the discovery of the attractive grace's name and family would have been enough in other circumstances to lead the doctor, if not to put her personality out of his head, to change the character of his interest in her. instead of treasuring her image as a rarity, he would at most have played with it as a toy. he was that kind of a man. but situated here he could not go so far as amative cruelty. he dismissed all reverential thought about her, but he could not help taking her seriously. he went on to imagine the impossible. so far, indeed, did he go in this futile direction that, as others are wont to do, he constructed dialogues and scenes in which grace had turned out to be the mistress of hintock manor-house, the mysterious mrs. charmond, particularly ready and willing to be wooed by himself and nobody else. "well, she isn't that," he said, finally. "but she's a very sweet, nice, exceptional girl." the next morning he breakfasted alone, as usual. it was snowing with a fine-flaked desultoriness just sufficient to make the woodland gray, without ever achieving whiteness. there was not a single letter for fitzpiers, only a medical circular and a weekly newspaper. to sit before a large fire on such mornings, and read, and gradually acquire energy till the evening came, and then, with lamp alight, and feeling full of vigor, to pursue some engrossing subject or other till the small hours, had hitherto been his practice. but to-day he could not settle into his chair. that self-contained position he had lately occupied, in which the only attention demanded was the concentration of the inner eye, all outer regard being quite gratuitous, seemed to have been taken by insidious stratagem, and for the first time he had an interest outside the house. he walked from one window to another, and became aware that the most irksome of solitudes is not the solitude of remoteness, but that which is just outside desirable company. the breakfast hour went by heavily enough, and the next followed, in the same half-snowy, half-rainy style, the weather now being the inevitable relapse which sooner or later succeeds a time too radiant for the season, such as they had enjoyed in the late midwinter at hintock. to people at home there these changeful tricks had their interests; the strange mistakes that some of the more sanguine trees had made in budding before their month, to be incontinently glued up by frozen thawings now; the similar sanguine errors of impulsive birds in framing nests that were now swamped by snow-water, and other such incidents, prevented any sense of wearisomeness in the minds of the natives. but these were features of a world not familiar to fitzpiers, and the inner visions to which he had almost exclusively attended having suddenly failed in their power to absorb him, he felt unutterably dreary. he wondered how long miss melbury was going to stay in hintock. the season was unpropitious for accidental encounters with her out-of-doors, and except by accident he saw not how they were to become acquainted. one thing was clear--any acquaintance with her could only, with a due regard to his future, be casual, at most of the nature of a flirtation; for he had high aims, and they would some day lead him into other spheres than this. thus desultorily thinking he flung himself down upon the couch, which, as in many draughty old country houses, was constructed with a hood, being in fact a legitimate development from the settle. he tried to read as he reclined, but having sat up till three o'clock that morning, the book slipped from his hand and he fell asleep. chapter xviii. it was at this time that grace approached the house. her knock, always soft in virtue of her nature, was softer to-day by reason of her strange errand. however, it was heard by the farmer's wife who kept the house, and grace was admitted. opening the door of the doctor's room the housewife glanced in, and imagining fitzpiers absent, asked miss melbury to enter and wait a few minutes while she should go and find him, believing him to be somewhere on the premises. grace acquiesced, went in, and sat down close to the door. as soon as the door was shut upon her she looked round the room, and started at perceiving a handsome man snugly ensconced in the couch, like the recumbent figure within some canopied mural tomb of the fifteenth century, except that his hands were by no means clasped in prayer. she had no doubt that this was the doctor. awaken him herself she could not, and her immediate impulse was to go and pull the broad ribbon with a brass rosette which hung at one side of the fireplace. but expecting the landlady to re-enter in a moment she abandoned this intention, and stood gazing in great embarrassment at the reclining philosopher. the windows of fitzpiers's soul being at present shuttered, he probably appeared less impressive than in his hours of animation; but the light abstracted from his material presence by sleep was more than counterbalanced by the mysterious influence of that state, in a stranger, upon the consciousness of a beholder so sensitive. so far as she could criticise at all, she became aware that she had encountered a specimen of creation altogether unusual in that locality. the occasions on which grace had observed men of this stamp were when she had been far removed away from hintock, and even then such examples as had met her eye were at a distance, and mainly of coarser fibre than the one who now confronted her. she nervously wondered why the woman had not discovered her mistake and returned, and went again towards the bell-pull. approaching the chimney her back was to fitzpiers, but she could see him in the glass. an indescribable thrill passed through her as she perceived that the eyes of the reflected image were open, gazing wonderingly at her, and under the curious unexpectedness of the sight she became as if spellbound, almost powerless to turn her head and regard the original. however, by an effort she did turn, when there he lay asleep the same as before. her startled perplexity as to what he could be meaning was sufficient to lead her to precipitately abandon her errand. she crossed quickly to the door, opened and closed it noiselessly, and went out of the house unobserved. by the time that she had gone down the path and through the garden door into the lane she had recovered her equanimity. here, screened by the hedge, she stood and considered a while. drip, drip, drip, fell the rain upon her umbrella and around; she had come out on such a morning because of the seriousness of the matter in hand; yet now she had allowed her mission to be stultified by a momentary tremulousness concerning an incident which perhaps had meant nothing after all. in the mean time her departure from the room, stealthy as it had been, had roused fitzpiers, and he sat up. in the reflection from the mirror which grace had beheld there was no mystery; he had opened his eyes for a few moments, but had immediately relapsed into unconsciousness, if, indeed, he had ever been positively awake. that somebody had just left the room he was certain, and that the lovely form which seemed to have visited him in a dream was no less than the real presentation of the person departed he could hardly doubt. looking out of the window a few minutes later, down the box-edged gravel-path which led to the bottom, he saw the garden door gently open, and through it enter the young girl of his thoughts, grace having just at this juncture determined to return and attempt the interview a second time. that he saw her coming instead of going made him ask himself if his first impression of her were not a dream indeed. she came hesitatingly along, carrying her umbrella so low over her head that he could hardly see her face. when she reached the point where the raspberry bushes ended and the strawberry bed began, she made a little pause. fitzpiers feared that she might not be coming to him even now, and hastily quitting the room, he ran down the path to meet her. the nature of her errand he could not divine, but he was prepared to give her any amount of encouragement. "i beg pardon, miss melbury," he said. "i saw you from the window, and fancied you might imagine that i was not at home--if it is i you were coming for." "i was coming to speak one word to you, nothing more," she replied. "and i can say it here." "no, no. please do come in. well, then, if you will not come into the house, come as far as the porch." thus pressed she went on to the porch, and they stood together inside it, fitzpiers closing her umbrella for her. "i have merely a request or petition to make," she said. "my father's servant is ill--a woman you know--and her illness is serious." "i am sorry to hear it. you wish me to come and see her at once?" "no; i particularly wish you not to come." "oh, indeed." "yes; and she wishes the same. it would make her seriously worse if you were to come. it would almost kill her....my errand is of a peculiar and awkward nature. it is concerning a subject which weighs on her mind--that unfortunate arrangement she made with you, that you might have her body--after death." "oh! grammer oliver, the old woman with the fine head. seriously ill, is she!" "and so disturbed by her rash compact! i have brought the money back--will you please return to her the agreement she signed?" grace held out to him a couple of five-pound notes which she had kept ready tucked in her glove. without replying or considering the notes, fitzpiers allowed his thoughts to follow his eyes, and dwell upon grace's personality, and the sudden close relation in which he stood to her. the porch was narrow; the rain increased. it ran off the porch and dripped on the creepers, and from the creepers upon the edge of grace's cloak and skirts. "the rain is wetting your dress; please do come in," he said. "it really makes my heart ache to let you stay here." immediately inside the front door was the door of his sitting-room; he flung it open, and stood in a coaxing attitude. try how she would, grace could not resist the supplicatory mandate written in the face and manner of this man, and distressful resignation sat on her as she glided past him into the room--brushing his coat with her elbow by reason of the narrowness. he followed her, shut the door--which she somehow had hoped he would leave open--and placing a chair for her, sat down. the concern which grace felt at the development of these commonplace incidents was, of course, mainly owing to the strange effect upon her nerves of that view of him in the mirror gazing at her with open eyes when she had thought him sleeping, which made her fancy that his slumber might have been a feint based on inexplicable reasons. she again proffered the notes; he awoke from looking at her as at a piece of live statuary, and listened deferentially as she said, "will you then reconsider, and cancel the bond which poor grammer oliver so foolishly gave?" "i'll cancel it without reconsideration. though you will allow me to have my own opinion about her foolishness. grammer is a very wise woman, and she was as wise in that as in other things. you think there was something very fiendish in the compact, do you not, miss melbury? but remember that the most eminent of our surgeons in past times have entered into such agreements." "not fiendish--strange." "yes, that may be, since strangeness is not in the nature of a thing, but in its relation to something extrinsic--in this case an unessential observer." he went to his desk, and searching a while found a paper, which be unfolded and brought to her. a thick cross appeared in ink at the bottom--evidently from the hand of grammer. grace put the paper in her pocket with a look of much relief. as fitzpiers did not take up the money (half of which had come from grace's own purse), she pushed it a little nearer to him. "no, no. i shall not take it from the old woman," he said. "it is more strange than the fact of a surgeon arranging to obtain a subject for dissection that our acquaintance should be formed out of it." "i am afraid you think me uncivil in showing my dislike to the notion. but i did not mean to be." "oh no, no." he looked at her, as he had done before, with puzzled interest. "i cannot think, i cannot think," he murmured. "something bewilders me greatly." he still reflected and hesitated. "last night i sat up very late," he at last went on, "and on that account i fell into a little nap on that couch about half an hour ago. and during my few minutes of unconsciousness i dreamed--what do you think?--that you stood in the room." should she tell? she merely blushed. "you may imagine," fitzpiers continued, now persuaded that it had, indeed, been a dream, "that i should not have dreamed of you without considerable thinking about you first." he could not be acting; of that she felt assured. "i fancied in my vision that you stood there," he said, pointing to where she had paused. "i did not see you directly, but reflected in the glass. i thought, what a lovely creature! the design is for once carried out. nature has at last recovered her lost union with the idea! my thoughts ran in that direction because i had been reading the work of a transcendental philosopher last night; and i dare say it was the dose of idealism that i received from it that made me scarcely able to distinguish between reality and fancy. i almost wept when i awoke, and found that you had appeared to me in time, but not in space, alas!" at moments there was something theatrical in the delivery of fitzpiers's effusion; yet it would have been inexact to say that it was intrinsically theatrical. it often happens that in situations of unrestraint, where there is no thought of the eye of criticism, real feeling glides into a mode of manifestation not easily distinguishable from rodomontade. a veneer of affectation overlies a bulk of truth, with the evil consequence, if perceived, that the substance is estimated by the superficies, and the whole rejected. grace, however, was no specialist in men's manners, and she admired the sentiment without thinking of the form. and she was embarrassed: "lovely creature" made explanation awkward to her gentle modesty. "but can it be," said he, suddenly, "that you really were here?" "i have to confess that i have been in the room once before," faltered she. "the woman showed me in, and went away to fetch you; but as she did not return, i left." "and you saw me asleep," he murmured, with the faintest show of humiliation. "yes--if you were asleep, and did not deceive me." "why do you say if?" "i saw your eyes open in the glass, but as they were closed when i looked round upon you, i thought you were perhaps deceiving me. "never," said fitzpiers, fervently--"never could i deceive you." foreknowledge to the distance of a year or so in either of them might have spoiled the effect of that pretty speech. never deceive her! but they knew nothing, and the phrase had its day. grace began now to be anxious to terminate the interview, but the compelling power of fitzpiers's atmosphere still held her there. she was like an inexperienced actress who, having at last taken up her position on the boards, and spoken her speeches, does not know how to move off. the thought of grammer occurred to her. "i'll go at once and tell poor grammer of your generosity," she said. "it will relieve her at once." "grammer's a nervous disease, too--how singular!" he answered, accompanying her to the door. "one moment; look at this--it is something which may interest you." he had thrown open the door on the other side of the passage, and she saw a microscope on the table of the confronting room. "look into it, please; you'll be interested," he repeated. she applied her eye, and saw the usual circle of light patterned all over with a cellular tissue of some indescribable sort. "what do you think that is?" said fitzpiers. she did not know. "that's a fragment of old john south's brain, which i am investigating." she started back, not with aversion, but with wonder as to how it should have got there. fitzpiers laughed. "here am i," he said, "endeavoring to carry on simultaneously the study of physiology and transcendental philosophy, the material world and the ideal, so as to discover if possible a point of contrast between them; and your finer sense is quite offended!" "oh no, mr. fitzpiers," said grace, earnestly. "it is not so at all. i know from seeing your light at night how deeply you meditate and work. instead of condemning you for your studies, i admire you very much!" her face, upturned from the microscope, was so sweet, sincere, and self-forgetful in its aspect that the susceptible fitzpiers more than wished to annihilate the lineal yard which separated it from his own. whether anything of the kind showed in his eyes or not, grace remained no longer at the microscope, but quickly went her way into the rain. chapter xix. instead of resuming his investigation of south's brain, which perhaps was not so interesting under the microscope as might have been expected from the importance of that organ in life, fitzpiers reclined and ruminated on the interview. grace's curious susceptibility to his presence, though it was as if the currents of her life were disturbed rather than attracted by him, added a special interest to her general charm. fitzpiers was in a distinct degree scientific, being ready and zealous to interrogate all physical manifestations, but primarily he was an idealist. he believed that behind the imperfect lay the perfect; that rare things were to be discovered amid a bulk of commonplace; that results in a new and untried case might be different from those in other cases where the conditions had been precisely similar. regarding his own personality as one of unbounded possibilities, because it was his own--notwithstanding that the factors of his life had worked out a sorry product for thousands--he saw nothing but what was regular in his discovery at hintock of an altogether exceptional being of the other sex, who for nobody else would have had any existence. one habit of fitzpiers's--commoner in dreamers of more advanced age than in men of his years--was that of talking to himself. he paced round his room with a selective tread upon the more prominent blooms of the carpet, and murmured, "this phenomenal girl will be the light of my life while i am at hintock; and the special beauty of the situation is that our attitude and relations to each other will be purely spiritual. socially we can never be intimate. anything like matrimonial intentions towards her, charming as she is, would be absurd. they would spoil the ethereal character of my regard. and, indeed, i have other aims on the practical side of my life." fitzpiers bestowed a regulation thought on the advantageous marriage he was bound to make with a woman of family as good as his own, and of purse much longer. but as an object of contemplation for the present, as objective spirit rather than corporeal presence, grace melbury would serve to keep his soul alive, and to relieve the monotony of his days. his first notion--acquired from the mere sight of her without converse--that of an idle and vulgar flirtation with a timber-merchant's pretty daughter, grated painfully upon him now that he had found what grace intrinsically was. personal intercourse with such as she could take no lower form than intellectual communion, and mutual explorations of the world of thought. since he could not call at her father's, having no practical views, cursory encounters in the lane, in the wood, coming and going to and from church, or in passing her dwelling, were what the acquaintance would have to feed on. such anticipated glimpses of her now and then realized themselves in the event. rencounters of not more than a minute's duration, frequently repeated, will build up mutual interest, even an intimacy, in a lonely place. theirs grew as imperceptibly as the tree-twigs budded. there never was a particular moment at which it could be said they became friends; yet a delicate understanding now existed between two who in the winter had been strangers. spring weather came on rather suddenly, the unsealing of buds that had long been swollen accomplishing itself in the space of one warm night. the rush of sap in the veins of the trees could almost be heard. the flowers of late april took up a position unseen, and looked as if they had been blooming a long while, though there had been no trace of them the day before yesterday; birds began not to mind getting wet. in-door people said they had heard the nightingale, to which out-door people replied contemptuously that they had heard him a fortnight before. the young doctor's practice being scarcely so large as a london surgeon's, he frequently walked in the wood. indeed such practice as he had he did not follow up with the assiduity that would have been necessary for developing it to exceptional proportions. one day, book in hand, he walked in a part of the wood where the trees were mainly oaks. it was a calm afternoon, and there was everywhere around that sign of great undertakings on the part of vegetable nature which is apt to fill reflective human beings who are not undertaking much themselves with a sudden uneasiness at the contrast. he heard in the distance a curious sound, something like the quack of a duck, which, though it was common enough here about this time, was not common to him. looking through the trees fitzpiers soon perceived the origin of the noise. the barking season had just commenced, and what he had heard was the tear of the ripping tool as it ploughed its way along the sticky parting between the trunk and the rind. melbury did a large business in bark, and as he was grace's father, and possibly might be found on the spot, fitzpiers was attracted to the scene even more than he might have been by its intrinsic interest. when he got nearer he recognized among the workmen the two timothys, and robert creedle, who probably had been "lent" by winterborne; marty south also assisted. each tree doomed to this flaying process was first attacked by creedle. with a small billhook he carefully freed the collar of the tree from twigs and patches of moss which incrusted it to a height of a foot or two above the ground, an operation comparable to the "little toilet" of the executioner's victim. after this it was barked in its erect position to a point as high as a man could reach. if a fine product of vegetable nature could ever be said to look ridiculous it was the case now, when the oak stood naked-legged, and as if ashamed, till the axe-man came and cut a ring round it, and the two timothys finished the work with the crosscut-saw. as soon as it had fallen the barkers attacked it like locusts, and in a short time not a particle of rind was left on the trunk and larger limbs. marty south was an adept at peeling the upper parts, and there she stood encaged amid the mass of twigs and buds like a great bird, running her tool into the smallest branches, beyond the farthest points to which the skill and patience of the men enabled them to proceed--branches which, in their lifetime, had swayed high above the bulk of the wood, and caught the latest and earliest rays of the sun and moon while the lower part of the forest was still in darkness. "you seem to have a better instrument than they, marty," said fitzpiers. "no, sir," she said, holding up the tool--a horse's leg-bone fitted into a handle and filed to an edge--"'tis only that they've less patience with the twigs, because their time is worth more than mine." a little shed had been constructed on the spot, of thatched hurdles and boughs, and in front of it was a fire, over which a kettle sung. fitzpiers sat down inside the shelter, and went on with his reading, except when he looked up to observe the scene and the actors. the thought that he might settle here and become welded in with this sylvan life by marrying grace melbury crossed his mind for a moment. why should he go farther into the world than where he was? the secret of quiet happiness lay in limiting the ideas and aspirations; these men's thoughts were conterminous with the margin of the hintock woodlands, and why should not his be likewise limited--a small practice among the people around him being the bound of his desires? presently marty south discontinued her operations upon the quivering boughs, came out from the reclining oak, and prepared tea. when it was ready the men were called; and fitzpiers being in a mood to join, sat down with them. the latent reason of his lingering here so long revealed itself when the faint creaking of the joints of a vehicle became audible, and one of the men said, "here's he." turning their heads they saw melbury's gig approaching, the wheels muffled by the yielding moss. the timber-merchant was on foot leading the horse, looking back at every few steps to caution his daughter, who kept her seat, where and how to duck her head so as to avoid the overhanging branches. they stopped at the spot where the bark-ripping had been temporarily suspended; melbury cursorily examined the heaps of bark, and drawing near to where the workmen were sitting down, accepted their shouted invitation to have a dish of tea, for which purpose he hitched the horse to a bough. grace declined to take any of their beverage, and remained in her place in the vehicle, looking dreamily at the sunlight that came in thin threads through the hollies with which the oaks were interspersed. when melbury stepped up close to the shelter, he for the first time perceived that the doctor was present, and warmly appreciated fitzpiers's invitation to sit down on the log beside him. "bless my heart, who would have thought of finding you here," he said, obviously much pleased at the circumstance. "i wonder now if my daughter knows you are so nigh at hand. i don't expect she do." he looked out towards the gig wherein grace sat, her face still turned in the opposite direction. "she doesn't see us. well, never mind: let her be." grace was indeed quite unconscious of fitzpiers's propinquity. she was thinking of something which had little connection with the scene before her--thinking of her friend, lost as soon as found, mrs. charmond; of her capricious conduct, and of the contrasting scenes she was possibly enjoying at that very moment in other climes, to which grace herself had hoped to be introduced by her friend's means. she wondered if this patronizing lady would return to hintock during the summer, and whether the acquaintance which had been nipped on the last occasion of her residence there would develop on the next. melbury told ancient timber-stories as he sat, relating them directly to fitzpiers, and obliquely to the men, who had heard them often before. marty, who poured out tea, was just saying, "i think i'll take out a cup to miss grace," when they heard a clashing of the gig-harness, and turning round melbury saw that the horse had become restless, and was jerking about the vehicle in a way which alarmed its occupant, though she refrained from screaming. melbury jumped up immediately, but not more quickly than fitzpiers; and while her father ran to the horse's head and speedily began to control him, fitzpiers was alongside the gig assisting grace to descend. her surprise at his appearance was so great that, far from making a calm and independent descent, she was very nearly lifted down in his arms. he relinquished her when she touched ground, and hoped she was not frightened. "oh no, not much," she managed to say. "there was no danger--unless he had run under the trees where the boughs are low enough to hit my head." "which was by no means an impossibility, and justifies any amount of alarm." he referred to what he thought he saw written in her face, and she could not tell him that this had little to do with the horse, but much with himself. his contiguity had, in fact, the same effect upon her as on those former occasions when he had come closer to her than usual--that of producing in her an unaccountable tendency to tearfulness. melbury soon put the horse to rights, and seeing that grace was safe, turned again to the work-people. his daughter's nervous distress had passed off in a few moments, and she said quite gayly to fitzpiers as she walked with him towards the group, "there's destiny in it, you see. i was doomed to join in your picnic, although i did not intend to do so." marty prepared her a comfortable place, and she sat down in the circle, and listened to fitzpiers while he drew from her father and the bark-rippers sundry narratives of their fathers', their grandfathers', and their own adventures in these woods; of the mysterious sights they had seen--only to be accounted for by supernatural agency; of white witches and black witches; and the standard story of the spirits of the two brothers who had fought and fallen, and had haunted hintock house till they were exorcised by the priest, and compelled to retreat to a swamp in this very wood, whence they were returning to their old quarters at the rate of a cock's stride every new-year's day, old style; hence the local saying, "on new-year's tide, a cock's stride." it was a pleasant time. the smoke from the little fire of peeled sticks rose between the sitters and the sunlight, and behind its blue veil stretched the naked arms of the prostrate trees. the smell of the uncovered sap mingled with the smell of the burning wood, and the sticky inner surface of the scattered bark glistened as it revealed its pale madder hues to the eye. melbury was so highly satisfied at having fitzpiers as a sort of guest that he would have sat on for any length of time, but grace, on whom fitzpiers's eyes only too frequently alighted, seemed to think it incumbent upon her to make a show of going; and her father thereupon accompanied her to the vehicle. as the doctor had helped her out of it he appeared to think that he had excellent reasons for helping her in, and performed the attention lingeringly enough. "what were you almost in tears about just now?" he asked, softly. "i don't know," she said: and the words were strictly true. melbury mounted on the other side, and they drove on out of the grove, their wheels silently crushing delicate-patterned mosses, hyacinths, primroses, lords-and-ladies, and other strange and ordinary plants, and cracking up little sticks that lay across the track. their way homeward ran along the crest of a lofty hill, whence on the right they beheld a wide valley, differing both in feature and atmosphere from that of the hintock precincts. it was the cider country, which met the woodland district on the axis of this hill. over the vale the air was blue as sapphire--such a blue as outside that apple-valley was never seen. under the blue the orchards were in a blaze of bloom, some of the richly flowered trees running almost up to where they drove along. over a gate which opened down the incline a man leaned on his arms, regarding this fair promise so intently that he did not observe their passing. "that was giles," said melbury, when they had gone by. "was it? poor giles," said she. "all that blooth means heavy autumn work for him and his hands. if no blight happens before the setting the apple yield will be such as we have not had for years." meanwhile, in the wood they had come from, the men had sat on so long that they were indisposed to begin work again that evening; they were paid by the ton, and their time for labor was as they chose. they placed the last gatherings of bark in rows for the curers, which led them farther and farther away from the shed; and thus they gradually withdrew as the sun went down. fitzpiers lingered yet. he had opened his book again, though he could hardly see a word in it, and sat before the dying fire, scarcely knowing of the men's departure. he dreamed and mused till his consciousness seemed to occupy the whole space of the woodland around, so little was there of jarring sight or sound to hinder perfect unity with the sentiment of the place. the idea returned upon him of sacrificing all practical aims to live in calm contentment here, and instead of going on elaborating new conceptions with infinite pains, to accept quiet domesticity according to oldest and homeliest notions. these reflections detained him till the wood was embrowned with the coming night, and the shy little bird of this dusky time had begun to pour out all the intensity of his eloquence from a bush not very far off. fitzpiers's eyes commanded as much of the ground in front as was open. entering upon this he saw a figure, whose direction of movement was towards the spot where he sat. the surgeon was quite shrouded from observation by the recessed shadow of the hut, and there was no reason why he should move till the stranger had passed by. the shape resolved itself into a woman's; she was looking on the ground, and walking slowly as if searching for something that had been lost, her course being precisely that of mr. melbury's gig. fitzpiers by a sort of divination jumped to the idea that the figure was grace's; her nearer approach made the guess a certainty. yes, she was looking for something; and she came round by the prostrate trees that would have been invisible but for the white nakedness which enabled her to avoid them easily. thus she approached the heap of ashes, and acting upon what was suggested by a still shining ember or two, she took a stick and stirred the heap, which thereupon burst into a flame. on looking around by the light thus obtained she for the first time saw the illumined face of fitzpiers, precisely in the spot where she had left him. grace gave a start and a scream: the place had been associated with him in her thoughts, but she had not expected to find him there still. fitzpiers lost not a moment in rising and going to her side. "i frightened you dreadfully, i know," he said. "i ought to have spoken; but i did not at first expect it to be you. i have been sitting here ever since." he was actually supporting her with his arm, as though under the impression that she was quite overcome, and in danger of falling. as soon as she could collect her ideas she gently withdrew from his grasp, and explained what she had returned for: in getting up or down from the gig, or when sitting by the hut fire, she had dropped her purse. "now we will find it," said fitzpiers. he threw an armful of last year's leaves on to the fire, which made the flame leap higher, and the encompassing shades to weave themselves into a denser contrast, turning eve into night in a moment. by this radiance they groped about on their hands and knees, till fitzpiers rested on his elbow, and looked at grace. "we must always meet in odd circumstances," he said; "and this is one of the oddest. i wonder if it means anything?" "oh no, i am sure it doesn't," said grace in haste, quickly assuming an erect posture. "pray don't say it any more." "i hope there was not much money in the purse," said fitzpiers, rising to his feet more slowly, and brushing the leaves from his trousers. "scarcely any. i cared most about the purse itself, because it was given me. indeed, money is of little more use at hintock than on crusoe's island; there's hardly any way of spending it." they had given up the search when fitzpiers discerned something by his foot. "here it is," he said, "so that your father, mother, friend, or admirer will not have his or her feelings hurt by a sense of your negligence after all." "oh, he knows nothing of what i do now." "the admirer?" said fitzpiers, slyly. "i don't know if you would call him that," said grace, with simplicity. "the admirer is a superficial, conditional creature, and this person is quite different." "he has all the cardinal virtues." "perhaps--though i don't know them precisely." "you unconsciously practise them, miss melbury, which is better. according to schleiermacher they are self-control, perseverance, wisdom, and love; and his is the best list that i know." "i am afraid poor--" she was going to say that she feared winterborne--the giver of the purse years before--had not much perseverance, though he had all the other three; but she determined to go no further in this direction, and was silent. these half-revelations made a perceptible difference in fitzpiers. his sense of personal superiority wasted away, and grace assumed in his eyes the true aspect of a mistress in her lover's regard. "miss melbury," he said, suddenly, "i divine that this virtuous man you mention has been refused by you?" she could do no otherwise than admit it. "i do not inquire without good reason. god forbid that i should kneel in another's place at any shrine unfairly. but, my dear miss melbury, now that he is gone, may i draw near?" "i--i can't say anything about that!" she cried, quickly. "because when a man has been refused you feel pity for him, and like him more than you did before." this increasing complication added still more value to grace in the surgeon's eyes: it rendered her adorable. "but cannot you say?" he pleaded, distractedly. "i'd rather not--i think i must go home at once." "oh yes," said fitzpiers. but as he did not move she felt it awkward to walk straight away from him; and so they stood silently together. a diversion was created by the accident of two birds, that had either been roosting above their heads or nesting there, tumbling one over the other into the hot ashes at their feet, apparently engrossed in a desperate quarrel that prevented the use of their wings. they speedily parted, however, and flew up, and were seen no more. "that's the end of what is called love!" said some one. the speaker was neither grace nor fitzpiers, but marty south, who approached with her face turned up to the sky in her endeavor to trace the birds. suddenly perceiving grace, she exclaimed, "oh, miss melbury! i have been following they pigeons, and didn't see you. and here's mr. winterborne!" she continued, shyly, as she looked towards fitzpiers, who stood in the background. "marty," grace interrupted. "i want you to walk home with me--will you? come along." and without lingering longer she took hold of marty's arm and led her away. they went between the spectral arms of the peeled trees as they lay, and onward among the growing trees, by a path where there were no oaks, and no barking, and no fitzpiers--nothing but copse-wood, between which the primroses could be discerned in pale bunches. "i didn't know mr. winterborne was there," said marty, breaking the silence when they had nearly reached grace's door. "nor was he," said grace. "but, miss melbury, i saw him." "no," said grace. "it was somebody else. giles winterborne is nothing to me." chapter xx. the leaves over hintock grew denser in their substance, and the woodland seemed to change from an open filigree to a solid opaque body of infinitely larger shape and importance. the boughs cast green shades, which hurt the complexion of the girls who walked there; and a fringe of them which overhung mr. melbury's garden dripped on his seed-plots when it rained, pitting their surface all over as with pock-marks, till melbury declared that gardens in such a place were no good at all. the two trees that had creaked all the winter left off creaking, the whir of the night-jar, however, forming a very satisfactory continuation of uncanny music from that quarter. except at mid-day the sun was not seen complete by the hintock people, but rather in the form of numerous little stars staring through the leaves. such an appearance it had on midsummer eve of this year, and as the hour grew later, and nine o'clock drew on, the irradiation of the daytime became broken up by weird shadows and ghostly nooks of indistinctness. imagination could trace upon the trunks and boughs strange faces and figures shaped by the dying lights; the surfaces of the holly-leaves would here and there shine like peeping eyes, while such fragments of the sky as were visible between the trunks assumed the aspect of sheeted forms and cloven tongues. this was before the moonrise. later on, when that planet was getting command of the upper heaven, and consequently shining with an unbroken face into such open glades as there were in the neighborhood of the hamlet, it became apparent that the margin of the wood which approached the timber-merchant's premises was not to be left to the customary stillness of that reposeful time. fitzpiers having heard a voice or voices, was looking over his garden gate--where he now looked more frequently than into his books--fancying that grace might be abroad with some friends. he was now irretrievably committed in heart to grace melbury, though he was by no means sure that she was so far committed to him. that the idea had for once completely fulfilled itself in the objective substance--which he had hitherto deemed an impossibility--he was enchanted enough to fancy must be the case at last. it was not grace who had passed, however, but several of the ordinary village girls in a group--some steadily walking, some in a mood of wild gayety. he quietly asked his landlady, who was also in the garden, what these girls were intending, and she informed him that it being old midsummer eve, they were about to attempt some spell or enchantment which would afford them a glimpse of their future partners for life. she declared it to be an ungodly performance, and one which she for her part would never countenance; saying which, she entered her house and retired to bed. the young man lit a cigar and followed the bevy of maidens slowly up the road. they had turned into the wood at an opening between melbury's and marty south's; but fitzpiers could easily track them by their voices, low as they endeavored to keep their tones. in the mean time other inhabitants of little hintock had become aware of the nocturnal experiment about to be tried, and were also sauntering stealthily after the frisky maidens. miss melbury had been informed by marty south during the day of the proposed peep into futurity, and, being only a girl like the rest, she was sufficiently interested to wish to see the issue. the moon was so bright and the night so calm that she had no difficulty in persuading mrs. melbury to accompany her; and thus, joined by marty, these went onward in the same direction. passing winterborne's house, they heard a noise of hammering. marty explained it. this was the last night on which his paternal roof would shelter him, the days of grace since it fell into hand having expired; and giles was taking down his cupboards and bedsteads with a view to an early exit next morning. his encounter with mrs. charmond had cost him dearly. when they had proceeded a little farther marty was joined by grammer oliver (who was as young as the youngest in such matters), and grace and mrs. melbury went on by themselves till they had arrived at the spot chosen by the village daughters, whose primary intention of keeping their expedition a secret had been quite defeated. grace and her step-mother paused by a holly-tree; and at a little distance stood fitzpiers under the shade of a young oak, intently observing grace, who was in the full rays of the moon. he watched her without speaking, and unperceived by any but marty and grammer, who had drawn up on the dark side of the same holly which sheltered mrs. and miss melbury on its bright side. the two former conversed in low tones. "if they two come up in wood next midsummer night they'll come as one," said grammer, signifying fitzpiers and grace. "instead of my skellington he'll carry home her living carcass before long. but though she's a lady in herself, and worthy of any such as he, it do seem to me that he ought to marry somebody more of the sort of mrs. charmond, and that miss grace should make the best of winterborne." marty returned no comment; and at that minute the girls, some of whom were from great hintock, were seen advancing to work the incantation, it being now about midnight. "directly we see anything we'll run home as fast as we can," said one, whose courage had begun to fail her. to this the rest assented, not knowing that a dozen neighbors lurked in the bushes around. "i wish we had not thought of trying this," said another, "but had contented ourselves with the hole-digging to-morrow at twelve, and hearing our husbands' trades. it is too much like having dealings with the evil one to try to raise their forms." however, they had gone too far to recede, and slowly began to march forward in a skirmishing line through the trees towards the deeper recesses of the wood. as far as the listeners could gather, the particular form of black-art to be practised on this occasion was one connected with the sowing of hemp-seed, a handful of which was carried by each girl. at the moment of their advance they looked back, and discerned the figure of miss melbury, who, alone of all the observers, stood in the full face of the moonlight, deeply engrossed in the proceedings. by contrast with her life of late years they made her feel as if she had receded a couple of centuries in the world's history. she was rendered doubly conspicuous by her light dress, and after a few whispered words, one of the girls--a bouncing maiden, plighted to young timothy tangs--asked her if she would join in. grace, with some excitement, said that she would, and moved on a little in the rear of the rest. soon the listeners could hear nothing of their proceedings beyond the faintest occasional rustle of leaves. grammer whispered again to marty: "why didn't ye go and try your luck with the rest of the maids?" "i don't believe in it," said marty, shortly. "why, half the parish is here--the silly hussies should have kept it quiet. i see mr. winterborne through the leaves, just come up with robert creedle. marty, we ought to act the part o' providence sometimes. do go and tell him that if he stands just behind the bush at the bottom of the slope, miss grace must pass down it when she comes back, and she will most likely rush into his arms; for as soon as the clock strikes, they'll bundle back home--along like hares. i've seen such larries before." "do you think i'd better?" said marty, reluctantly. "oh yes, he'll bless ye for it." "i don't want that kind of blessing." but after a moment's thought she went and delivered the information; and grammer had the satisfaction of seeing giles walk slowly to the bend in the leafy defile along which grace would have to return. meanwhile mrs. melbury, deserted by grace, had perceived fitzpiers and winterborne, and also the move of the latter. an improvement on grammer's idea entered the mind of mrs. melbury, for she had lately discerned what her husband had not--that grace was rapidly fascinating the surgeon. she therefore drew near to fitzpiers. "you should be where mr. winterborne is standing," she said to him, significantly. "she will run down through that opening much faster than she went up it, if she is like the rest of the girls." fitzpiers did not require to be told twice. he went across to winterborne and stood beside him. each knew the probable purpose of the other in standing there, and neither spoke, fitzpiers scorning to look upon winterborne as a rival, and winterborne adhering to the off-hand manner of indifference which had grown upon him since his dismissal. neither grammer nor marty south had seen the surgeon's manoeuvre, and, still to help winterborne, as she supposed, the old woman suggested to the wood-girl that she should walk forward at the heels of grace, and "tole" her down the required way if she showed a tendency to run in another direction. poor marty, always doomed to sacrifice desire to obligation, walked forward accordingly, and waited as a beacon, still and silent, for the retreat of grace and her giddy companions, now quite out of hearing. the first sound to break the silence was the distant note of great hintock clock striking the significant hour. about a minute later that quarter of the wood to which the girls had wandered resounded with the flapping of disturbed birds; then two or three hares and rabbits bounded down the glade from the same direction, and after these the rustling and crackling of leaves and dead twigs denoted the hurried approach of the adventurers, whose fluttering gowns soon became visible. miss melbury, having gone forward quite in the rear of the rest, was one of the first to return, and the excitement being contagious, she ran laughing towards marty, who still stood as a hand-post to guide her; then, passing on, she flew round the fatal bush where the undergrowth narrowed to a gorge. marty arrived at her heels just in time to see the result. fitzpiers had quickly stepped forward in front of winterborne, who, disdaining to shift his position, had turned on his heel, and then the surgeon did what he would not have thought of doing but for mrs. melbury's encouragement and the sentiment of an eve which effaced conventionality. stretching out his arms as the white figure burst upon him, he captured her in a moment, as if she had been a bird. "oh!" cried grace, in her fright. "you are in my arms, dearest," said fitzpiers, "and i am going to claim you, and keep you there all our two lives!" she rested on him like one utterly mastered, and it was several seconds before she recovered from this helplessness. subdued screams and struggles, audible from neighboring brakes, revealed that there had been other lurkers thereabout for a similar purpose. grace, unlike most of these companions of hers, instead of gasping and writhing, said in a trembling voice, "mr. fitzpiers, will you let me go?" "certainly," he said, laughing; "as soon as you have recovered." she waited another few moments, then quietly and firmly pushed him aside, and glided on her path, the moon whitening her hot blush away. but it had been enough--new relations between them had begun. the case of the other girls was different, as has been said. they wrestled and tittered, only escaping after a desperate struggle. fitzpiers could hear these enactments still going on after grace had left him, and he remained on the spot where he had caught her, winterborne having gone away. on a sudden another girl came bounding down the same descent that had been followed by grace--a fine-framed young woman with naked arms. seeing fitzpiers standing there, she said, with playful effrontery, "may'st kiss me if 'canst catch me, tim!" fitzpiers recognized her as suke damson, a hoydenish damsel of the hamlet, who was plainly mistaking him for her lover. he was impulsively disposed to profit by her error, and as soon as she began racing away he started in pursuit. on she went under the boughs, now in light, now in shade, looking over her shoulder at him every few moments and kissing her hand; but so cunningly dodging about among the trees and moon-shades that she never allowed him to get dangerously near her. thus they ran and doubled, fitzpiers warming with the chase, till the sound of their companions had quite died away. he began to lose hope of ever overtaking her, when all at once, by way of encouragement, she turned to a fence in which there was a stile and leaped over it. outside the scene was a changed one--a meadow, where the half-made hay lay about in heaps, in the uninterrupted shine of the now high moon. fitzpiers saw in a moment that, having taken to open ground, she had placed herself at his mercy, and he promptly vaulted over after her. she flitted a little way down the mead, when all at once her light form disappeared as if it had sunk into the earth. she had buried herself in one of the hay-cocks. fitzpiers, now thoroughly excited, was not going to let her escape him thus. he approached, and set about turning over the heaps one by one. as soon as he paused, tantalized and puzzled, he was directed anew by an imitative kiss which came from her hiding-place, and by snatches of a local ballad in the smallest voice she could assume: "o come in from the foggy, foggy dew." in a minute or two he uncovered her. "oh, 'tis not tim!" said she, burying her face. fitzpiers, however, disregarded her resistance by reason of its mildness, stooped and imprinted the purposed kiss, then sunk down on the next hay-cock, panting with his race. "whom do you mean by tim?" he asked, presently. "my young man, tim tangs," said she. "now, honor bright, did you really think it was he?" "i did at first." "but you didn't at last?" "i didn't at last." "do you much mind that it was not?" "no," she answered, slyly. fitzpiers did not pursue his questioning. in the moonlight suke looked very beautiful, the scratches and blemishes incidental to her out-door occupation being invisible under these pale rays. while they remain silent the coarse whir of the eternal night-jar burst sarcastically from the top of a tree at the nearest corner of the wood. besides this not a sound of any kind reached their ears, the time of nightingales being now past, and hintock lying at a distance of two miles at least. in the opposite direction the hay-field stretched away into remoteness till it was lost to the eye in a soft mist. chapter xxi. when the general stampede occurred winterborne had also been looking on, and encountering one of the girls, had asked her what caused them all to fly. she said with solemn breathlessness that they had seen something very different from what they had hoped to see, and that she for one would never attempt such unholy ceremonies again. "we saw satan pursuing us with his hour-glass. it was terrible!" this account being a little incoherent, giles went forward towards the spot from which the girls had retreated. after listening there a few minutes he heard slow footsteps rustling over the leaves, and looking through a tangled screen of honeysuckle which hung from a bough, he saw in the open space beyond a short stout man in evening-dress, carrying on one arm a light overcoat and also his hat, so awkwardly arranged as possibly to have suggested the "hour-glass" to his timid observers--if this were the person whom the girls had seen. with the other hand he silently gesticulated and the moonlight falling upon his bare brow showed him to have dark hair and a high forehead of the shape seen oftener in old prints and paintings than in real life. his curious and altogether alien aspect, his strange gestures, like those of one who is rehearsing a scene to himself, and the unusual place and hour, were sufficient to account for any trepidation among the hintock daughters at encountering him. he paused, and looked round, as if he had forgotten where he was; not observing giles, who was of the color of his environment. the latter advanced into the light. the gentleman held up his hand and came towards giles, the two meeting half-way. "i have lost my way," said the stranger. "perhaps you can put me in the path again." he wiped his forehead with the air of one suffering under an agitation more than that of simple fatigue. "the turnpike-road is over there," said giles "i don't want the turnpike-road," said the gentleman, impatiently. "i came from that. i want hintock house. is there not a path to it across here?" "well, yes, a sort of path. but it is hard to find from this point. i'll show you the way, sir, with great pleasure." "thanks, my good friend. the truth is that i decided to walk across the country after dinner from the hotel at sherton, where i am staying for a day or two. but i did not know it was so far." "it is about a mile to the house from here." they walked on together. as there was no path, giles occasionally stepped in front and bent aside the underboughs of the trees to give his companion a passage, saying every now and then when the twigs, on being released, flew back like whips, "mind your eyes, sir." to which the stranger replied, "yes, yes," in a preoccupied tone. so they went on, the leaf-shadows running in their usual quick succession over the forms of the pedestrians, till the stranger said, "is it far?" "not much farther," said winterborne. "the plantation runs up into a corner here, close behind the house." he added with hesitation, "you know, i suppose, sir, that mrs. charmond is not at home?" "you mistake," said the other, quickly. "mrs. charmond has been away for some time, but she's at home now." giles did not contradict him, though he felt sure that the gentleman was wrong. "you are a native of this place?" the stranger said. "yes." "well, you are happy in having a home. it is what i don't possess." "you come from far, seemingly?" "i come now from the south of europe." "oh, indeed, sir. you are an italian, or spanish, or french gentleman, perhaps?" "i am not either." giles did not fill the pause which ensued, and the gentleman, who seemed of an emotional nature, unable to resist friendship, at length answered the question. "i am an italianized american, a south carolinian by birth," he said. "i left my native country on the failure of the southern cause, and have never returned to it since." he spoke no more about himself, and they came to the verge of the wood. here, striding over the fence out upon the upland sward, they could at once see the chimneys of the house in the gorge immediately beneath their position, silent, still, and pale. "can you tell me the time?" the gentleman asked. "my watch has stopped." "it is between twelve and one," said giles. his companion expressed his astonishment. "i thought it between nine and ten at latest! dear me--dear me!" he now begged giles to return, and offered him a gold coin, which looked like a sovereign, for the assistance rendered. giles declined to accept anything, to the surprise of the stranger, who, on putting the money back into his pocket, said, awkwardly, "i offered it because i want you to utter no word about this meeting with me. will you promise?" winterborne promised readily. he thereupon stood still while the other ascended the slope. at the bottom he looked back dubiously. giles would no longer remain when he was so evidently desired to leave, and returned through the boughs to hintock. he suspected that this man, who seemed so distressed and melancholy, might be that lover and persistent wooer of mrs. charmond whom he had heard so frequently spoken of, and whom it was said she had treated cavalierly. but he received no confirmation of his suspicion beyond a report which reached him a few days later that a gentleman had called up the servants who were taking care of hintock house at an hour past midnight; and on learning that mrs. charmond, though returned from abroad, was as yet in london, he had sworn bitterly, and gone away without leaving a card or any trace of himself. the girls who related the story added that he sighed three times before he swore, but this part of the narrative was not corroborated. anyhow, such a gentleman had driven away from the hotel at sherton next day in a carriage hired at that inn. chapter xxii. the sunny, leafy week which followed the tender doings of midsummer eve brought a visitor to fitzpiers's door; a voice that he knew sounded in the passage. mr. melbury had called. at first he had a particular objection to enter the parlor, because his boots were dusty, but as the surgeon insisted he waived the point and came in. looking neither to the right nor to the left, hardly at fitzpiers himself, he put his hat under his chair, and with a preoccupied gaze at the floor, he said, "i've called to ask you, doctor, quite privately, a question that troubles me. i've a daughter, grace, an only daughter, as you may have heard. well, she's been out in the dew--on midsummer eve in particular she went out in thin slippers to watch some vagary of the hintock maids--and she's got a cough, a distinct hemming and hacking, that makes me uneasy. now, i have decided to send her away to some seaside place for a change--" "send her away!" fitzpiers's countenance had fallen. "yes. and the question is, where would you advise me to send her?" the timber-merchant had happened to call at a moment when fitzpiers was at the spring-tide of a sentiment that grace was a necessity of his existence. the sudden pressure of her form upon his breast as she came headlong round the bush had never ceased to linger with him, ever since he adopted the manoeuvre for which the hour and the moonlight and the occasion had been the only excuse. now she was to be sent away. ambition? it could be postponed. family? culture and reciprocity of tastes had taken the place of family nowadays. he allowed himself to be carried forward on the wave of his desire. "how strange, how very strange it is," he said, "that you should have come to me about her just now. i have been thinking every day of coming to you on the very same errand." "ah!--you have noticed, too, that her health----" "i have noticed nothing the matter with her health, because there is nothing. but, mr. melbury, i have seen your daughter several times by accident. i have admired her infinitely, and i was coming to ask you if i may become better acquainted with her--pay my addresses to her?" melbury was looking down as he listened, and did not see the air of half-misgiving at his own rashness that spread over fitzpiers's face as he made this declaration. "you have--got to know her?" said melbury, a spell of dead silence having preceded his utterance, during which his emotion rose with almost visible effect. "yes," said fitzpiers. "and you wish to become better acquainted with her? you mean with a view to marriage--of course that is what you mean?" "yes," said the young man. "i mean, get acquainted with her, with a view to being her accepted lover; and if we suited each other, what would naturally follow." the timber-merchant was much surprised, and fairly agitated; his hand trembled as he laid by his walking-stick. "this takes me unawares," said he, his voice wellnigh breaking down. "i don't mean that there is anything unexpected in a gentleman being attracted by her; but it did not occur to me that it would be you. i always said," continued he, with a lump in his throat, "that my grace would make a mark at her own level some day. that was why i educated her. i said to myself, 'i'll do it, cost what it may;' though her mother-law was pretty frightened at my paying out so much money year after year. i knew it would tell in the end. 'where you've not good material to work on, such doings would be waste and vanity,' i said. 'but where you have that material it is sure to be worth while.'" "i am glad you don't object," said fitzpiers, almost wishing that grace had not been quite so cheap for him. "if she is willing i don't object, certainly. indeed," added the honest man, "it would be deceit if i were to pretend to feel anything else than highly honored personally; and it is a great credit to her to have drawn to her a man of such good professional station and venerable old family. that huntsman-fellow little thought how wrong he was about her! take her and welcome, sir." "i'll endeavor to ascertain her mind." "yes, yes. but she will be agreeable, i should think. she ought to be." "i hope she may. well, now you'll expect to see me frequently." "oh yes. but, name it all--about her cough, and her going away. i had quite forgot that that was what i came about." "i assure you," said the surgeon, "that her cough can only be the result of a slight cold, and it is not necessary to banish her to any seaside place at all." melbury looked unconvinced, doubting whether he ought to take fitzpiers's professional opinion in circumstances which naturally led him to wish to keep her there. the doctor saw this, and honestly dreading to lose sight of her, he said, eagerly, "between ourselves, if i am successful with her i will take her away myself for a month or two, as soon as we are married, which i hope will be before the chilly weather comes on. this will be so very much better than letting her go now." the proposal pleased melbury much. there could be hardly any danger in postponing any desirable change of air as long as the warm weather lasted, and for such a reason. suddenly recollecting himself, he said, "your time must be precious, doctor. i'll get home-along. i am much obliged to ye. as you will see her often, you'll discover for yourself if anything serious is the matter." "i can assure you it is nothing," said fitzpiers, who had seen grace much oftener already than her father knew of. when he was gone fitzpiers paused, silent, registering his sensations, like a man who has made a plunge for a pearl into a medium of which he knows not the density or temperature. but he had done it, and grace was the sweetest girl alive. as for the departed visitor, his own last words lingered in melbury's ears as he walked homeward; he felt that what he had said in the emotion of the moment was very stupid, ungenteel, and unsuited to a dialogue with an educated gentleman, the smallness of whose practice was more than compensated by the former greatness of his family. he had uttered thoughts before they were weighed, and almost before they were shaped. they had expressed in a certain sense his feeling at fitzpiers's news, but yet they were not right. looking on the ground, and planting his stick at each tread as if it were a flag-staff, he reached his own precincts, where, as he passed through the court, he automatically stopped to look at the men working in the shed and around. one of them asked him a question about wagon-spokes. "hey?" said melbury, looking hard at him. the man repeated the words. melbury stood; then turning suddenly away without answering, he went up the court and entered the house. as time was no object with the journeymen, except as a thing to get past, they leisurely surveyed the door through which he had disappeared. "what maggot has the gaffer got in his head now?" said tangs the elder. "sommit to do with that chiel of his! when you've got a maid of yer own, john upjohn, that costs ye what she costs him, that will take the squeak out of your sunday shoes, john! but you'll never be tall enough to accomplish such as she; and 'tis a lucky thing for ye, john, as things be. well, he ought to have a dozen--that would bring him to reason. i see 'em walking together last sunday, and when they came to a puddle he lifted her over like a halfpenny doll. he ought to have a dozen; he'd let 'em walk through puddles for themselves then." meanwhile melbury had entered the house with the look of a man who sees a vision before him. his wife was in the room. without taking off his hat he sat down at random. "luce--we've done it!" he said. "yes--the thing is as i expected. the spell, that i foresaw might be worked, has worked. she's done it, and done it well. where is she--grace, i mean?" "up in her room--what has happened!" mr. melbury explained the circumstances as coherently as he could. "i told you so," he said. "a maid like her couldn't stay hid long, even in a place like this. but where is grace? let's have her down. here--gra-a-ace!" she appeared after a reasonable interval, for she was sufficiently spoiled by this father of hers not to put herself in a hurry, however impatient his tones. "what is it, father?" said she, with a smile. "why, you scamp, what's this you've been doing? not home here more than six months, yet, instead of confining yourself to your father's rank, making havoc in the educated classes." though accustomed to show herself instantly appreciative of her father's meanings, grace was fairly unable to look anyhow but at a loss now. "no, no--of course you don't know what i mean, or you pretend you don't; though, for my part, i believe women can see these things through a double hedge. but i suppose i must tell ye. why, you've flung your grapnel over the doctor, and he's coming courting forthwith." "only think of that, my dear! don't you feel it a triumph?" said mrs. melbury. "coming courting! i've done nothing to make him," grace exclaimed. "'twasn't necessary that you should, 'tis voluntary that rules in these things....well, he has behaved very honorably, and asked my consent. you'll know what to do when he gets here, i dare say. i needn't tell you to make it all smooth for him." "you mean, to lead him on to marry me?" "i do. haven't i educated you for it?" grace looked out of the window and at the fireplace with no animation in her face. "why is it settled off-hand in this way?" said she, coquettishly. "you'll wait till you hear what i think of him, i suppose?" "oh yes, of course. but you see what a good thing it will be." she weighed the statement without speaking. "you will be restored to the society you've been taken away from," continued her father; "for i don't suppose he'll stay here long." she admitted the advantage; but it was plain that though fitzpiers exercised a certain fascination over her when he was present, or even more, an almost psychic influence, and though his impulsive act in the wood had stirred her feelings indescribably, she had never regarded him in the light of a destined husband. "i don't know what to answer," she said. "i have learned that he is very clever." "he's all right, and he's coming here to see you." a premonition that she could not resist him if he came strangely moved her. "of course, father, you remember that it is only lately that giles--" "you know that you can't think of him. he has given up all claim to you." she could not explain the subtleties of her feeling as he could state his opinion, even though she had skill in speech, and her father had none. that fitzpiers acted upon her like a dram, exciting her, throwing her into a novel atmosphere which biassed her doings until the influence was over, when she felt something of the nature of regret for the mood she had experienced--still more if she reflected on the silent, almost sarcastic, criticism apparent in winterborne's air towards her--could not be told to this worthy couple in words. it so happened that on this very day fitzpiers was called away from hintock by an engagement to attend some medical meetings, and his visits, therefore, did not begin at once. a note, however, arrived from him addressed to grace, deploring his enforced absence. as a material object this note was pretty and superfine, a note of a sort that she had been unaccustomed to see since her return to hintock, except when a school friend wrote to her--a rare instance, for the girls were respecters of persons, and many cooled down towards the timber-dealer's daughter when she was out of sight. thus the receipt of it pleased her, and she afterwards walked about with a reflective air. in the evening her father, who knew that the note had come, said, "why be ye not sitting down to answer your letter? that's what young folks did in my time." she replied that it did not require an answer. "oh, you know best," he said. nevertheless, he went about his business doubting if she were right in not replying; possibly she might be so mismanaging matters as to risk the loss of an alliance which would bring her much happiness. melbury's respect for fitzpiers was based less on his professional position, which was not much, than on the standing of his family in the county in by-gone days. that implicit faith in members of long-established families, as such, irrespective of their personal condition or character, which is still found among old-fashioned people in the rural districts reached its full intensity in melbury. his daughter's suitor was descended from a family he had heard of in his grandfather's time as being once great, a family which had conferred its name upon a neighboring village; how, then, could anything be amiss in this betrothal? "i must keep her up to this," he said to his wife. "she sees it is for her happiness; but still she's young, and may want a little prompting from an older tongue." chapter xxiii. with this in view he took her out for a walk, a custom of his when he wished to say anything specially impressive. their way was over the top of that lofty ridge dividing their woodland from the cider district, whence they had in the spring beheld the miles of apple-trees in bloom. all was now deep green. the spot recalled to grace's mind the last occasion of her presence there, and she said, "the promise of an enormous apple-crop is fulfilling itself, is it not? i suppose giles is getting his mills and presses ready." this was just what her father had not come there to talk about. without replying he raised his arm, and moved his finger till he fixed it at a point. "there," he said, "you see that plantation reaching over the hill like a great slug, and just behind the hill a particularly green sheltered bottom? that's where mr. fitzpiers's family were lords of the manor for i don't know how many hundred years, and there stands the village of buckbury fitzpiers. a wonderful property 'twas--wonderful!" "but they are not lords of the manor there now." "why, no. but good and great things die as well as little and foolish. the only ones representing the family now, i believe, are our doctor and a maiden lady living i don't know where. you can't help being happy, grace, in allying yourself with such a romantical family. you'll feel as if you've stepped into history." "we've been at hintock as long as they've been at buckbury; is it not so? you say our name occurs in old deeds continually." "oh yes--as yeomen, copyholders, and such like. but think how much better this will be for 'ee. you'll be living a high intellectual life, such as has now become natural to you; and though the doctor's practice is small here, he'll no doubt go to a dashing town when he's got his hand in, and keep a stylish carriage, and you'll be brought to know a good many ladies of excellent society. if you should ever meet me then, grace, you can drive past me, looking the other way. i shouldn't expect you to speak to me, or wish such a thing, unless it happened to be in some lonely, private place where 'twouldn't lower ye at all. don't think such men as neighbor giles your equal. he and i shall be good friends enough, but he's not for the like of you. he's lived our rough and homely life here, and his wife's life must be rough and homely likewise." so much pressure could not but produce some displacement. as grace was left very much to herself, she took advantage of one fine day before fitzpiers's return to drive into the aforesaid vale where stood the village of buckbury fitzpiers. leaving her father's man at the inn with the horse and gig, she rambled onward to the ruins of a castle, which stood in a field hard by. she had no doubt that it represented the ancient stronghold of the fitzpiers family. the remains were few, and consisted mostly of remnants of the lower vaulting, supported on low stout columns surmounted by the crochet capital of the period. the two or three arches of these vaults that were still in position were utilized by the adjoining farmer as shelter for his calves, the floor being spread with straw, amid which the young creatures rustled, cooling their thirsty tongues by licking the quaint norman carving, which glistened with the moisture. it was a degradation of even such a rude form of art as this to be treatad so grossly, she thought, and for the first time the family of fitzpiers assumed in her imagination the hues of a melancholy romanticism. it was soon time to drive home, and she traversed the distance with a preoccupied mind. the idea of so modern a man in science and aesthetics as the young surgeon springing out of relics so ancient was a kind of novelty she had never before experienced. the combination lent him a social and intellectual interest which she dreaded, so much weight did it add to the strange influence he exercised upon her whenever he came near her. in an excitement which was not love, not ambition, rather a fearful consciousness of hazard in the air, she awaited his return. meanwhile her father was awaiting him also. in his house there was an old work on medicine, published towards the end of the last century, and to put himself in harmony with events melbury spread this work on his knees when he had done his day's business, and read about galen, hippocrates, and herophilus--of the dogmatic, the empiric, the hermetical, and other sects of practitioners that have arisen in history; and thence proceeded to the classification of maladies and the rules for their treatment, as laid down in this valuable book with absolute precision. melbury regretted that the treatise was so old, fearing that he might in consequence be unable to hold as complete a conversation as he could wish with mr. fitzpiers, primed, no doubt, with more recent discoveries. the day of fitzpiers's return arrived, and he sent to say that he would call immediately. in the little time that was afforded for putting the house in order the sweeping of melbury's parlor was as the sweeping of the parlor at the interpreter's which wellnigh choked the pilgrim. at the end of it mrs. melbury sat down, folded her hands and lips, and waited. her husband restlessly walked in and out from the timber-yard, stared at the interior of the room, jerked out "ay, ay," and retreated again. between four and five fitzpiers arrived, hitching his horse to the hook outside the door. as soon as he had walked in and perceived that grace was not in the room, he seemed to have a misgiving. nothing less than her actual presence could long keep him to the level of this impassioned enterprise, and that lacking he appeared as one who wished to retrace his steps. he mechanically talked at what he considered a woodland matron's level of thought till a rustling was heard on the stairs, and grace came in. fitzpiers was for once as agitated as she. over and above the genuine emotion which she raised in his heart there hung the sense that he was casting a die by impulse which he might not have thrown by judgment. mr. melbury was not in the room. having to attend to matters in the yard, he had delayed putting on his afternoon coat and waistcoat till the doctor's appearance, when, not wishing to be backward in receiving him, he entered the parlor hastily buttoning up those garments. grace's fastidiousness was a little distressed that fitzpiers should see by this action the strain his visit was putting upon her father; and to make matters worse for her just then, old grammer seemed to have a passion for incessantly pumping in the back kitchen, leaving the doors open so that the banging and splashing were distinct above the parlor conversation. whenever the chat over the tea sank into pleasant desultoriness mr. melbury broke in with speeches of labored precision on very remote topics, as if he feared to let fitzpiers's mind dwell critically on the subject nearest the hearts of all. in truth a constrained manner was natural enough in melbury just now, for the greatest interest of his life was reaching its crisis. could the real have been beheld instead of the corporeal merely, the corner of the room in which he sat would have been filled with a form typical of anxious suspense, large-eyed, tight-lipped, awaiting the issue. that paternal hopes and fears so intense should be bound up in the person of one child so peculiarly circumstanced, and not have dispersed themselves over the larger field of a whole family, involved dangerous risks to future happiness. fitzpiers did not stay more than an hour, but that time had apparently advanced his sentiments towards grace, once and for all, from a vaguely liquescent to an organic shape. she would not have accompanied him to the door in response to his whispered "come!" if her mother had not said in a matter-of-fact way, "of course, grace; go to the door with mr. fitzpiers." accordingly grace went, both her parents remaining in the room. when the young pair were in the great brick-floored hall the lover took the girl's hand in his, drew it under his arm, and thus led her on to the door, where he stealthily kissed her. she broke from him trembling, blushed and turned aside, hardly knowing how things had advanced to this. fitzpiers drove off, kissing his hand to her, and waving it to melbury who was visible through the window. her father returned the surgeon's action with a great flourish of his own hand and a satisfied smile. the intoxication that fitzpiers had, as usual, produced in grace's brain during the visit passed off somewhat with his withdrawal. she felt like a woman who did not know what she had been doing for the previous hour, but supposed with trepidation that the afternoon's proceedings, though vague, had amounted to an engagement between herself and the handsome, coercive, irresistible fitzpiers. this visit was a type of many which followed it during the long summer days of that year. grace was borne along upon a stream of reasonings, arguments, and persuasions, supplemented, it must be added, by inclinations of her own at times. no woman is without aspirations, which may be innocent enough within certain limits; and grace had been so trained socially, and educated intellectually, as to see clearly enough a pleasure in the position of wife to such a man as fitzpiers. his material standing of itself, either present or future, had little in it to give her ambition, but the possibilities of a refined and cultivated inner life, of subtle psychological intercourse, had their charm. it was this rather than any vulgar idea of marrying well which caused her to float with the current, and to yield to the immense influence which fitzpiers exercised over her whenever she shared his society. any observer would shrewdly have prophesied that whether or not she loved him as yet in the ordinary sense, she was pretty sure to do so in time. one evening just before dusk they had taken a rather long walk together, and for a short cut homeward passed through the shrubberies of hintock house--still deserted, and still blankly confronting with its sightless shuttered windows the surrounding foliage and slopes. grace was tired, and they approached the wall, and sat together on one of the stone sills--still warm with the sun that had been pouring its rays upon them all the afternoon. "this place would just do for us, would it not, dearest," said her betrothed, as they sat, turning and looking idly at the old facade. "oh yes," said grace, plainly showing that no such fancy had ever crossed her mind. "she is away from home still," grace added in a minute, rather sadly, for she could not forget that she had somehow lost the valuable friendship of the lady of this bower. "who is?--oh, you mean mrs. charmond. do you know, dear, that at one time i thought you lived here." "indeed!" said grace. "how was that?" he explained, as far as he could do so without mentioning his disappointment at finding it was otherwise; and then went on: "well, never mind that. now i want to ask you something. there is one detail of our wedding which i am sure you will leave to me. my inclination is not to be married at the horrid little church here, with all the yokels staring round at us, and a droning parson reading." "where, then, can it be? at a church in town?" "no. not at a church at all. at a registry office. it is a quieter, snugger, and more convenient place in every way." "oh," said she, with real distress. "how can i be married except at church, and with all my dear friends round me?" "yeoman winterborne among them." "yes--why not? you know there was nothing serious between him and me." "you see, dear, a noisy bell-ringing marriage at church has this objection in our case: it would be a thing of report a long way round. now i would gently, as gently as possible, indicate to you how inadvisable such publicity would be if we leave hintock, and i purchase the practice that i contemplate purchasing at budmouth--hardly more than twenty miles off. forgive my saying that it will be far better if nobody there knows where you come from, nor anything about your parents. your beauty and knowledge and manners will carry you anywhere if you are not hampered by such retrospective criticism." "but could it not be a quiet ceremony, even at church?" she pleaded. "i don't see the necessity of going there!" he said, a trifle impatiently. "marriage is a civil contract, and the shorter and simpler it is made the better. people don't go to church when they take a house, or even when they make a will." "oh, edgar--i don't like to hear you speak like that." "well, well--i didn't mean to. but i have mentioned as much to your father, who has made no objection; and why should you?" she gave way, deeming the point one on which she ought to allow sentiment to give way to policy--if there were indeed policy in his plan. but she was indefinably depressed as they walked homeward. chapter xxiv. he left her at the door of her father's house. as he receded, and was clasped out of sight by the filmy shades, he impressed grace as a man who hardly appertained to her existence at all. cleverer, greater than herself, one outside her mental orbit, as she considered him, he seemed to be her ruler rather than her equal, protector, and dear familiar friend. the disappointment she had experienced at his wish, the shock given to her girlish sensibilities by his irreverent views of marriage, together with the sure and near approach of the day fixed for committing her future to his keeping, made her so restless that she could scarcely sleep at all that night. she rose when the sparrows began to walk out of the roof-holes, sat on the floor of her room in the dim light, and by-and-by peeped out behind the window-curtains. it was even now day out-of-doors, though the tones of morning were feeble and wan, and it was long before the sun would be perceptible in this overshadowed vale. not a sound came from any of the out-houses as yet. the tree-trunks, the road, the out-buildings, the garden, every object wore that aspect of mesmeric fixity which the suspensive quietude of daybreak lends to such scenes. outside her window helpless immobility seemed to be combined with intense consciousness; a meditative inertness possessed all things, oppressively contrasting with her own active emotions. beyond the road were some cottage roofs and orchards; over these roofs and over the apple-trees behind, high up the slope, and backed by the plantation on the crest, was the house yet occupied by her future husband, the rough-cast front showing whitely through its creepers. the window-shutters were closed, the bedroom curtains closely drawn, and not the thinnest coil of smoke rose from the rugged chimneys. something broke the stillness. the front door of the house she was gazing at opened softly, and there came out into the porch a female figure, wrapped in a large shawl, beneath which was visible the white skirt of a long loose garment. a gray arm, stretching from within the porch, adjusted the shawl over the woman's shoulders; it was withdrawn and disappeared, the door closing behind her. the woman went quickly down the box-edged path between the raspberries and currants, and as she walked her well-developed form and gait betrayed her individuality. it was suke damson, the affianced one of simple young tim tangs. at the bottom of the garden she entered the shelter of the tall hedge, and only the top of her head could be seen hastening in the direction of her own dwelling. grace had recognized, or thought she recognized, in the gray arm stretching from the porch, the sleeve of a dressing-gown which mr. fitzpiers had been wearing on her own memorable visit to him. her face fired red. she had just before thought of dressing herself and taking a lonely walk under the trees, so coolly green this early morning; but she now sat down on her bed and fell into reverie. it seemed as if hardly any time had passed when she heard the household moving briskly about, and breakfast preparing down-stairs; though, on rousing herself to robe and descend, she found that the sun was throwing his rays completely over the tree-tops, a progress of natural phenomena denoting that at least three hours had elapsed since she last looked out of the window. when attired she searched about the house for her father; she found him at last in the garden, stooping to examine the potatoes for signs of disease. hearing her rustle, he stood up and stretched his back and arms, saying, "morning t'ye, gracie. i congratulate ye. it is only a month to-day to the time!" she did not answer, but, without lifting her dress, waded between the dewy rows of tall potato-green into the middle of the plot where he was. "i have been thinking very much about my position this morning--ever since it was light," she began, excitedly, and trembling so that she could hardly stand. "and i feel it is a false one. i wish not to marry mr. fitzpiers. i wish not to marry anybody; but i'll marry giles winterborne if you say i must as an alternative." her father's face settled into rigidity, he turned pale, and came deliberately out of the plot before he answered her. she had never seen him look so incensed before. "now, hearken to me," he said. "there's a time for a woman to alter her mind; and there's a time when she can no longer alter it, if she has any right eye to her parents' honor and the seemliness of things. that time has come. i won't say to ye, you shall marry him. but i will say that if you refuse, i shall forever be ashamed and a-weary of ye as a daughter, and shall look upon you as the hope of my life no more. what do you know about life and what it can bring forth, and how you ought to act to lead up to best ends? oh, you are an ungrateful maid, grace; you've seen that fellow giles, and he has got over ye; that's where the secret lies, i'll warrant me!" "no, father, no! it is not giles--it is something i cannot tell you of--" "well, make fools of us all; make us laughing-stocks; break it off; have your own way." "but who knows of the engagement as yet? how can breaking it disgrace you?" melbury then by degrees admitted that he had mentioned the engagement to this acquaintance and to that, till she perceived that in his restlessness and pride he had published it everywhere. she went dismally away to a bower of laurel at the top of the garden. her father followed her. "it is that giles winterborne!" he said, with an upbraiding gaze at her. "no, it is not; though for that matter you encouraged him once," she said, troubled to the verge of despair. "it is not giles, it is mr. fitzpiers." "you've had a tiff--a lovers' tiff--that's all, i suppose!" "it is some woman--" "ay, ay; you are jealous. the old story. don't tell me. now do you bide here. i'll send fitzpiers to you. i saw him smoking in front of his house but a minute by-gone." he went off hastily out of the garden-gate and down the lane. but she would not stay where she was; and edging through a slit in the garden-fence, walked away into the wood. just about here the trees were large and wide apart, and there was no undergrowth, so that she could be seen to some distance; a sylph-like, greenish-white creature, as toned by the sunlight and leafage. she heard a foot-fall crushing dead leaves behind her, and found herself reconnoitered by fitzpiers himself, approaching gay and fresh as the morning around them. his remote gaze at her had been one of mild interest rather than of rapture. but she looked so lovely in the green world about her, her pink cheeks, her simple light dress, and the delicate flexibility of her movement acquired such rarity from their wild-wood setting, that his eyes kindled as he drew near. "my darling, what is it? your father says you are in the pouts, and jealous, and i don't know what. ha! ha! ha! as if there were any rival to you, except vegetable nature, in this home of recluses! we know better." "jealous; oh no, it is not so," said she, gravely. "that's a mistake of his and yours, sir. i spoke to him so closely about the question of marriage with you that he did not apprehend my state of mind." "but there's something wrong--eh?" he asked, eying her narrowly, and bending to kiss her. she shrank away, and his purposed kiss miscarried. "what is it?" he said, more seriously for this little defeat. she made no answer beyond, "mr. fitzpiers, i have had no breakfast, i must go in." "come," he insisted, fixing his eyes upon her. "tell me at once, i say." it was the greater strength against the smaller; but she was mastered less by his manner than by her own sense of the unfairness of silence. "i looked out of the window," she said, with hesitation. "i'll tell you by-and-by. i must go in-doors. i have had no breakfast." by a sort of divination his conjecture went straight to the fact. "nor i," said he, lightly. "indeed, i rose late to-day. i have had a broken night, or rather morning. a girl of the village--i don't know her name--came and rang at my bell as soon as it was light--between four and five, i should think it was--perfectly maddened with an aching tooth. as no-body heard her ring, she threw some gravel at my window, till at last i heard her and slipped on my dressing-gown and went down. the poor thing begged me with tears in her eyes to take out her tormentor, if i dragged her head off. down she sat and out it came--a lovely molar, not a speck upon it; and off she went with it in her handkerchief, much contented, though it would have done good work for her for fifty years to come." it was all so plausible--so completely explained. knowing nothing of the incident in the wood on old midsummer-eve, grace felt that her suspicions were unworthy and absurd, and with the readiness of an honest heart she jumped at the opportunity of honoring his word. at the moment of her mental liberation the bushes about the garden had moved, and her father emerged into the shady glade. "well, i hope it is made up?" he said, cheerily. "oh yes," said fitzpiers, with his eyes fixed on grace, whose eyes were shyly bent downward. "now," said her father, "tell me, the pair of ye, that you still mean to take one another for good and all; and on the strength o't you shall have another couple of hundred paid down. i swear it by the name." fitzpiers took her hand. "we declare it, do we not, my dear grace?" said he. relieved of her doubt, somewhat overawed, and ever anxious to please, she was disposed to settle the matter; yet, womanlike, she would not relinquish her opportunity of asking a concession of some sort. "if our wedding can be at church, i say yes," she answered, in a measured voice. "if not, i say no." fitzpiers was generous in his turn. "it shall be so," he rejoined, gracefully. "to holy church we'll go, and much good may it do us." they returned through the bushes indoors, grace walking, full of thought between the other two, somewhat comforted, both by fitzpiers's ingenious explanation and by the sense that she was not to be deprived of a religious ceremony. "so let it be," she said to herself. "pray god it is for the best." from this hour there was no serious attempt at recalcitration on her part. fitzpiers kept himself continually near her, dominating any rebellious impulse, and shaping her will into passive concurrence with all his desires. apart from his lover-like anxiety to possess her, the few golden hundreds of the timber-dealer, ready to hand, formed a warm background to grace's lovely face, and went some way to remove his uneasiness at the prospect of endangering his professional and social chances by an alliance with the family of a simple countryman. the interim closed up its perspective surely and silently. whenever grace had any doubts of her position, the sense of contracting time was like a shortening chamber: at other moments she was comparatively blithe. day after day waxed and waned; the one or two woodmen who sawed, shaped, spokeshaved on her father's premises at this inactive season of the year, regularly came and unlocked the doors in the morning, locked them in the evening, supped, leaned over their garden-gates for a whiff of evening air, and to catch any last and farthest throb of news from the outer world, which entered and expired at little hintock like the exhausted swell of a wave in some innermost cavern of some innermost creek of an embayed sea; yet no news interfered with the nuptial purpose at their neighbor's house. the sappy green twig-tips of the season's growth would not, she thought, be appreciably woodier on the day she became a wife, so near was the time; the tints of the foliage would hardly have changed. everything was so much as usual that no itinerant stranger would have supposed a woman's fate to be hanging in the balance at that summer's decline. but there were preparations, imaginable readily enough by those who had special knowledge. in the remote and fashionable town of sandbourne something was growing up under the hands of several persons who had never seen grace melbury, never would see her, or care anything about her at all, though their creation had such interesting relation to her life that it would enclose her very heart at a moment when that heart would beat, if not with more emotional ardor, at least with more emotional turbulence than at any previous time. why did mrs. dollery's van, instead of passing along at the end of the smaller village to great hintock direct, turn one saturday night into little hintock lane, and never pull up till it reached mr. melbury's gates? the gilding shine of evening fell upon a large, flat box not less than a yard square, and safely tied with cord, as it was handed out from under the tilt with a great deal of care. but it was not heavy for its size; mrs. dollery herself carried it into the house. tim tangs, the hollow-turner, bawtree, suke damson, and others, looked knowing, and made remarks to each other as they watched its entrance. melbury stood at the door of the timber-shed in the attitude of a man to whom such an arrival was a trifling domestic detail with which he did not condescend to be concerned. yet he well divined the contents of that box, and was in truth all the while in a pleasant exaltation at the proof that thus far, at any rate, no disappointment had supervened. while mrs. dollery remained--which was rather long, from her sense of the importance of her errand--he went into the out-house; but as soon as she had had her say, been paid, and had rumbled away, he entered the dwelling, to find there what he knew he should find--his wife and daughter in a flutter of excitement over the wedding-gown, just arrived from the leading dress-maker of sandbourne watering-place aforesaid. during these weeks giles winterborne was nowhere to be seen or heard of. at the close of his tenure in hintock he had sold some of his furniture, packed up the rest--a few pieces endeared by associations, or necessary to his occupation--in the house of a friendly neighbor, and gone away. people said that a certain laxity had crept into his life; that he had never gone near a church latterly, and had been sometimes seen on sundays with unblacked boots, lying on his elbow under a tree, with a cynical gaze at surrounding objects. he was likely to return to hintock when the cider-making season came round, his apparatus being stored there, and travel with his mill and press from village to village. the narrow interval that stood before the day diminished yet. there was in grace's mind sometimes a certain anticipative satisfaction, the satisfaction of feeling that she would be the heroine of an hour; moreover, she was proud, as a cultivated woman, to be the wife of a cultivated man. it was an opportunity denied very frequently to young women in her position, nowadays not a few; those in whom parental discovery of the value of education has implanted tastes which parental circles fail to gratify. but what an attenuation was this cold pride of the dream of her youth, in which she had pictured herself walking in state towards the altar, flushed by the purple light and bloom of her own passion, without a single misgiving as to the sealing of the bond, and fervently receiving as her due "the homage of a thousand hearts; the fond, deep love of one." everything had been clear then, in imagination; now something was undefined. she had little carking anxieties; a curious fatefulness seemed to rule her, and she experienced a mournful want of some one to confide in. the day loomed so big and nigh that her prophetic ear could, in fancy, catch the noise of it, hear the murmur of the villagers as she came out of church, imagine the jangle of the three thin-toned hintock bells. the dialogues seemed to grow louder, and the ding-ding-dong of those three crazed bells more persistent. she awoke: the morning had come. five hours later she was the wife of fitzpiers. chapter xxv. the chief hotel at sherton-abbas was an old stone-fronted inn with a yawning arch, under which vehicles were driven by stooping coachmen to back premises of wonderful commodiousness. the windows to the street were mullioned into narrow lights, and only commanded a view of the opposite houses; hence, perhaps, it arose that the best and most luxurious private sitting-room that the inn could afford over-looked the nether parts of the establishment, where beyond the yard were to be seen gardens and orchards, now bossed, nay incrusted, with scarlet and gold fruit, stretching to infinite distance under a luminous lavender mist. the time was early autumn, "when the fair apples, red as evening sky, do bend the tree unto the fruitful ground, when juicy pears, and berries of black dye, do dance in air, and call the eyes around." the landscape confronting the window might, indeed, have been part of the identical stretch of country which the youthful chatterton had in his mind. in this room sat she who had been the maiden grace melbury till the finger of fate touched her and turned her to a wife. it was two months after the wedding, and she was alone. fitzpiers had walked out to see the abbey by the light of sunset, but she had been too fatigued to accompany him. they had reached the last stage of a long eight-weeks' tour, and were going on to hintock that night. in the yard, between grace and the orchards, there progressed a scene natural to the locality at this time of the year. an apple-mill and press had been erected on the spot, to which some men were bringing fruit from divers points in mawn-baskets, while others were grinding them, and others wringing down the pomace, whose sweet juice gushed forth into tubs and pails. the superintendent of these proceedings, to whom the others spoke as master, was a young yeoman of prepossessing manner and aspect, whose form she recognized in a moment. he had hung his coat to a nail of the out-house wall, and wore his shirt-sleeves rolled up beyond his elbows, to keep them unstained while he rammed the pomace into the bags of horse-hair. fragments of apple-rind had alighted upon the brim of his hat--probably from the bursting of a bag--while brown pips of the same fruit were sticking among the down upon his fine, round arms. she realized in a moment how he had come there. down in the heart of the apple country nearly every farmer kept up a cider-making apparatus and wring-house for his own use, building up the pomace in great straw "cheeses," as they were called; but here, on the margin of pomona's plain, was a debatable land neither orchard nor sylvan exclusively, where the apple produce was hardly sufficient to warrant each proprietor in keeping a mill of his own. this was the field of the travelling cider-maker. his press and mill were fixed to wheels instead of being set up in a cider-house; and with a couple of horses, buckets, tubs, strainers, and an assistant or two, he wandered from place to place, deriving very satisfactory returns for his trouble in such a prolific season as the present. the back parts of the town were just now abounding with apple-gatherings. they stood in the yards in carts, baskets, and loose heaps; and the blue, stagnant air of autumn which hung over everything was heavy with a sweet cidery smell. cakes of pomace lay against the walls in the yellow sun, where they were drying to be used as fuel. yet it was not the great make of the year as yet; before the standard crop came in there accumulated, in abundant times like this, a large superfluity of early apples, and windfalls from the trees of later harvest, which would not keep long. thus, in the baskets, and quivering in the hopper of the mill, she saw specimens of mixed dates, including the mellow countenances of streaked-jacks, codlins, costards, stubbards, ratheripes, and other well-known friends of her ravenous youth. grace watched the head-man with interest. the slightest sigh escaped her. perhaps she thought of the day--not so far distant--when that friend of her childhood had met her by her father's arrangement in this same town, warm with hope, though diffident, and trusting in a promise rather implied than given. or she might have thought of days earlier yet--days of childhood--when her mouth was somewhat more ready to receive a kiss from his than was his to bestow one. however, all that was over. she had felt superior to him then, and she felt superior to him now. she wondered why he never looked towards her open window. she did not know that in the slight commotion caused by their arrival at the inn that afternoon winterborne had caught sight of her through the archway, had turned red, and was continuing his work with more concentrated attention on the very account of his discovery. robert creedle, too, who travelled with giles, had been incidentally informed by the hostler that dr. fitzpiers and his young wife were in the hotel, after which news creedle kept shaking his head and saying to himself, "ah!" very audibly, between his thrusts at the screw of the cider-press. "why the deuce do you sigh like that, robert?" asked winterborne, at last. "ah, maister--'tis my thoughts--'tis my thoughts!...yes, ye've lost a hundred load o' timber well seasoned; ye've lost five hundred pound in good money; ye've lost the stone-windered house that's big enough to hold a dozen families; ye've lost your share of half a dozen good wagons and their horses--all lost!--through your letting slip she that was once yer own!" "good god, creedle, you'll drive me mad!" said giles, sternly. "don't speak of that any more!" thus the subject had ended in the yard. meanwhile, the passive cause of all this loss still regarded the scene. she was beautifully dressed; she was seated in the most comfortable room that the inn afforded; her long journey had been full of variety, and almost luxuriously performed--for fitzpiers did not study economy where pleasure was in question. hence it perhaps arose that giles and all his belongings seemed sorry and common to her for the moment--moving in a plane so far removed from her own of late that she could scarcely believe she had ever found congruity therein. "no--i could never have married him!" she said, gently shaking her head. "dear father was right. it would have been too coarse a life for me." and she looked at the rings of sapphire and opal upon her white and slender fingers that had been gifts from fitzpiers. seeing that giles still kept his back turned, and with a little of the above-described pride of life--easily to be understood, and possibly excused, in a young, inexperienced woman who thought she had married well--she said at last, with a smile on her lips, "mr. winterborne!" he appeared to take no heed, and she said a second time, "mr. winterborne!" even now he seemed not to hear, though a person close enough to him to see the expression of his face might have doubted it; and she said a third time, with a timid loudness, "mr. winterborne! what, have you forgotten my voice?" she remained with her lips parted in a welcoming smile. he turned without surprise, and came deliberately towards the window. "why do you call me?" he said, with a sternness that took her completely unawares, his face being now pale. "is it not enough that you see me here moiling and muddling for my daily bread while you are sitting there in your success, that you can't refrain from opening old wounds by calling out my name?" she flushed, and was struck dumb for some moments; but she forgave his unreasoning anger, knowing so well in what it had its root. "i am sorry i offended you by speaking," she replied, meekly. "believe me, i did not intend to do that. i could hardly sit here so near you without a word of recognition." winterborne's heart had swollen big, and his eyes grown moist by this time, so much had the gentle answer of that familiar voice moved him. he assured her hurriedly, and without looking at her, that he was not angry. he then managed to ask her, in a clumsy, constrained way, if she had had a pleasant journey, and seen many interesting sights. she spoke of a few places that she had visited, and so the time passed till he withdrew to take his place at one of the levers which pulled round the screw. forgotten her voice! indeed, he had not forgotten her voice, as his bitterness showed. but though in the heat of the moment he had reproached her keenly, his second mood was a far more tender one--that which could regard her renunciation of such as he as her glory and her privilege, his own fidelity notwithstanding. he could have declared with a contemporary poet-- "if i forget, the salt creek may forget the ocean; if i forget the heart whence flows my heart's bright motion, may i sink meanlier than the worst abandoned, outcast, crushed, accurst, if i forget. "though you forget, no word of mine shall mar your pleasure; though you forget, you filled my barren life with treasure, you may withdraw the gift you gave; you still are queen, i still am slave, though you forget." she had tears in her eyes at the thought that she could not remind him of what he ought to have remembered; that not herself but the pressure of events had dissipated the dreams of their early youth. grace was thus unexpectedly worsted in her encounter with her old friend. she had opened the window with a faint sense of triumph, but he had turned it into sadness; she did not quite comprehend the reason why. in truth it was because she was not cruel enough in her cruelty. if you have to use the knife, use it, say the great surgeons; and for her own peace grace should have contemned winterborne thoroughly or not at all. as it was, on closing the window an indescribable, some might have said dangerous, pity quavered in her bosom for him. presently her husband entered the room, and told her what a wonderful sunset there was to be seen. "i have not noticed it. but i have seen somebody out there that we know," she replied, looking into the court. fitzpiers followed the direction of her eyes, and said he did not recognize anybody. "why, mr. winterborne--there he is, cider-making. he combines that with his other business, you know." "oh--that fellow," said fitzpiers, his curiosity becoming extinct. she, reproachfully: "what, call mr. winterborne a fellow, edgar? it is true i was just saying to myself that i never could have married him; but i have much regard for him, and always shall." "well, do by all means, my dear one. i dare say i am inhuman, and supercilious, and contemptibly proud of my poor old ramshackle family; but i do honestly confess to you that i feel as if i belonged to a different species from the people who are working in that yard." "and from me too, then. for my blood is no better than theirs." he looked at her with a droll sort of awakening. it was, indeed, a startling anomaly that this woman of the tribe without should be standing there beside him as his wife, if his sentiments were as he had said. in their travels together she had ranged so unerringly at his level in ideas, tastes, and habits that he had almost forgotten how his heart had played havoc with his principles in taking her to him. "ah you--you are refined and educated into something quite different," he said, self-assuringly. "i don't quite like to think that," she murmured with soft regret. "and i think you underestimate giles winterborne. remember, i was brought up with him till i was sent away to school, so i cannot be radically different. at any rate, i don't feel so. that is, no doubt, my fault, and a great blemish in me. but i hope you will put up with it, edgar." fitzpiers said that he would endeavor to do so; and as it was now getting on for dusk, they prepared to perform the last stage of their journey, so as to arrive at hintock before it grew very late. in less than half an hour they started, the cider-makers in the yard having ceased their labors and gone away, so that the only sounds audible there now were the trickling of the juice from the tightly screwed press, and the buzz of a single wasp, which had drunk itself so tipsy that it was unconscious of nightfall. grace was very cheerful at the thought of being soon in her sylvan home, but fitzpiers sat beside her almost silent. an indescribable oppressiveness had overtaken him with the near approach of the journey's end and the realities of life that lay there. "you don't say a word, edgar," she observed. "aren't you glad to get back? i am." "you have friends here. i have none." "but my friends are yours." "oh yes--in that sense." the conversation languished, and they drew near the end of hintock lane. it had been decided that they should, at least for a time, take up their abode in her father's roomy house, one wing of which was quite at their service, being almost disused by the melburys. workmen had been painting, papering, and whitewashing this set of rooms in the wedded pair's absence; and so scrupulous had been the timber-dealer that there should occur no hitch or disappointment on their arrival, that not the smallest detail remained undone. to make it all complete a ground-floor room had been fitted up as a surgery, with an independent outer door, to which fitzpiers's brass plate was screwed--for mere ornament, such a sign being quite superfluous where everybody knew the latitude and longitude of his neighbors for miles round. melbury and his wife welcomed the twain with affection, and all the house with deference. they went up to explore their rooms, that opened from a passage on the left hand of the staircase, the entrance to which could be shut off on the landing by a door that melbury had hung for the purpose. a friendly fire was burning in the grate, although it was not cold. fitzpiers said it was too soon for any sort of meal, they only having dined shortly before leaving sherton-abbas. he would walk across to his old lodging, to learn how his locum tenens had got on in his absence. in leaving melbury's door he looked back at the house. there was economy in living under that roof, and economy was desirable, but in some way he was dissatisfied with the arrangement; it immersed him so deeply in son-in-lawship to melbury. he went on to his former residence. his deputy was out, and fitzpiers fell into conversation with his former landlady. "well, mrs. cox, what's the best news?" he asked of her, with cheery weariness. she was a little soured at losing by his marriage so profitable a tenant as the surgeon had proved to be during his residence under her roof; and the more so in there being hardly the remotest chance of her getting such another settler in the hintock solitudes. "'tis what i don't wish to repeat, sir; least of all to you," she mumbled. "never mind me, mrs. cox; go ahead." "it is what people say about your hasty marrying, dr. fitzpiers. whereas they won't believe you know such clever doctrines in physic as they once supposed of ye, seeing as you could marry into mr. melbury's family, which is only hintock-born, such as me." "they are kindly welcome to their opinion," said fitzpiers, not allowing himself to recognize that he winced. "anything else?" "yes; she's come home at last." "who's she?" "mrs. charmond." "oh, indeed!" said fitzpiers, with but slight interest. "i've never seen her." "she has seen you, sir, whether or no." "never." "yes; she saw you in some hotel or street for a minute or two while you were away travelling, and accidentally heard your name; and when she made some remark about you, miss ellis--that's her maid--told her you was on your wedding-tower with mr. melbury's daughter; and she said, 'he ought to have done better than that. i fear he has spoiled his chances,' she says." fitzpiers did not talk much longer to this cheering housewife, and walked home with no very brisk step. he entered the door quietly, and went straight up-stairs to the drawing-room extemporized for their use by melbury in his and his bride's absence, expecting to find her there as he had left her. the fire was burning still, but there were no lights. he looked into the next apartment, fitted up as a little dining-room, but no supper was laid. he went to the top of the stairs, and heard a chorus of voices in the timber-merchant's parlor below, grace's being occasionally intermingled. descending, and looking into the room from the door-way, he found quite a large gathering of neighbors and other acquaintances, praising and congratulating mrs. fitzpiers on her return, among them being the dairyman, farmer bawtree, and the master-blacksmith from great hintock; also the cooper, the hollow-turner, the exciseman, and some others, with their wives, who lived hard by. grace, girl that she was, had quite forgotten her new dignity and her husband's; she was in the midst of them, blushing, and receiving their compliments with all the pleasure of old-comradeship. fitzpiers experienced a profound distaste for the situation. melbury was nowhere in the room, but melbury's wife, perceiving the doctor, came to him. "we thought, grace and i," she said, "that as they have called, hearing you were come, we could do no less than ask them to supper; and then grace proposed that we should all sup together, as it is the first night of your return." by this time grace had come round to him. "is it not good of them to welcome me so warmly?" she exclaimed, with tears of friendship in her eyes. "after so much good feeling i could not think of our shutting ourselves up away from them in our own dining-room." "certainly not--certainly not," said fitzpiers; and he entered the room with the heroic smile of a martyr. as soon as they sat down to table melbury came in, and seemed to see at once that fitzpiers would much rather have received no such demonstrative reception. he thereupon privately chid his wife for her forwardness in the matter. mrs. melbury declared that it was as much grace's doing as hers, after which there was no more to be said by that young woman's tender father. by this time fitzpiers was making the best of his position among the wide-elbowed and genial company who sat eating and drinking and laughing and joking around him; and getting warmed himself by the good cheer, was obliged to admit that, after all, the supper was not the least enjoyable he had ever known. at times, however, the words about his having spoiled his opportunities, repeated to him as those of mrs. charmond, haunted him like a handwriting on the wall. then his manner would become suddenly abstracted. at one moment he would mentally put an indignant query why mrs. charmond or any other woman should make it her business to have opinions about his opportunities; at another he thought that he could hardly be angry with her for taking an interest in the doctor of her own parish. then he would drink a glass of grog and so get rid of the misgiving. these hitches and quaffings were soon perceived by grace as well as by her father; and hence both of them were much relieved when the first of the guests to discover that the hour was growing late rose and declared that he must think of moving homeward. at the words melbury rose as alertly as if lifted by a spring, and in ten minutes they were gone. "now, grace," said her husband as soon as he found himself alone with her in their private apartments, "we've had a very pleasant evening, and everybody has been very kind. but we must come to an understanding about our way of living here. if we continue in these rooms there must be no mixing in with your people below. i can't stand it, and that's the truth." she had been sadly surprised at the suddenness of his distaste for those old-fashioned woodland forms of life which in his courtship he had professed to regard with so much interest. but she assented in a moment. "we must be simply your father's tenants," he continued, "and our goings and comings must be as independent as if we lived elsewhere." "certainly, edgar--i quite see that it must be so." "but you joined in with all those people in my absence, without knowing whether i should approve or disapprove. when i came i couldn't help myself at all." she, sighing: "yes--i see i ought to have waited; though they came unexpectedly, and i thought i had acted for the best." thus the discussion ended, and the next day fitzpiers went on his old rounds as usual. but it was easy for so super-subtle an eye as his to discern, or to think he discerned, that he was no longer regarded as an extrinsic, unfathomed gentleman of limitless potentiality, scientific and social; but as mr. melbury's compeer, and therefore in a degree only one of themselves. the hintock woodlandlers held with all the strength of inherited conviction to the aristocratic principle, and as soon as they had discovered that fitzpiers was one of the old buckbury fitzpierses they had accorded to him for nothing a touching of hat-brims, promptness of service, and deference of approach, which melbury had to do without, though he paid for it over and over. but now, having proved a traitor to his own cause by this marriage, fitzpiers was believed in no more as a superior hedged by his own divinity; while as doctor he began to be rated no higher than old jones, whom they had so long despised. his few patients seemed in his two months' absence to have dwindled considerably in number, and no sooner had he returned than there came to him from the board of guardians a complaint that a pauper had been neglected by his substitute. in a fit of pride fitzpiers resigned his appointment as one of the surgeons to the union, which had been the nucleus of his practice here. at the end of a fortnight he came in-doors one evening to grace more briskly than usual. "they have written to me again about that practice in budmouth that i once negotiated for," he said to her. "the premium asked is eight hundred pounds, and i think that between your father and myself it ought to be raised. then we can get away from this place forever." the question had been mooted between them before, and she was not unprepared to consider it. they had not proceeded far with the discussion when a knock came to the door, and in a minute grammer ran up to say that a message had arrived from hintock house requesting dr. fitzpiers to attend there at once. mrs. charmond had met with a slight accident through the overturning of her carriage. "this is something, anyhow," said fitzpiers, rising with an interest which he could not have defined. "i have had a presentiment that this mysterious woman and i were to be better acquainted." the latter words were murmured to himself alone. "good-night," said grace, as soon as he was ready. "i shall be asleep, probably, when you return." "good-night," he replied, inattentively, and went down-stairs. it was the first time since their marriage that he had left her without a kiss. chapter xxvi. winterborne's house had been pulled down. on this account his face had been seen but fitfully in hintock; and he would probably have disappeared from the place altogether but for his slight business connection with melbury, on whose premises giles kept his cider-making apparatus, now that he had no place of his own to stow it in. coming here one evening on his way to a hut beyond the wood where he now slept, he noticed that the familiar brown-thatched pinion of his paternal roof had vanished from its site, and that the walls were levelled. in present circumstances he had a feeling for the spot that might have been called morbid, and when he had supped in the hut aforesaid he made use of the spare hour before bedtime to return to little hintock in the twilight and ramble over the patch of ground on which he had first seen the day. he repeated this evening visit on several like occasions. even in the gloom he could trace where the different rooms had stood; could mark the shape of the kitchen chimney-corner, in which he had roasted apples and potatoes in his boyhood, cast his bullets, and burned his initials on articles that did and did not belong to him. the apple-trees still remained to show where the garden had been, the oldest of them even now retaining the crippled slant to north-east given them by the great november gale of , which carried a brig bodily over the chesil bank. they were at present bent to still greater obliquity by the heaviness of their produce. apples bobbed against his head, and in the grass beneath he crunched scores of them as he walked. there was nobody to gather them now. it was on the evening under notice that, half sitting, half leaning against one of these inclined trunks, winterborne had become lost in his thoughts, as usual, till one little star after another had taken up a position in the piece of sky which now confronted him where his walls and chimneys had formerly raised their outlines. the house had jutted awkwardly into the road, and the opening caused by its absence was very distinct. in the silence the trot of horses and the spin of carriage-wheels became audible; and the vehicle soon shaped itself against the blank sky, bearing down upon him with the bend in the lane which here occurred, and of which the house had been the cause. he could discern the figure of a woman high up on the driving-seat of a phaeton, a groom being just visible behind. presently there was a slight scrape, then a scream. winterborne went across to the spot, and found the phaeton half overturned, its driver sitting on the heap of rubbish which had once been his dwelling, and the man seizing the horses' heads. the equipage was mrs. charmond's, and the unseated charioteer that lady herself. to his inquiry if she were hurt she made some incoherent reply to the effect that she did not know. the damage in other respects was little or none: the phaeton was righted, mrs. charmond placed in it, and the reins given to the servant. it appeared that she had been deceived by the removal of the house, imagining the gap caused by the demolition to be the opening of the road, so that she turned in upon the ruins instead of at the bend a few yards farther on. "drive home--drive home!" cried the lady, impatiently; and they started on their way. they had not, however, gone many paces when, the air being still, winterborne heard her say "stop; tell that man to call the doctor--mr. fitzpiers--and send him on to the house. i find i am hurt more seriously than i thought." winterborne took the message from the groom and proceeded to the doctor's at once. having delivered it, he stepped back into the darkness, and waited till he had seen fitzpiers leave the door. he stood for a few minutes looking at the window which by its light revealed the room where grace was sitting, and went away under the gloomy trees. fitzpiers duly arrived at hintock house, whose doors he now saw open for the first time. contrary to his expectation there was visible no sign of that confusion or alarm which a serious accident to the mistress of the abode would have occasioned. he was shown into a room at the top of the staircase, cosily and femininely draped, where, by the light of the shaded lamp, he saw a woman of full round figure reclining upon a couch in such a position as not to disturb a pile of magnificent hair on the crown of her head. a deep purple dressing-gown formed an admirable foil to the peculiarly rich brown of her hair-plaits; her left arm, which was naked nearly up to the shoulder, was thrown upward, and between the fingers of her right hand she held a cigarette, while she idly breathed from her plump lips a thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling. the doctor's first feeling was a sense of his exaggerated prevision in having brought appliances for a serious case; the next, something more curious. while the scene and the moment were new to him and unanticipated, the sentiment and essence of the moment were indescribably familiar. what could be the cause of it? probably a dream. mrs. charmond did not move more than to raise her eyes to him, and he came and stood by her. she glanced up at his face across her brows and forehead, and then he observed a blush creep slowly over her decidedly handsome cheeks. her eyes, which had lingered upon him with an inquiring, conscious expression, were hastily withdrawn, and she mechanically applied the cigarette again to her lips. for a moment he forgot his errand, till suddenly arousing himself he addressed her, formally condoled with her, and made the usual professional inquiries about what had happened to her, and where she was hurt. "that's what i want you to tell me," she murmured, in tones of indefinable reserve. "i quite believe in you, for i know you are very accomplished, because you study so hard." "i'll do my best to justify your good opinion," said the young man, bowing. "and none the less that i am happy to find the accident has not been serious." "i am very much shaken," she said. "oh yes," he replied; and completed his examination, which convinced him that there was really nothing the matter with her, and more than ever puzzled him as to why he had been fetched, since she did not appear to be a timid woman. "you must rest a while, and i'll send something," he said. "oh, i forgot," she returned. "look here." and she showed him a little scrape on her arm--the full round arm that was exposed. "put some court-plaster on that, please." he obeyed. "and now," she said, "before you go i want to put a question to you. sit round there in front of me, on that low chair, and bring the candles, or one, to the little table. do you smoke? yes? that's right--i am learning. take one of these; and here's a light." she threw a matchbox across. fitzpiers caught it, and having lit up, regarded her from his new position, which, with the shifting of the candles, for the first time afforded him a full view of her face. "how many years have passed since first we met!" she resumed, in a voice which she mainly endeavored to maintain at its former pitch of composure, and eying him with daring bashfulness. "we met, do you say?" she nodded. "i saw you recently at an hotel in london, when you were passing through, i suppose, with your bride, and i recognized you as one i had met in my girlhood. do you remember, when you were studying at heidelberg, an english family that was staying there, who used to walk--" "and the young lady who wore a long tail of rare-colored hair--ah, i see it before my eyes!--who lost her gloves on the great terrace--who was going back in the dusk to find them--to whom i said, 'i'll go for them,' and you said, 'oh, they are not worth coming all the way up again for.' i do remember, and how very long we stayed talking there! i went next morning while the dew was on the grass: there they lay--the little fingers sticking out damp and thin. i see them now! i picked them up, and then--" "well?" "i kissed them," he rejoined, rather shamefacedly. "but you had hardly ever seen me except in the dusk?" "never mind. i was young then, and i kissed them. i wondered how i could make the most of my trouvaille, and decided that i would call at your hotel with them that afternoon. it rained, and i waited till next day. i called, and you were gone." "yes," answered she, with dry melancholy. "my mother, knowing my disposition, said she had no wish for such a chit as me to go falling in love with an impecunious student, and spirited me away to baden. as it is all over and past i'll tell you one thing: i should have sent you a line passing warm had i known your name. that name i never knew till my maid said, as you passed up the hotel stairs a month ago, 'there's dr. fitzpiers.'" "good heaven!" said fitzpiers, musingly. "how the time comes back to me! the evening, the morning, the dew, the spot. when i found that you really were gone it was as if a cold iron had been passed down my back. i went up to where you had stood when i last saw you--i flung myself on the grass, and--being not much more than a boy--my eyes were literally blinded with tears. nameless, unknown to me as you were, i couldn't forget your voice." "for how long?" "oh--ever so long. days and days." "days and days! only days and days? oh, the heart of a man! days and days!" "but, my dear madam, i had not known you more than a day or two. it was not a full-blown love--it was the merest bud--red, fresh, vivid, but small. it was a colossal passion in posse, a giant in embryo. it never matured." "so much the better, perhaps." "perhaps. but see how powerless is the human will against predestination. we were prevented meeting; we have met. one feature of the case remains the same amid many changes. you are still rich, and i am still poor. better than that, you have (judging by your last remark) outgrown the foolish, impulsive passions of your early girl-hood. i have not outgrown mine." "i beg your pardon," said she, with vibrations of strong feeling in her words. "i have been placed in a position which hinders such outgrowings. besides, i don't believe that the genuine subjects of emotion do outgrow them; i believe that the older such people get the worse they are. possibly at ninety or a hundred they may feel they are cured; but a mere threescore and ten won't do it--at least for me." he gazed at her in undisguised admiration. here was a soul of souls! "mrs. charmond, you speak truly," he exclaimed. "but you speak sadly as well. why is that?" "i always am sad when i come here," she said, dropping to a low tone with a sense of having been too demonstrative. "then may i inquire why you came?" "a man brought me. women are always carried about like corks upon the waves of masculine desires....i hope i have not alarmed you; but hintock has the curious effect of bottling up the emotions till one can no longer hold them; i am often obliged to fly away and discharge my sentiments somewhere, or i should die outright." "there is very good society in the county for those who have the privilege of entering it." "perhaps so. but the misery of remote country life is that your neighbors have no toleration for difference of opinion and habit. my neighbors think i am an atheist, except those who think i am a roman catholic; and when i speak disrespectfully of the weather or the crops they think i am a blasphemer." she broke into a low musical laugh at the idea. "you don't wish me to stay any longer?" he inquired, when he found that she remained musing. "no--i think not." "then tell me that i am to be gone." "why? cannot you go without?" "i may consult my own feelings only, if left to myself." "well, if you do, what then? do you suppose you'll be in my way?" "i feared it might be so." "then fear no more. but good-night. come to-morrow and see if i am going on right. this renewal of acquaintance touches me. i have already a friendship for you." "if it depends upon myself it shall last forever." "my best hopes that it may. good-by." fitzpiers went down the stairs absolutely unable to decide whether she had sent for him in the natural alarm which might have followed her mishap, or with the single view of making herself known to him as she had done, for which the capsize had afforded excellent opportunity. outside the house he mused over the spot under the light of the stars. it seemed very strange that he should have come there more than once when its inhabitant was absent, and observed the house with a nameless interest; that he should have assumed off-hand before he knew grace that it was here she lived; that, in short, at sundry times and seasons the individuality of hintock house should have forced itself upon him as appertaining to some existence with which he was concerned. the intersection of his temporal orbit with mrs. charmond's for a day or two in the past had created a sentimental interest in her at the time, but it had been so evanescent that in the ordinary onward roll of affairs he would scarce ever have recalled it again. to find her here, however, in these somewhat romantic circumstances, magnified that by-gone and transitory tenderness to indescribable proportions. on entering little hintock he found himself regarding it in a new way--from the hintock house point of view rather than from his own and the melburys'. the household had all gone to bed, and as he went up-stairs he heard the snore of the timber-merchant from his quarter of the building, and turned into the passage communicating with his own rooms in a strange access of sadness. a light was burning for him in the chamber; but grace, though in bed, was not asleep. in a moment her sympathetic voice came from behind the curtains. "edgar, is she very seriously hurt?" fitzpiers had so entirely lost sight of mrs. charmond as a patient that he was not on the instant ready with a reply. "oh no," he said. "there are no bones broken, but she is shaken. i am going again to-morrow." another inquiry or two, and grace said, "did she ask for me?" "well--i think she did--i don't quite remember; but i am under the impression that she spoke of you." "cannot you recollect at all what she said?" "i cannot, just this minute." "at any rate she did not talk much about me?" said grace with disappointment. "oh no." "but you did, perhaps," she added, innocently fishing for a compliment. "oh yes--you may depend upon that!" replied he, warmly, though scarcely thinking of what he was saying, so vividly was there present to his mind the personality of mrs. charmond. chapter xxvii. the doctor's professional visit to hintock house was promptly repeated the next day and the next. he always found mrs. charmond reclining on a sofa, and behaving generally as became a patient who was in no great hurry to lose that title. on each occasion he looked gravely at the little scratch on her arm, as if it had been a serious wound. he had also, to his further satisfaction, found a slight scar on her temple, and it was very convenient to put a piece of black plaster on this conspicuous part of her person in preference to gold-beater's skin, so that it might catch the eyes of the servants, and make his presence appear decidedly necessary, in case there should be any doubt of the fact. "oh--you hurt me!" she exclaimed one day. he was peeling off the bit of plaster on her arm, under which the scrape had turned the color of an unripe blackberry previous to vanishing altogether. "wait a moment, then--i'll damp it," said fitzpiers. he put his lips to the place and kept them there till the plaster came off easily. "it was at your request i put it on," said he. "i know it," she replied. "is that blue vein still in my temple that used to show there? the scar must be just upon it. if the cut had been a little deeper it would have spilt my hot blood indeed!" fitzpiers examined so closely that his breath touched her tenderly, at which their eyes rose to an encounter--hers showing themselves as deep and mysterious as interstellar space. she turned her face away suddenly. "ah! none of that! none of that--i cannot coquet with you!" she cried. "don't suppose i consent to for one moment. our poor, brief, youthful hour of love-making was too long ago to bear continuing now. it is as well that we should understand each other on that point before we go further." "coquet! nor i with you. as it was when i found the historic gloves, so it is now. i might have been and may be foolish; but i am no trifler. i naturally cannot forget that little space in which i flitted across the field of your vision in those days of the past, and the recollection opens up all sorts of imaginings." "suppose my mother had not taken me away?" she murmured, her dreamy eyes resting on the swaying tip of a distant tree. "i should have seen you again." "and then?" "then the fire would have burned higher and higher. what would have immediately followed i know not; but sorrow and sickness of heart at last." "why?" "well--that's the end of all love, according to nature's law. i can give no other reason." "oh, don't speak like that," she exclaimed. "since we are only picturing the possibilities of that time, don't, for pity's sake, spoil the picture." her voice sank almost to a whisper as she added, with an incipient pout upon her full lips, "let me think at least that if you had really loved me at all seriously, you would have loved me for ever and ever!" "you are right--think it with all your heart," said he. "it is a pleasant thought, and costs nothing." she weighed that remark in silence a while. "did you ever hear anything of me from then till now?" she inquired. "not a word." "so much the better. i had to fight the battle of life as well as you. i may tell you about it some day. but don't ever ask me to do it, and particularly do not press me to tell you now." thus the two or three days that they had spent in tender acquaintance on the romantic slopes above the neckar were stretched out in retrospect to the length and importance of years; made to form a canvas for infinite fancies, idle dreams, luxurious melancholies, and sweet, alluring assertions which could neither be proved nor disproved. grace was never mentioned between them, but a rumor of his proposed domestic changes somehow reached her ears. "doctor, you are going away," she exclaimed, confronting him with accusatory reproach in her large dark eyes no less than in her rich cooing voice. "oh yes, you are," she went on, springing to her feet with an air which might almost have been called passionate. "it is no use denying it. you have bought a practice at budmouth. i don't blame you. nobody can live at hintock--least of all a professional man who wants to keep abreast of recent discovery. and there is nobody here to induce such a one to stay for other reasons. that's right, that's right--go away!" "but no, i have not actually bought the practice as yet, though i am indeed in treaty for it. and, my dear friend, if i continue to feel about the business as i feel at this moment--perhaps i may conclude never to go at all." "but you hate hintock, and everybody and everything in it that you don't mean to take away with you?" fitzpiers contradicted this idea in his most vibratory tones, and she lapsed into the frivolous archness under which she hid passions of no mean strength--strange, smouldering, erratic passions, kept down like a stifled conflagration, but bursting out now here, now there--the only certain element in their direction being its unexpectedness. if one word could have expressed her it would have been inconsequence. she was a woman of perversities, delighting in frequent contrasts. she liked mystery, in her life, in her love, in her history. to be fair to her, there was nothing in the latter which she had any great reason to be ashamed of, and many things of which she might have been proud; but it had never been fathomed by the honest minds of hintock, and she rarely volunteered her experiences. as for her capricious nature, the people on her estates grew accustomed to it, and with that marvellous subtlety of contrivance in steering round odd tempers, that is found in sons of the soil and dependants generally, they managed to get along under her government rather better than they would have done beneath a more equable rule. now, with regard to the doctor's notion of leaving hintock, he had advanced further towards completing the purchase of the budmouth surgeon's good-will than he had admitted to mrs. charmond. the whole matter hung upon what he might do in the ensuing twenty-four hours. the evening after leaving her he went out into the lane, and walked and pondered between the high hedges, now greenish-white with wild clematis--here called "old-man's beard," from its aspect later in the year. the letter of acceptance was to be written that night, after which his departure from hintock would be irrevocable. but could he go away, remembering what had just passed? the trees, the hills, the leaves, the grass--each had been endowed and quickened with a subtle charm since he had discovered the person and history, and, above all, mood of their owner. there was every temporal reason for leaving; it would be entering again into a world which he had only quitted in a passion for isolation, induced by a fit of achillean moodiness after an imagined slight. his wife herself saw the awkwardness of their position here, and cheerfully welcomed the purposed change, towards which every step had been taken but the last. but could he find it in his heart--as he found it clearly enough in his conscience--to go away? he drew a troubled breath, and went in-doors. here he rapidly penned a letter, wherein he withdrew once for all from the treaty for the budmouth practice. as the postman had already left little hintock for that night, he sent one of melbury's men to intercept a mail-cart on another turnpike-road, and so got the letter off. the man returned, met fitzpiers in the lane, and told him the thing was done. fitzpiers went back to his house musing. why had he carried out this impulse--taken such wild trouble to effect a probable injury to his own and his young wife's prospects? his motive was fantastic, glowing, shapeless as the fiery scenery about the western sky. mrs. charmond could overtly be nothing more to him than a patient now, and to his wife, at the outside, a patron. in the unattached bachelor days of his first sojourning here how highly proper an emotional reason for lingering on would have appeared to troublesome dubiousness. matrimonial ambition is such an honorable thing. "my father has told me that you have sent off one of the men with a late letter to budmouth," cried grace, coming out vivaciously to meet him under the declining light of the sky, wherein hung, solitary, the folding star. "i said at once that you had finally agreed to pay the premium they ask, and that the tedious question had been settled. when do we go, edgar?" "i have altered my mind," said he. "they want too much--seven hundred and fifty is too large a sum--and in short, i have declined to go further. we must wait for another opportunity. i fear i am not a good business-man." he spoke the last words with a momentary faltering at the great foolishness of his act; for, as he looked in her fair and honorable face, his heart reproached him for what he had done. her manner that evening showed her disappointment. personally she liked the home of her childhood much, and she was not ambitious. but her husband had seemed so dissatisfied with the circumstances hereabout since their marriage that she had sincerely hoped to go for his sake. it was two or three days before he visited mrs. charmond again. the morning had been windy, and little showers had sowed themselves like grain against the walls and window-panes of the hintock cottages. he went on foot across the wilder recesses of the park, where slimy streams of green moisture, exuding from decayed holes caused by old amputations, ran down the bark of the oaks and elms, the rind below being coated with a lichenous wash as green as emerald. they were stout-trunked trees, that never rocked their stems in the fiercest gale, responding to it entirely by crooking their limbs. wrinkled like an old crone's face, and antlered with dead branches that rose above the foliage of their summits, they were nevertheless still green--though yellow had invaded the leaves of other trees. she was in a little boudoir or writing-room on the first floor, and fitzpiers was much surprised to find that the window-curtains were closed and a red-shaded lamp and candles burning, though out-of-doors it was broad daylight. moreover, a large fire was burning in the grate, though it was not cold. "what does it all mean?" he asked. she sat in an easy-chair, her face being turned away. "oh," she murmured, "it is because the world is so dreary outside. sorrow and bitterness in the sky, and floods of agonized tears beating against the panes. i lay awake last night, and i could hear the scrape of snails creeping up the window-glass; it was so sad! my eyes were so heavy this morning that i could have wept my life away. i cannot bear you to see my face; i keep it away from you purposely. oh! why were we given hungry hearts and wild desires if we have to live in a world like this? why should death only lend what life is compelled to borrow--rest? answer that, dr. fitzpiers." "you must eat of a second tree of knowledge before you can do it, felice charmond." "then, when my emotions have exhausted themselves, i become full of fears, till i think i shall die for very fear. the terrible insistencies of society--how severe they are, and cold and inexorable--ghastly towards those who are made of wax and not of stone. oh, i am afraid of them; a stab for this error, and a stab for that--correctives and regulations framed that society may tend to perfection--an end which i don't care for in the least. yet for this, all i do care for has to be stunted and starved." fitzpiers had seated himself near her. "what sets you in this mournful mood?" he asked, gently. (in reality he knew that it was the result of a loss of tone from staying in-doors so much, but he did not say so.) "my reflections. doctor, you must not come here any more. they begin to think it a farce already. i say you must come no more. there--don't be angry with me;" and she jumped up, pressed his hand, and looked anxiously at him. "it is necessary. it is best for both you and me." "but," said fitzpiers, gloomily, "what have we done?" "done--we have done nothing. perhaps we have thought the more. however, it is all vexation. i am going away to middleton abbey, near shottsford, where a relative of my late husband lives, who is confined to her bed. the engagement was made in london, and i can't get out of it. perhaps it is for the best that i go there till all this is past. when are you going to enter on your new practice, and leave hintock behind forever, with your pretty wife on your arm?" "i have refused the opportunity. i love this place too well to depart." "you have?" she said, regarding him with wild uncertainty. "why do you ruin yourself in that way? great heaven, what have i done!" "nothing. besides, you are going away." "oh yes; but only to middleton abbey for a month or two. yet perhaps i shall gain strength there--particularly strength of mind--i require it. and when i come back i shall be a new woman; and you can come and see me safely then, and bring your wife with you, and we'll be friends--she and i. oh, how this shutting up of one's self does lead to indulgence in idle sentiments. i shall not wish you to give your attendance to me after to-day. but i am glad that you are not going away--if your remaining does not injure your prospects at all." as soon as he had left the room the mild friendliness she had preserved in her tone at parting, the playful sadness with which she had conversed with him, equally departed from her. she became as heavy as lead--just as she had been before he arrived. her whole being seemed to dissolve in a sad powerlessness to do anything, and the sense of it made her lips tremulous and her closed eyes wet. his footsteps again startled her, and she turned round. "i returned for a moment to tell you that the evening is going to be fine. the sun is shining; so do open your curtains and put out those lights. shall i do it for you?" "please--if you don't mind." he drew back the window-curtains, whereupon the red glow of the lamp and the two candle-flames became almost invisible with the flood of late autumn sunlight that poured in. "shall i come round to you?" he asked, her back being towards him. "no," she replied. "why not?" "because i am crying, and i don't want to see you." he stood a moment irresolute, and regretted that he had killed the rosy, passionate lamplight by opening the curtains and letting in garish day. "then i am going," he said. "very well," she answered, stretching one hand round to him, and patting her eyes with a handkerchief held in the other. "shall i write a line to you at--" "no, no." a gentle reasonableness came into her tone as she added, "it must not be, you know. it won't do." "very well. good-by." the next moment he was gone. in the evening, with listless adroitness, she encouraged the maid who dressed her for dinner to speak of dr. fitzpiers's marriage. "mrs. fitzpiers was once supposed to favor mr. winterborne," said the young woman. "and why didn't she marry him?" said mrs. charmond. "because, you see, ma'am, he lost his houses." "lost his houses? how came he to do that?" "the houses were held on lives, and the lives dropped, and your agent wouldn't renew them, though it is said that mr. winterborne had a very good claim. that's as i've heard it, ma'am, and it was through it that the match was broke off." being just then distracted by a dozen emotions, mrs. charmond sunk into a mood of dismal self-reproach. "in refusing that poor man his reasonable request," she said to herself, "i foredoomed my rejuvenated girlhood's romance. who would have thought such a business matter could have nettled my own heart like this? now for a winter of regrets and agonies and useless wishes, till i forget him in the spring. oh! i am glad i am going away." she left her chamber and went down to dine with a sigh. on the stairs she stood opposite the large window for a moment, and looked out upon the lawn. it was not yet quite dark. half-way up the steep green slope confronting her stood old timothy tangs, who was shortening his way homeward by clambering here where there was no road, and in opposition to express orders that no path was to be made there. tangs had momentarily stopped to take a pinch of snuff; but observing mrs. charmond gazing at him, he hastened to get over the top out of hail. his precipitancy made him miss his footing, and he rolled like a barrel to the bottom, his snuffbox rolling in front of him. her indefinite, idle, impossible passion for fitzpiers; her constitutional cloud of misery; the sorrowful drops that still hung upon her eyelashes, all made way for the incursive mood started by the spectacle. she burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, her very gloom of the previous hour seeming to render it the more uncontrollable. it had not died out of her when she reached the dining-room; and even here, before the servants, her shoulders suddenly shook as the scene returned upon her; and the tears of her hilarity mingled with the remnants of those engendered by her grief. she resolved to be sad no more. she drank two glasses of champagne, and a little more still after those, and amused herself in the evening with singing little amatory songs. "i must do something for that poor man winterborne, however," she said. chapter xxviii. a week had passed, and mrs. charmond had left hintock house. middleton abbey, the place of her sojourn, was about twenty miles distant by road, eighteen by bridle-paths and footways. grace observed, for the first time, that her husband was restless, that at moments he even was disposed to avoid her. the scrupulous civility of mere acquaintanceship crept into his manner; yet, when sitting at meals, he seemed hardly to hear her remarks. her little doings interested him no longer, while towards her father his bearing was not far from supercilious. it was plain that his mind was entirely outside her life, whereabouts outside it she could not tell; in some region of science, possibly, or of psychological literature. but her hope that he was again immersing himself in those lucubrations which before her marriage had made his light a landmark in hintock, was founded simply on the slender fact that he often sat up late. one evening she discovered him leaning over a gate on rub-down hill, the gate at which winterborne had once been standing, and which opened on the brink of a steep, slanting down directly into blackmoor vale, or the vale of the white hart, extending beneath the eye at this point to a distance of many miles. his attention was fixed on the landscape far away, and grace's approach was so noiseless that he did not hear her. when she came close she could see his lips moving unconsciously, as to some impassioned visionary theme. she spoke, and fitzpiers started. "what are you looking at?" she asked. "oh! i was contemplating our old place of buckbury, in my idle way," he said. it had seemed to her that he was looking much to the right of that cradle and tomb of his ancestral dignity; but she made no further observation, and taking his arm walked home beside him almost in silence. she did not know that middleton abbey lay in the direction of his gaze. "are you going to have out darling this afternoon?" she asked, presently. darling being the light-gray mare which winterborne had bought for grace, and which fitzpiers now constantly used, the animal having turned out a wonderful bargain, in combining a perfect docility with an almost human intelligence; moreover, she was not too young. fitzpiers was unfamiliar with horses, and he valued these qualities. "yes," he replied, "but not to drive. i am riding her. i practise crossing a horse as often as i can now, for i find that i can take much shorter cuts on horseback." he had, in fact, taken these riding exercises for about a week, only since mrs. charmond's absence, his universal practice hitherto having been to drive. some few days later, fitzpiers started on the back of this horse to see a patient in the aforesaid vale. it was about five o'clock in the evening when he went away, and at bedtime he had not reached home. there was nothing very singular in this, though she was not aware that he had any patient more than five or six miles distant in that direction. the clock had struck one before fitzpiers entered the house, and he came to his room softly, as if anxious not to disturb her. the next morning she was stirring considerably earlier than he. in the yard there was a conversation going on about the mare; the man who attended to the horses, darling included, insisted that the latter was "hag-rid;" for when he had arrived at the stable that morning she was in such a state as no horse could be in by honest riding. it was true that the doctor had stabled her himself when he got home, so that she was not looked after as she would have been if he had groomed and fed her; but that did not account for the appearance she presented, if mr. fitzpiers's journey had been only where he had stated. the phenomenal exhaustion of darling, as thus related, was sufficient to develop a whole series of tales about riding witches and demons, the narration of which occupied a considerable time. grace returned in-doors. in passing through the outer room she picked up her husband's overcoat which he had carelessly flung down across a chair. a turnpike ticket fell out of the breast-pocket, and she saw that it had been issued at middleton gate. he had therefore visited middleton the previous night, a distance of at least five-and-thirty miles on horseback, there and back. during the day she made some inquiries, and learned for the first time that mrs. charmond was staying at middleton abbey. she could not resist an inference--strange as that inference was. a few days later he prepared to start again, at the same time and in the same direction. she knew that the state of the cottager who lived that way was a mere pretext; she was quite sure he was going to mrs. charmond. grace was amazed at the mildness of the passion which the suspicion engendered in her. she was but little excited, and her jealousy was languid even to death. it told tales of the nature of her affection for him. in truth, her antenuptial regard for fitzpiers had been rather of the quality of awe towards a superior being than of tender solicitude for a lover. it had been based upon mystery and strangeness--the mystery of his past, of his knowledge, of his professional skill, of his beliefs. when this structure of ideals was demolished by the intimacy of common life, and she found him as merely human as the hintock people themselves, a new foundation was in demand for an enduring and stanch affection--a sympathetic interdependence, wherein mutual weaknesses were made the grounds of a defensive alliance. fitzpiers had furnished none of that single-minded confidence and truth out of which alone such a second union could spring; hence it was with a controllable emotion that she now watched the mare brought round. "i'll walk with you to the hill if you are not in a great hurry," she said, rather loath, after all, to let him go. "do; there's plenty of time," replied her husband. accordingly he led along the horse, and walked beside her, impatient enough nevertheless. thus they proceeded to the turnpike road, and ascended rub-down hill to the gate he had been leaning over when she surprised him ten days before. this was the end of her excursion. fitzpiers bade her adieu with affection, even with tenderness, and she observed that he looked weary-eyed. "why do you go to-night?" she said. "you have been called up two nights in succession already." "i must go," he answered, almost gloomily. "don't wait up for me." with these words he mounted his horse, passed through the gate which grace held open for him, and ambled down the steep bridle-track to the valley. she closed the gate and watched his descent, and then his journey onward. his way was east, the evening sun which stood behind her back beaming full upon him as soon as he got out from the shade of the hill. notwithstanding this untoward proceeding she was determined to be loyal if he proved true; and the determination to love one's best will carry a heart a long way towards making that best an ever-growing thing. the conspicuous coat of the active though blanching mare made horse and rider easy objects for the vision. though darling had been chosen with such pains by winterborne for grace, she had never ridden the sleek creature; but her husband had found the animal exceedingly convenient, particularly now that he had taken to the saddle, plenty of staying power being left in darling yet. fitzpiers, like others of his character, while despising melbury and his station, did not at all disdain to spend melbury's money, or appropriate to his own use the horse which belonged to melbury's daughter. and so the infatuated young surgeon went along through the gorgeous autumn landscape of white hart vale, surrounded by orchards lustrous with the reds of apple-crops, berries, and foliage, the whole intensified by the gilding of the declining sun. the earth this year had been prodigally bountiful, and now was the supreme moment of her bounty. in the poorest spots the hedges were bowed with haws and blackberries; acorns cracked underfoot, and the burst husks of chestnuts lay exposing their auburn contents as if arranged by anxious sellers in a fruit-market. in all this proud show some kernels were unsound as her own situation, and she wondered if there were one world in the universe where the fruit had no worm, and marriage no sorrow. herr tannhauser still moved on, his plodding steed rendering him distinctly visible yet. could she have heard fitzpiers's voice at that moment she would have found him murmuring-- "...towards the loadstar of my one desire i flitted, even as a dizzy moth in the owlet light." but he was a silent spectacle to her now. soon he rose out of the valley, and skirted a high plateau of the chalk formation on his right, which rested abruptly upon the fruity district of loamy clay, the character and herbage of the two formations being so distinct that the calcareous upland appeared but as a deposit of a few years' antiquity upon the level vale. he kept along the edge of this high, unenclosed country, and the sky behind him being deep violet, she could still see white darling in relief upon it--a mere speck now--a wouvermans eccentricity reduced to microscopic dimensions. upon this high ground he gradually disappeared. thus she had beheld the pet animal purchased for her own use, in pure love of her, by one who had always been true, impressed to convey her husband away from her to the side of a new-found idol. while she was musing on the vicissitudes of horses and wives, she discerned shapes moving up the valley towards her, quite near at hand, though till now hidden by the hedges. surely they were giles winterborne, with his two horses and cider-apparatus, conducted by robert creedle. up, upward they crept, a stray beam of the sun alighting every now and then like a star on the blades of the pomace-shovels, which had been converted to steel mirrors by the action of the malic acid. she opened the gate when he came close, and the panting horses rested as they achieved the ascent. "how do you do, giles?" said she, under a sudden impulse to be familiar with him. he replied with much more reserve. "you are going for a walk, mrs. fitzpiers?" he added. "it is pleasant just now." "no, i am returning," said she. the vehicles passed through, the gate slammed, and winterborne walked by her side in the rear of the apple-mill. he looked and smelt like autumn's very brother, his face being sunburnt to wheat-color, his eyes blue as corn-flowers, his boots and leggings dyed with fruit-stains, his hands clammy with the sweet juice of apples, his hat sprinkled with pips, and everywhere about him that atmosphere of cider which at its first return each season has such an indescribable fascination for those who have been born and bred among the orchards. her heart rose from its late sadness like a released spring; her senses revelled in the sudden lapse back to nature unadorned. the consciousness of having to be genteel because of her husband's profession, the veneer of artificiality which she had acquired at the fashionable schools, were thrown off, and she became the crude, country girl of her latent, earliest instincts. nature was bountiful, she thought. no sooner had she been starved off by edgar fitzpiers than another being, impersonating bare and undiluted manliness, had arisen out of the earth, ready to hand. this was an excursion of the imagination which she did not encourage, and she said suddenly, to disguise the confused regard which had followed her thoughts, "did you meet my husband?" winterborne, with some hesitation, "yes." "where did you meet him?" "at calfhay cross. i come from middleton abbey; i have been making there for the last week." "haven't they a mill of their own?" "yes, but it's out of repair." "i think--i heard that mrs. charmond had gone there to stay?" "yes. i have seen her at the windows once or twice." grace waited an interval before she went on: "did mr. fitzpiers take the way to middleton?" "yes...i met him on darling." as she did not reply, he added, with a gentler inflection, "you know why the mare was called that?" "oh yes--of course," she answered, quickly. they had risen so far over the crest of the hill that the whole west sky was revealed. between the broken clouds they could see far into the recesses of heaven, the eye journeying on under a species of golden arcades, and past fiery obstructions, fancied cairns, logan-stones, stalactites and stalagmite of topaz. deeper than this their gaze passed thin flakes of incandescence, till it plunged into a bottomless medium of soft green fire. her abandonment to the luscious time after her sense of ill-usage, her revolt for the nonce against social law, her passionate desire for primitive life, may have showed in her face. winterborne was looking at her, his eyes lingering on a flower that she wore in her bosom. almost with the abstraction of a somnambulist he stretched out his hand and gently caressed the flower. she drew back. "what are you doing, giles winterborne!" she exclaimed, with a look of severe surprise. the evident absence of all premeditation from the act, however, speedily led her to think that it was not necessary to stand upon her dignity here and now. "you must bear in mind, giles," she said, kindly, "that we are not as we were; and some people might have said that what you did was taking a liberty." it was more than she need have told him; his action of forgetfulness had made him so angry with himself that he flushed through his tan. "i don't know what i am coming to!" he exclaimed, savagely. "ah--i was not once like this!" tears of vexation were in his eyes. "no, now--it was nothing. i was too reproachful." "it would not have occurred to me if i had not seen something like it done elsewhere--at middleton lately," he said, thoughtfully, after a while. "by whom?" "don't ask it." she scanned him narrowly. "i know quite well enough," she returned, indifferently. "it was by my husband, and the woman was mrs. charmond. association of ideas reminded you when you saw me....giles--tell me all you know about that--please do, giles! but no--i won't hear it. let the subject cease. and as you are my friend, say nothing to my father." they reached a place where their ways divided. winterborne continued along the highway which kept outside the copse, and grace opened a gate that entered it. chapter xxix. she walked up the soft grassy ride, screened on either hand by nut-bushes, just now heavy with clusters of twos and threes and fours. a little way on, the track she pursued was crossed by a similar one at right angles. here grace stopped; some few yards up the transverse ride the buxom suke damson was visible--her gown tucked up high through her pocket-hole, and no bonnet on her head--in the act of pulling down boughs from which she was gathering and eating nuts with great rapidity, her lover tim tangs standing near her engaged in the same pleasant meal. crack, crack went suke's jaws every second or two. by an automatic chain of thought grace's mind reverted to the tooth-drawing scene described by her husband; and for the first time she wondered if that narrative were really true, susan's jaws being so obviously sound and strong. grace turned up towards the nut-gatherers, and conquered her reluctance to speak to the girl who was a little in advance of tim. "good-evening, susan," she said. "good-evening, miss melbury" (crack). "mrs. fitzpiers." "oh yes, ma'am--mrs. fitzpiers," said suke, with a peculiar smile. grace, not to be daunted, continued: "take care of your teeth, suke. that accounts for the toothache." "i don't know what an ache is, either in tooth, ear, or head, thank the lord" (crack). "nor the loss of one, either?" "see for yourself, ma'am." she parted her red lips, and exhibited the whole double row, full up and unimpaired. "you have never had one drawn?" "never." "so much the better for your stomach," said mrs. fitzpiers, in an altered voice. and turning away quickly, she went on. as her husband's character thus shaped itself under the touch of time, grace was almost startled to find how little she suffered from that jealous excitement which is conventionally attributed to all wives in such circumstances. but though possessed by none of that feline wildness which it was her moral duty to experience, she did not fail to know that she had made a frightful mistake in her marriage. acquiescence in her father's wishes had been degradation to herself. people are not given premonitions for nothing; she should have obeyed her impulse on that early morning, and steadfastly refused her hand. oh, that plausible tale which her then betrothed had told her about suke--the dramatic account of her entreaties to him to draw the aching enemy, and the fine artistic touch he had given to the story by explaining that it was a lovely molar without a flaw! she traced the remainder of the woodland track dazed by the complications of her position. if his protestations to her before their marriage could be believed, her husband had felt affection of some sort for herself and this woman simultaneously; and was now again spreading the same emotion over mrs. charmond and herself conjointly, his manner being still kind and fond at times. but surely, rather than that, he must have played the hypocrite towards her in each case with elaborate completeness; and the thought of this sickened her, for it involved the conjecture that if he had not loved her, his only motive for making her his wife must have been her little fortune. yet here grace made a mistake, for the love of men like fitzpiers is unquestionably of such quality as to bear division and transference. he had indeed, once declared, though not to her, that on one occasion he had noticed himself to be possessed by five distinct infatuations at the same time. therein it differed from the highest affection as the lower orders of the animal world differ from advanced organisms, partition causing, not death, but a multiplied existence. he had loved her sincerely, and had by no means ceased to love her now. but such double and treble barrelled hearts were naturally beyond her conception. of poor suke damson, grace thought no more. she had had her day. "if he does not love me i will not love him!" said grace, proudly. and though these were mere words, it was a somewhat formidable thing for fitzpiers that her heart was approximating to a state in which it might be possible to carry them out. that very absence of hot jealousy which made his courses so easy, and on which, indeed, he congratulated himself, meant, unknown to either wife or husband, more mischief than the inconvenient watchfulness of a jaundiced eye. her sleep that night was nervous. the wing allotted to her and her husband had never seemed so lonely. at last she got up, put on her dressing-gown, and went down-stairs. her father, who slept lightly, heard her descend, and came to the stair-head. "is that you, grace? what's the matter?" he said. "nothing more than that i am restless. edgar is detained by a case at owlscombe in white hart vale." "but how's that? i saw the woman's husband at great hintock just afore bedtime; and she was going on well, and the doctor gone then." "then he's detained somewhere else," said grace. "never mind me; he will soon be home. i expect him about one." she went back to her room, and dozed and woke several times. one o'clock had been the hour of his return on the last occasion; but it passed now by a long way, and fitzpiers did not come. just before dawn she heard the men stirring in the yard; and the flashes of their lanterns spread every now and then through her window-blind. she remembered that her father had told her not to be disturbed if she noticed them, as they would be rising early to send off four loads of hurdles to a distant sheep-fair. peeping out, she saw them bustling about, the hollow-turner among the rest; he was loading his wares--wooden-bowls, dishes, spigots, spoons, cheese-vats, funnels, and so on--upon one of her father's wagons, who carried them to the fair for him every year out of neighborly kindness. the scene and the occasion would have enlivened her but that her husband was still absent; though it was now five o'clock. she could hardly suppose him, whatever his infatuation, to have prolonged to a later hour than ten an ostensibly professional call on mrs. charmond at middleton; and he could have ridden home in two hours and a half. what, then, had become of him? that he had been out the greater part of the two preceding nights added to her uneasiness. she dressed herself, descended, and went out, the weird twilight of advancing day chilling the rays from the lanterns, and making the men's faces wan. as soon as melbury saw her he came round, showing his alarm. "edgar is not come," she said. "and i have reason to know that he's not attending anybody. he has had no rest for two nights before this. i was going to the top of the hill to look for him." "i'll come with you," said melbury. she begged him not to hinder himself; but he insisted, for he saw a peculiar and rigid gloom in her face over and above her uneasiness, and did not like the look of it. telling the men he would be with them again soon, he walked beside her into the turnpike-road, and partly up the hill whence she had watched fitzpiers the night before across the great white hart or blackmoor valley. they halted beneath a half-dead oak, hollow, and disfigured with white tumors, its roots spreading out like accipitrine claws grasping the ground. a chilly wind circled round them, upon whose currents the seeds of a neighboring lime-tree, supported parachute-wise by the wing attached, flew out of the boughs downward like fledglings from their nest. the vale was wrapped in a dim atmosphere of unnaturalness, and the east was like a livid curtain edged with pink. there was no sign nor sound of fitzpiers. "it is no use standing here," said her father. "he may come home fifty ways...why, look here!--here be darling's tracks--turned homeward and nearly blown dry and hard! he must have come in hours ago without your seeing him." "he has not done that," said she. they went back hastily. on entering their own gates they perceived that the men had left the wagons, and were standing round the door of the stable which had been appropriated to the doctor's use. "is there anything the matter?" cried grace. "oh no, ma'am. all's well that ends well," said old timothy tangs. "i've heard of such things before--among workfolk, though not among your gentle people--that's true." they entered the stable, and saw the pale shape of darling standing in the middle of her stall, with fitzpiers on her back, sound asleep. darling was munching hay as well as she could with the bit in her month, and the reins, which had fallen from fitzpiers's hand, hung upon her neck. grace went and touched his hand; shook it before she could arouse him. he moved, started, opened his eyes, and exclaimed, "ah, felice!...oh, it's grace. i could not see in the gloom. what--am i in the saddle?" "yes," said she. "how do you come here?" he collected his thoughts, and in a few minutes stammered, "i was riding along homeward through the vale, very, very sleepy, having been up so much of late. when i came opposite holywell spring the mare turned her head that way, as if she wanted to drink. i let her go in, and she drank; i thought she would never finish. while she was drinking, the clock of owlscombe church struck twelve. i distinctly remember counting the strokes. from that moment i positively recollect nothing till i saw you here by my side." "the name! if it had been any other horse he'd have had a broken neck!" murmured melbury. "'tis wonderful, sure, how a quiet hoss will bring a man home at such times!" said john upjohn. "and what's more wonderful than keeping your seat in a deep, slumbering sleep? i've knowed men drowze off walking home from randies where the mead and other liquors have gone round well, and keep walking for more than a mile on end without waking. well, doctor, i don't care who the man is, 'tis a mercy you wasn't a drownded, or a splintered, or a hanged up to a tree like absalom--also a handsome gentleman like yerself, as the prophets say." "true," murmured old timothy. "from the soul of his foot to the crown of his head there was no blemish in him." "or leastwise you might ha' been a-wownded into tatters a'most, and no doctor to jine your few limbs together within seven mile!" while this grim address was proceeding, fitzpiers had dismounted, and taking grace's arm walked stiffly in-doors with her. melbury stood staring at the horse, which, in addition to being very weary, was spattered with mud. there was no mud to speak of about the hintocks just now--only in the clammy hollows of the vale beyond owlscombe, the stiff soil of which retained moisture for weeks after the uplands were dry. while they were rubbing down the mare, melbury's mind coupled with the foreign quality of the mud the name he had heard unconsciously muttered by the surgeon when grace took his hand--"felice." who was felice? why, mrs. charmond; and she, as he knew, was staying at middleton. melbury had indeed pounced upon the image that filled fitzpiers's half-awakened soul--wherein there had been a picture of a recent interview on a lawn with a capriciously passionate woman who had begged him not to come again in tones whose vibration incited him to disobey. "what are you doing here? why do you pursue me? another belongs to you. if they were to see you they would seize you as a thief!" and she had turbulently admitted to his wringing questions that her visit to middleton had been undertaken less because of the invalid relative than in shamefaced fear of her own weakness if she remained near his home. a triumph then it was to fitzpiers, poor and hampered as he had become, to recognize his real conquest of this beauty, delayed so many years. his was the selfish passion of congreve's millamont, to whom love's supreme delight lay in "that heart which others bleed for, bleed for me." when the horse had been attended to melbury stood uneasily here and there about his premises; he was rudely disturbed in the comfortable views which had lately possessed him on his domestic concerns. it is true that he had for some days discerned that grace more and more sought his company, preferred supervising his kitchen and bakehouse with her step-mother to occupying herself with the lighter details of her own apartments. she seemed no longer able to find in her own hearth an adequate focus for her life, and hence, like a weak queen-bee after leading off to an independent home, had hovered again into the parent hive. but he had not construed these and other incidents of the kind till now. something was wrong in the dove-cot. a ghastly sense that he alone would be responsible for whatever unhappiness should be brought upon her for whom he almost solely lived, whom to retain under his roof he had faced the numerous inconveniences involved in giving up the best part of his house to fitzpiers. there was no room for doubt that, had he allowed events to take their natural course, she would have accepted winterborne, and realized his old dream of restitution to that young man's family. that fitzpiers could allow himself to look on any other creature for a moment than grace filled melbury with grief and astonishment. in the pure and simple life he had led it had scarcely occurred to him that after marriage a man might be faithless. that he could sweep to the heights of mrs. charmond's position, lift the veil of isis, so to speak, would have amazed melbury by its audacity if he had not suspected encouragement from that quarter. what could he and his simple grace do to countervail the passions of such as those two sophisticated beings--versed in the world's ways, armed with every apparatus for victory? in such an encounter the homely timber-dealer felt as inferior as a bow-and-arrow savage before the precise weapons of modern warfare. grace came out of the house as the morning drew on. the village was silent, most of the folk having gone to the fair. fitzpiers had retired to bed, and was sleeping off his fatigue. she went to the stable and looked at poor darling: in all probability giles winterborne, by obtaining for her a horse of such intelligence and docility, had been the means of saving her husband's life. she paused over the strange thought; and then there appeared her father behind her. she saw that he knew things were not as they ought to be, from the troubled dulness of his eye, and from his face, different points of which had independent motions, twitchings, and tremblings, unknown to himself, and involuntary. "he was detained, i suppose, last night?" said melbury. "oh yes; a bad case in the vale," she replied, calmly. "nevertheless, he should have stayed at home." "but he couldn't, father." her father turned away. he could hardly bear to see his whilom truthful girl brought to the humiliation of having to talk like that. that night carking care sat beside melbury's pillow, and his stiff limbs tossed at its presence. "i can't lie here any longer," he muttered. striking a light, he wandered about the room. "what have i done--what have i done for her?" he said to his wife, who had anxiously awakened. "i had long planned that she should marry the son of the man i wanted to make amends to; do ye mind how i told you all about it, lucy, the night before she came home? ah! but i was not content with doing right, i wanted to do more!" "don't raft yourself without good need, george," she replied. "i won't quite believe that things are so much amiss. i won't believe that mrs. charmond has encouraged him. even supposing she has encouraged a great many, she can have no motive to do it now. what so likely as that she is not yet quite well, and doesn't care to let another doctor come near her?" he did not heed. "grace used to be so busy every day, with fixing a curtain here and driving a tin-tack there; but she cares for no employment now!" "do you know anything of mrs. charmond's past history? perhaps that would throw some light upon things. before she came here as the wife of old charmond four or five years ago, not a soul seems to have heard aught of her. why not make inquiries? and then do ye wait and see more; there'll be plenty of opportunity. time enough to cry when you know 'tis a crying matter; and 'tis bad to meet troubles half-way." there was some good-sense in the notion of seeing further. melbury resolved to inquire and wait, hoping still, but oppressed between-whiles with much fear. chapter xxx. examine grace as her father might, she would admit nothing. for the present, therefore, he simply watched. the suspicion that his darling child was being slighted wrought almost a miraculous change in melbury's nature. no man so furtive for the time as the ingenuous countryman who finds that his ingenuousness has been abused. melbury's heretofore confidential candor towards his gentlemanly son-in-law was displaced by a feline stealth that did injury to his every action, thought, and mood. he knew that a woman once given to a man for life took, as a rule, her lot as it came and made the best of it, without external interference; but for the first time he asked himself why this so generally should be so. moreover, this case was not, he argued, like ordinary cases. leaving out the question of grace being anything but an ordinary woman, her peculiar situation, as it were in mid-air between two planes of society, together with the loneliness of hintock, made a husband's neglect a far more tragical matter to her than it would be to one who had a large circle of friends to fall back upon. wisely or unwisely, and whatever other fathers did, he resolved to fight his daughter's battle still. mrs. charmond had returned. but hintock house scarcely gave forth signs of life, so quietly had she reentered it. he went to church at great hintock one afternoon as usual, there being no service at the smaller village. a few minutes before his departure, he had casually heard fitzpiers, who was no church-goer, tell his wife that he was going to walk in the wood. melbury entered the building and sat down in his pew; the parson came in, then mrs. charmond, then mr. fitzpiers. the service proceeded, and the jealous father was quite sure that a mutual consciousness was uninterruptedly maintained between those two; he fancied that more than once their eyes met. at the end, fitzpiers so timed his movement into the aisle that it exactly coincided with felice charmond's from the opposite side, and they walked out with their garments in contact, the surgeon being just that two or three inches in her rear which made it convenient for his eyes to rest upon her cheek. the cheek warmed up to a richer tone. this was a worse feature in the flirtation than he had expected. if she had been playing with him in an idle freak the game might soon have wearied her; but the smallest germ of passion--and women of the world do not change color for nothing--was a threatening development. the mere presence of fitzpiers in the building, after his statement, was wellnigh conclusive as far as he was concerned; but melbury resolved yet to watch. he had to wait long. autumn drew shiveringly to its end. one day something seemed to be gone from the gardens; the tenderer leaves of vegetables had shrunk under the first smart frost, and hung like faded linen rags; then the forest leaves, which had been descending at leisure, descended in haste and in multitudes, and all the golden colors that had hung overhead were now crowded together in a degraded mass underfoot, where the fallen myriads got redder and hornier, and curled themselves up to rot. the only suspicious features in mrs. charmond's existence at this season were two: the first, that she lived with no companion or relative about her, which, considering her age and attractions, was somewhat unusual conduct for a young widow in a lonely country-house; the other, that she did not, as in previous years, start from hintock to winter abroad. in fitzpiers, the only change from his last autumn's habits lay in his abandonment of night study--his lamp never shone from his new dwelling as from his old. if the suspected ones met, it was by such adroit contrivances that even melbury's vigilance could not encounter them together. a simple call at her house by the doctor had nothing irregular about it, and that he had paid two or three such calls was certain. what had passed at those interviews was known only to the parties themselves; but that felice charmond was under some one's influence melbury soon had opportunity of perceiving. winter had come on. owls began to be noisy in the mornings and evenings, and flocks of wood-pigeons made themselves prominent again. one day in february, about six months after the marriage of fitzpiers, melbury was returning from great hintock on foot through the lane, when he saw before him the surgeon also walking. melbury would have overtaken him, but at that moment fitzpiers turned in through a gate to one of the rambling drives among the trees at this side of the wood, which led to nowhere in particular, and the beauty of whose serpentine curves was the only justification of their existence. felice almost simultaneously trotted down the lane towards the timber-dealer, in a little basket-carriage which she sometimes drove about the estate, unaccompanied by a servant. she turned in at the same place without having seen either melbury or apparently fitzpiers. melbury was soon at the spot, despite his aches and his sixty years. mrs. charmond had come up with the doctor, who was standing immediately behind the carriage. she had turned to him, her arm being thrown carelessly over the back of the seat. they looked in each other's faces without uttering a word, an arch yet gloomy smile wreathing her lips. fitzpiers clasped her hanging hand, and, while she still remained in the same listless attitude, looking volumes into his eyes, he stealthily unbuttoned her glove, and stripped her hand of it by rolling back the gauntlet over the fingers, so that it came off inside out. he then raised her hand to his month, she still reclining passively, watching him as she might have watched a fly upon her dress. at last she said, "well, sir, what excuse for this disobedience?" "i make none." "then go your way, and let me go mine." she snatched away her hand, touched the pony with the whip, and left him standing there, holding the reversed glove. melbury's first impulse was to reveal his presence to fitzpiers, and upbraid him bitterly. but a moment's thought was sufficient to show him the futility of any such simple proceeding. there was not, after all, so much in what he had witnessed as in what that scene might be the surface and froth of--probably a state of mind on which censure operates as an aggravation rather than as a cure. moreover, he said to himself that the point of attack should be the woman, if either. he therefore kept out of sight, and musing sadly, even tearfully--for he was meek as a child in matters concerning his daughter--continued his way towards hintock. the insight which is bred of deep sympathy was never more finely exemplified than in this instance. through her guarded manner, her dignified speech, her placid countenance, he discerned the interior of grace's life only too truly, hidden as were its incidents from every outer eye. these incidents had become painful enough. fitzpiers had latterly developed an irritable discontent which vented itself in monologues when grace was present to hear them. the early morning of this day had been dull, after a night of wind, and on looking out of the window fitzpiers had observed some of melbury's men dragging away a large limb which had been snapped off a beech-tree. everything was cold and colorless. "my good heaven!" he said, as he stood in his dressing-gown. "this is life!" he did not know whether grace was awake or not, and he would not turn his head to ascertain. "ah, fool," he went on to himself, "to clip your own wings when you were free to soar!...but i could not rest till i had done it. why do i never recognize an opportunity till i have missed it, nor the good or ill of a step till it is irrevocable!...i fell in love....love, indeed!-- "'love's but the frailty of the mind when 'tis not with ambition joined; a sickly flame which if not fed, expires, and feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires!' ah, old author of 'the way of the world,' you knew--you knew!" grace moved. he thought she had heard some part of his soliloquy. he was sorry--though he had not taken any precaution to prevent her. he expected a scene at breakfast, but she only exhibited an extreme reserve. it was enough, however, to make him repent that he should have done anything to produce discomfort; for he attributed her manner entirely to what he had said. but grace's manner had not its cause either in his sayings or in his doings. she had not heard a single word of his regrets. something even nearer home than her husband's blighted prospects--if blighted they were--was the origin of her mood, a mood that was the mere continuation of what her father had noticed when he would have preferred a passionate jealousy in her, as the more natural. she had made a discovery--one which to a girl of honest nature was almost appalling. she had looked into her heart, and found that her early interest in giles winterborne had become revitalized into luxuriant growth by her widening perceptions of what was great and little in life. his homeliness no longer offended her acquired tastes; his comparative want of so-called culture did not now jar on her intellect; his country dress even pleased her eye; his exterior roughness fascinated her. having discovered by marriage how much that was humanly not great could co-exist with attainments of an exceptional order, there was a revulsion in her sentiments from all that she had formerly clung to in this kind: honesty, goodness, manliness, tenderness, devotion, for her only existed in their purity now in the breasts of unvarnished men; and here was one who had manifested them towards her from his youth up. there was, further, that never-ceasing pity in her soul for giles as a man whom she had wronged--a man who had been unfortunate in his worldly transactions; while, not without a touch of sublimity, he had, like horatio, borne himself throughout his scathing "as one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing." it was these perceptions, and no subtle catching of her husband's murmurs, that had bred the abstraction visible in her. when her father approached the house after witnessing the interview between fitzpiers and mrs. charmond, grace was looking out of her sitting-room window, as if she had nothing to do, or think of, or care for. he stood still. "ah, grace," he said, regarding her fixedly. "yes, father," she murmured. "waiting for your dear husband?" he inquired, speaking with the sarcasm of pitiful affection. "oh no--not especially. he has a great many patients to see this afternoon." melbury came quite close. "grace, what's the use of talking like that, when you know--here, come down and walk with me out in the garden, child." he unfastened the door in the ivy-laced wall, and waited. this apparent indifference alarmed him. he would far rather that she had rushed in all the fire of jealousy to hintock house, regardless of conventionality, confronted and attacked felice charmond _unguibus et rostro_, and accused her even in exaggerated shape of stealing away her husband. such a storm might have cleared the air. she emerged in a minute or two, and they went inside together. "you know as well as i do," he resumed, "that there is something threatening mischief to your life; and yet you pretend you do not. do you suppose i don't see the trouble in your face every day? i am very sure that this quietude is wrong conduct in you. you should look more into matters." "i am quiet because my sadness is not of a nature to stir me to action." melbury wanted to ask her a dozen questions--did she not feel jealous? was she not indignant? but a natural delicacy restrained him. "you are very tame and let-alone, i am bound to say," he remarked, pointedly. "i am what i feel, father," she repeated. he glanced at her, and there returned upon his mind the scene of her offering to wed winterborne instead of fitzpiers in the last days before her marriage; and he asked himself if it could be the fact that she loved winterborne, now that she had lost him, more than she had ever done when she was comparatively free to choose him. "what would you have me do?" she asked, in a low voice. he recalled his mind from the retrospective pain to the practical matter before them. "i would have you go to mrs. charmond," he said. "go to mrs. charmond--what for?" said she. "well--if i must speak plain, dear grace--to ask her, appeal to her in the name of your common womanhood, and your many like sentiments on things, not to make unhappiness between you and your husband. it lies with her entirely to do one or the other--that i can see." grace's face had heated at her father's words, and the very rustle of her skirts upon the box-edging bespoke hauteur. "i shall not think of going to her, father--of course i could not!" she answered. "why--don't 'ee want to be happier than you be at present?" said melbury, more moved on her account than she was herself. "i don't wish to be more humiliated. if i have anything to bear i can bear it in silence." "but, my dear maid, you are too young--you don't know what the present state of things may lead to. just see the harm done a'ready! your husband would have gone away to budmouth to a bigger practice if it had not been for this. although it has gone such a little way, it is poisoning your future even now. mrs. charmond is thoughtlessly bad, not bad by calculation; and just a word to her now might save 'ee a peck of woes." "ah, i loved her once," said grace, with a broken articulation, "and she would not care for me then! now i no longer love her. let her do her worst: i don't care." "you ought to care. you have got into a very good position to start with. you have been well educated, well tended, and you have become the wife of a professional man of unusually good family. surely you ought to make the best of your position." "i don't see that i ought. i wish i had never got into it. i wish you had never, never thought of educating me. i wish i worked in the woods like marty south. i hate genteel life, and i want to be no better than she." "why?" said her amazed father. "because cultivation has only brought me inconveniences and troubles. i say again, i wish you had never sent me to those fashionable schools you set your mind on. it all arose out of that, father. if i had stayed at home i should have married--" she closed up her mouth suddenly and was silent; and he saw that she was not far from crying. melbury was much grieved. "what, and would you like to have grown up as we be here in hintock--knowing no more, and with no more chance of seeing good life than we have here?" "yes. i have never got any happiness outside hintock that i know of, and i have suffered many a heartache at being sent away. oh, the misery of those january days when i had got back to school, and left you all here in the wood so happy. i used to wonder why i had to bear it. and i was always a little despised by the other girls at school, because they knew where i came from, and that my parents were not in so good a station as theirs." her poor father was much hurt at what he thought her ingratitude and intractability. he had admitted to himself bitterly enough that he should have let young hearts have their way, or rather should have helped on her affection for winterborne, and given her to him according to his original plan; but he was not prepared for her deprecation of those attainments whose completion had been a labor of years, and a severe tax upon his purse. "very well," he said, with much heaviness of spirit. "if you don't like to go to her i don't wish to force you." and so the question remained for him still: how should he remedy this perilous state of things? for days he sat in a moody attitude over the fire, a pitcher of cider standing on the hearth beside him, and his drinking-horn inverted upon the top of it. he spent a week and more thus composing a letter to the chief offender, which he would every now and then attempt to complete, and suddenly crumple up in his hand. chapter xxxi. as february merged in march, and lighter evenings broke the gloom of the woodmen's homeward journey, the hintocks great and little began to have ears for a rumor of the events out of which had grown the timber-dealer's troubles. it took the form of a wide sprinkling of conjecture, wherein no man knew the exact truth. tantalizing phenomena, at once showing and concealing the real relationship of the persons concerned, caused a diffusion of excited surprise. honest people as the woodlanders were, it was hardly to be expected that they could remain immersed in the study of their trees and gardens amid such circumstances, or sit with their backs turned like the good burghers of coventry at the passage of the beautiful lady. rumor, for a wonder, exaggerated little. there were, in fact, in this case as in thousands, the well-worn incidents, old as the hills, which, with individual variations, made a mourner of ariadne, a by-word of vashti, and a corpse of the countess amy. there were rencounters accidental and contrived, stealthy correspondence, sudden misgivings on one side, sudden self-reproaches on the other. the inner state of the twain was one as of confused noise that would not allow the accents of calmer reason to be heard. determinations to go in this direction, and headlong plunges in that; dignified safeguards, undignified collapses; not a single rash step by deliberate intention, and all against judgment. it was all that melbury had expected and feared. it was more, for he had overlooked the publicity that would be likely to result, as it now had done. what should he do--appeal to mrs. charmond himself, since grace would not? he bethought himself of winterborne, and resolved to consult him, feeling the strong need of some friend of his own sex to whom he might unburden his mind. he had entirely lost faith in his own judgment. that judgment on which he had relied for so many years seemed recently, like a false companion unmasked, to have disclosed unexpected depths of hypocrisy and speciousness where all had seemed solidity. he felt almost afraid to form a conjecture on the weather, or the time, or the fruit-promise, so great was his self-abasement. it was a rimy evening when he set out to look for giles. the woods seemed to be in a cold sweat; beads of perspiration hung from every bare twig; the sky had no color, and the trees rose before him as haggard, gray phantoms, whose days of substantiality were passed. melbury seldom saw winterborne now, but he believed him to be occupying a lonely hut just beyond the boundary of mrs. charmond's estate, though still within the circuit of the woodland. the timber-merchant's thin legs stalked on through the pale, damp scenery, his eyes on the dead leaves of last year; while every now and then a hasty "ay?" escaped his lips in reply to some bitter proposition. his notice was attracted by a thin blue haze of smoke, behind which arose sounds of voices and chopping: bending his steps that way, he saw winterborne just in front of him. it just now happened that giles, after being for a long time apathetic and unemployed, had become one of the busiest men in the neighborhood. it is often thus; fallen friends, lost sight of, we expect to find starving; we discover them going on fairly well. without any solicitation, or desire for profit on his part, he had been asked to execute during that winter a very large order for hurdles and other copse-ware, for which purpose he had been obliged to buy several acres of brushwood standing. he was now engaged in the cutting and manufacture of the same, proceeding with the work daily like an automaton. the hazel-tree did not belie its name to-day. the whole of the copse-wood where the mist had cleared returned purest tints of that hue, amid which winterborne himself was in the act of making a hurdle, the stakes being driven firmly into the ground in a row, over which he bent and wove the twigs. beside him was a square, compact pile like the altar of cain, formed of hurdles already finished, which bristled on all sides with the sharp points of their stakes. at a little distance the men in his employ were assisting him to carry out his contract. rows of copse-wood lay on the ground as it had fallen under the axe; and a shelter had been constructed near at hand, in front of which burned the fire whose smoke had attracted him. the air was so dank that the smoke hung heavy, and crept away amid the bushes without rising from the ground. after wistfully regarding winterborne a while, melbury drew nearer, and briefly inquired of giles how he came to be so busily engaged, with an undertone of slight surprise that winterborne could seem so thriving after being deprived of grace. melbury was not without emotion at the meeting; for grace's affairs had divided them, and ended their intimacy of old times. winterborne explained just as briefly, without raising his eyes from his occupation of chopping a bough that he held in front of him. "'twill be up in april before you get it all cleared," said melbury. "yes, there or thereabouts," said winterborne, a chop of the billhook jerking the last word into two pieces. there was another interval; melbury still looked on, a chip from winterborne's hook occasionally flying against the waistcoat and legs of his visitor, who took no heed. "ah, giles--you should have been my partner. you should have been my son-in-law," the old man said at last. "it would have been far better for her and for me." winterborne saw that something had gone wrong with his former friend, and throwing down the switch he was about to interweave, he responded only too readily to the mood of the timber-dealer. "is she ill?" he said, hurriedly. "no, no." melbury stood without speaking for some minutes, and then, as though he could not bring himself to proceed, turned to go away. winterborne told one of his men to pack up the tools for the night and walked after melbury. "heaven forbid that i should seem too inquisitive, sir," he said, "especially since we don't stand as we used to stand to one another; but i hope it is well with them all over your way?" "no," said melbury--"no." he stopped, and struck the smooth trunk of a young ash-tree with the flat of his hand. "i would that his ear had been where that rind is!" he exclaimed; "i should have treated him to little compared wi what he deserves." "now," said winterborne, "don't be in a hurry to go home. i've put some cider down to warm in my shelter here, and we'll sit and drink it and talk this over." melbury turned unresistingly as giles took his arm, and they went back to where the fire was, and sat down under the screen, the other woodmen having gone. he drew out the cider-mug from the ashes and they drank together. "giles, you ought to have had her, as i said just now," repeated melbury. "i'll tell you why for the first time." he thereupon told winterborne, as with great relief, the story of how he won away giles's father's chosen one--by nothing worse than a lover's cajoleries, it is true, but by means which, except in love, would certainly have been pronounced cruel and unfair. he explained how he had always intended to make reparation to winterborne the father by giving grace to winterborne the son, till the devil tempted him in the person of fitzpiers, and he broke his virtuous vow. "how highly i thought of that man, to be sure! who'd have supposed he'd have been so weak and wrong-headed as this! you ought to have had her, giles, and there's an end on't." winterborne knew how to preserve his calm under this unconsciously cruel tearing of a healing wound to which melbury's concentration on the more vital subject had blinded him. the young man endeavored to make the best of the case for grace's sake. "she would hardly have been happy with me," he said, in the dry, unimpassioned voice under which he hid his feelings. "i was not well enough educated: too rough, in short. i couldn't have surrounded her with the refinements she looked for, anyhow, at all." "nonsense--you are quite wrong there," said the unwise old man, doggedly. "she told me only this day that she hates refinements and such like. all that my trouble and money bought for her in that way is thrown away upon her quite. she'd fain be like marty south--think o' that! that's the top of her ambition! perhaps she's right. giles, she loved you--under the rind; and, what's more, she loves ye still--worse luck for the poor maid!" if melbury only had known what fires he was recklessly stirring up he might have held his peace. winterborne was silent a long time. the darkness had closed in round them, and the monotonous drip of the fog from the branches quickened as it turned to fine rain. "oh, she never cared much for me," giles managed to say, as he stirred the embers with a brand. "she did, and does, i tell ye," said the other, obstinately. "however, all that's vain talking now. what i come to ask you about is a more practical matter--how to make the best of things as they are. i am thinking of a desperate step--of calling on the woman charmond. i am going to appeal to her, since grace will not. 'tis she who holds the balance in her hands--not he. while she's got the will to lead him astray he will follow--poor, unpractical, lofty-notioned dreamer--and how long she'll do it depends upon her whim. did ye ever hear anything about her character before she came to hintock?" "she's been a bit of a charmer in her time, i believe," replied giles, with the same level quietude, as he regarded the red coals. "one who has smiled where she has not loved and loved where she has not married. before mr. charmond made her his wife she was a play-actress." "hey? but how close you have kept all this, giles! what besides?" "mr. charmond was a rich man, engaged in the iron trade in the north, twenty or thirty years older than she. he married her and retired, and came down here and bought this property, as they do nowadays." "yes, yes--i know all about that; but the other i did not know. i fear it bodes no good. for how can i go and appeal to the forbearance of a woman in this matter who has made cross-loves and crooked entanglements her trade for years? i thank ye, giles, for finding it out; but it makes my plan the harder that she should have belonged to that unstable tribe." another pause ensued, and they looked gloomily at the smoke that beat about the hurdles which sheltered them, through whose weavings a large drop of rain fell at intervals and spat smartly into the fire. mrs. charmond had been no friend to winterborne, but he was manly, and it was not in his heart to let her be condemned without a trial. "she is said to be generous," he answered. "you might not appeal to her in vain." "it shall be done," said melbury, rising. "for good or for evil, to mrs. charmond i'll go." chapter xxxii. at nine o'clock the next morning melbury dressed himself up in shining broadcloth, creased with folding and smelling of camphor, and started for hintock house. he was the more impelled to go at once by the absence of his son-in-law in london for a few days, to attend, really or ostensibly, some professional meetings. he said nothing of his destination either to his wife or to grace, fearing that they might entreat him to abandon so risky a project, and went out unobserved. he had chosen his time with a view, as he supposed, of conveniently catching mrs. charmond when she had just finished her breakfast, before any other business people should be about, if any came. plodding thoughtfully onward, he crossed a glade lying between little hintock woods and the plantation which abutted on the park; and the spot being open, he was discerned there by winterborne from the copse on the next hill, where he and his men were working. knowing his mission, the younger man hastened down from the copse and managed to intercept the timber-merchant. "i have been thinking of this, sir," he said, "and i am of opinion that it would be best to put off your visit for the present." but melbury would not even stop to hear him. his mind was made up, the appeal was to be made; and winterborne stood and watched him sadly till he entered the second plantation and disappeared. melbury rang at the tradesmen's door of the manor-house, and was at once informed that the lady was not yet visible, as indeed he might have guessed had he been anybody but the man he was. melbury said he would wait, whereupon the young man informed him in a neighborly way that, between themselves, she was in bed and asleep. "never mind," said melbury, retreating into the court, "i'll stand about here." charged so fully with his mission, he shrank from contact with anybody. but he walked about the paved court till he was tired, and still nobody came to him. at last he entered the house and sat down in a small waiting-room, from which he got glimpses of the kitchen corridor, and of the white-capped maids flitting jauntily hither and thither. they had heard of his arrival, but had not seen him enter, and, imagining him still in the court, discussed freely the possible reason of his calling. they marvelled at his temerity; for though most of the tongues which had been let loose attributed the chief blame-worthiness to fitzpiers, these of her household preferred to regard their mistress as the deeper sinner. melbury sat with his hands resting on the familiar knobbed thorn walking-stick, whose growing he had seen before he enjoyed its use. the scene to him was not the material environment of his person, but a tragic vision that travelled with him like an envelope. through this vision the incidents of the moment but gleamed confusedly here and there, as an outer landscape through the high-colored scenes of a stained window. he waited thus an hour, an hour and a half, two hours. he began to look pale and ill, whereupon the butler, who came in, asked him to have a glass of wine. melbury roused himself and said, "no, no. is she almost ready?" "she is just finishing breakfast," said the butler. "she will soon see you now. i am just going up to tell her you are here." "what! haven't you told her before?" said melbury. "oh no," said the other. "you see you came so very early." at last the bell rang: mrs. charmond could see him. she was not in her private sitting-room when he reached it, but in a minute he heard her coming from the front staircase, and she entered where he stood. at this time of the morning mrs. charmond looked her full age and more. she might almost have been taken for the typical femme de trente ans, though she was really not more than seven or eight and twenty. there being no fire in the room, she came in with a shawl thrown loosely round her shoulders, and obviously without the least suspicion that melbury had called upon any other errand than timber. felice was, indeed, the only woman in the parish who had not heard the rumor of her own weaknesses; she was at this moment living in a fool's paradise in respect of that rumor, though not in respect of the weaknesses themselves, which, if the truth be told, caused her grave misgivings. "do sit down, mr. melbury. you have felled all the trees that were to be purchased by you this season, except the oaks, i believe." "yes," said melbury. "how very nice! it must be so charming to work in the woods just now!" she was too careless to affect an interest in an extraneous person's affairs so consummately as to deceive in the manner of the perfect social machine. hence her words "very nice," "so charming," were uttered with a perfunctoriness that made them sound absurdly unreal. "yes, yes," said melbury, in a reverie. he did not take a chair, and she also remained standing. resting upon his stick, he began: "mrs. charmond, i have called upon a more serious matter--at least to me--than tree-throwing. and whatever mistakes i make in my manner of speaking upon it to you, madam, do me the justice to set 'em down to my want of practice, and not to my want of care." mrs. charmond looked ill at ease. she might have begun to guess his meaning; but apart from that, she had such dread of contact with anything painful, harsh, or even earnest, that his preliminaries alone were enough to distress her. "yes, what is it?" she said. "i am an old man," said melbury, "whom, somewhat late in life, god thought fit to bless with one child, and she a daughter. her mother was a very dear wife to me, but she was taken away from us when the child was young, and the child became precious as the apple of my eye to me, for she was all i had left to love. for her sake entirely i married as second wife a homespun woman who had been kind as a mother to her. in due time the question of her education came on, and i said, 'i will educate the maid well, if i live upon bread to do it.' of her possible marriage i could not bear to think, for it seemed like a death that she should cleave to another man, and grow to think his house her home rather than mine. but i saw it was the law of nature that this should be, and that it was for the maid's happiness that she should have a home when i was gone; and i made up my mind without a murmur to help it on for her sake. in my youth i had wronged my dead friend, and to make amends i determined to give her, my most precious possession, to my friend's son, seeing that they liked each other well. things came about which made me doubt if it would be for my daughter's happiness to do this, inasmuch as the young man was poor, and she was delicately reared. another man came and paid court to her--one her equal in breeding and accomplishments; in every way it seemed to me that he only could give her the home which her training had made a necessity almost. i urged her on, and she married him. but, ma'am, a fatal mistake was at the root of my reckoning. i found that this well-born gentleman i had calculated on so surely was not stanch of heart, and that therein lay a danger of great sorrow for my daughter. madam, he saw you, and you know the rest....i have come to make no demands--to utter no threats; i have come simply as a father in great grief about this only child, and i beseech you to deal kindly with my daughter, and to do nothing which can turn her husband's heart away from her forever. forbid him your presence, ma'am, and speak to him on his duty as one with your power over him well can do, and i am hopeful that the rent between them may be patched up. for it is not as if you would lose by so doing; your course is far higher than the courses of a simple professional man, and the gratitude you would win from me and mine by your kindness is more than i can say." mrs. charmond had first rushed into a mood of indignation on comprehending melbury's story; hot and cold by turns, she had murmured, "leave me, leave me!" but as he seemed to take no notice of this, his words began to influence her, and when he ceased speaking she said, with hurried, hot breath, "what has led you to think this of me? who says i have won your daughter's husband away from her? some monstrous calumnies are afloat--of which i have known nothing until now!" melbury started, and looked at her simply. "but surely, ma'am, you know the truth better than i?" her features became a little pinched, and the touches of powder on her handsome face for the first time showed themselves as an extrinsic film. "will you leave me to myself?" she said, with a faintness which suggested a guilty conscience. "this is so utterly unexpected--you obtain admission to my presence by misrepresentation--" "as god's in heaven, ma'am, that's not true. i made no pretence; and i thought in reason you would know why i had come. this gossip--" "i have heard nothing of it. tell me of it, i say." "tell you, ma'am--not i. what the gossip is, no matter. what really is, you know. set facts right, and the scandal will right of itself. but pardon me--i speak roughly; and i came to speak gently, to coax you, beg you to be my daughter's friend. she loved you once, ma'am; you began by liking her. then you dropped her without a reason, and it hurt her warm heart more than i can tell ye. but you were within your right as the superior, no doubt. but if you would consider her position now--surely, surely, you would do her no harm!" "certainly i would do her no harm--i--" melbury's eye met hers. it was curious, but the allusion to grace's former love for her seemed to touch her more than all melbury's other arguments. "oh, melbury," she burst out, "you have made me so unhappy! how could you come to me like this! it is too dreadful! now go away--go, go!" "i will," he said, in a husky tone. as soon as he was out of the room she went to a corner and there sat and writhed under an emotion in which hurt pride and vexation mingled with better sentiments. mrs. charmond's mobile spirit was subject to these fierce periods of stress and storm. she had never so clearly perceived till now that her soul was being slowly invaded by a delirium which had brought about all this; that she was losing judgment and dignity under it, becoming an animated impulse only, a passion incarnate. a fascination had led her on; it was as if she had been seized by a hand of velvet; and this was where she found herself--overshadowed with sudden night, as if a tornado had passed by. while she sat, or rather crouched, unhinged by the interview, lunch-time came, and then the early afternoon, almost without her consciousness. then "a strange gentleman who says it is not necessary to give his name," was suddenly announced. "i cannot see him, whoever he may be. i am not at home to anybody." she heard no more of her visitor; and shortly after, in an attempt to recover some mental serenity by violent physical exercise, she put on her hat and cloak and went out-of-doors, taking a path which led her up the slopes to the nearest spur of the wood. she disliked the woods, but they had the advantage of being a place in which she could walk comparatively unobserved. chapter xxxiii. there was agitation to-day in the lives of all whom these matters concerned. it was not till the hintock dinner-time--one o'clock--that grace discovered her father's absence from the house after a departure in the morning under somewhat unusual conditions. by a little reasoning and inquiry she was able to come to a conclusion on his destination, and to divine his errand. her husband was absent, and her father did not return. he had, in truth, gone on to sherton after the interview, but this grace did not know. in an indefinite dread that something serious would arise out of melbury's visit by reason of the inequalities of temper and nervous irritation to which he was subject, something possibly that would bring her much more misery than accompanied her present negative state of mind, she left the house about three o'clock, and took a loitering walk in the woodland track by which she imagined he would come home. this track under the bare trees and over the cracking sticks, screened and roofed in from the outer world of wind and cloud by a net-work of boughs, led her slowly on till in time she had left the larger trees behind her and swept round into the coppice where winterborne and his men were clearing the undergrowth. had giles's attention been concentrated on his hurdles he would not have seen her; but ever since melbury's passage across the opposite glade in the morning he had been as uneasy and unsettled as grace herself; and her advent now was the one appearance which, since her father's avowal, could arrest him more than melbury's return with his tidings. fearing that something might be the matter, he hastened up to her. she had not seen her old lover for a long time, and, too conscious of the late pranks of her heart, she could not behold him calmly. "i am only looking for my father," she said, in an unnecessarily apologetic intonation. "i was looking for him too," said giles. "i think he may perhaps have gone on farther." "then you knew he was going to the house, giles?" she said, turning her large tender eyes anxiously upon him. "did he tell you what for?" winterborne glanced doubtingly at her, and then softly hinted that her father had visited him the evening before, and that their old friendship was quite restored, on which she guessed the rest. "oh, i am glad, indeed, that you two are friends again!" she cried. and then they stood facing each other, fearing each other, troubling each other's souls. grace experienced acute misery at the sight of these wood-cutting scenes, because she had estranged herself from them, craving, even to its defects and inconveniences, that homely sylvan life of her father which in the best probable succession of events would shortly be denied her. at a little distance, on the edge of the clearing, marty south was shaping spar-gads to take home for manufacture during the evenings. while winterborne and mrs. fitzpiers stood looking at her in their mutual embarrassment at each other's presence, they beheld approaching the girl a lady in a dark fur mantle and a black hat, having a white veil tied picturesquely round it. she spoke to marty, who turned and courtesied, and the lady fell into conversation with her. it was mrs. charmond. on leaving her house, mrs. charmond had walked on and onward under the fret and fever of her mind with more vigor than she was accustomed to show in her normal moods--a fever which the solace of a cigarette did not entirely allay. reaching the coppice, she listlessly observed marty at work, threw away her cigarette, and came near. chop, chop, chop, went marty's little billhook with never more assiduity, till mrs. charmond spoke. "who is that young lady i see talking to the woodman yonder?" she asked. "mrs. fitzpiers, ma'am," said marty. "oh," said mrs. charmond, with something like a start; for she had not recognized grace at that distance. "and the man she is talking to?" "that's mr. winterborne." a redness stole into marty's face as she mentioned giles's name, which mrs. charmond did not fail to notice informed her of the state of the girl's heart. "are you engaged to him?" she asked, softly. "no, ma'am," said marty. "she was once; and i think--" but marty could not possibly explain the complications of her thoughts on this matter--which were nothing less than one of extraordinary acuteness for a girl so young and inexperienced--namely, that she saw danger to two hearts naturally honest in grace being thrown back into winterborne's society by the neglect of her husband. mrs. charmond, however, with the almost supersensory means to knowledge which women have on such occasions, quite understood what marty had intended to convey, and the picture thus exhibited to her of lives drifting away, involving the wreck of poor marty's hopes, prompted her to more generous resolves than all melbury's remonstrances had been able to stimulate. full of the new feeling, she bade the girl good-afternoon, and went on over the stumps of hazel to where grace and winterborne were standing. they saw her approach, and winterborne said, "she is coming to you; it is a good omen. she dislikes me, so i'll go away." he accordingly retreated to where he had been working before grace came, and grace's formidable rival approached her, each woman taking the other's measure as she came near. "dear--mrs. fitzpiers," said felice charmond, with some inward turmoil which stopped her speech. "i have not seen you for a long time." she held out her hand tentatively, while grace stood like a wild animal on first confronting a mirror or other puzzling product of civilization. was it really mrs. charmond speaking to her thus? if it was, she could no longer form any guess as to what it signified. "i want to talk with you," said mrs. charmond, imploringly, for the gaze of the young woman had chilled her through. "can you walk on with me till we are quite alone?" sick with distaste, grace nevertheless complied, as by clockwork and they moved evenly side by side into the deeper recesses of the woods. they went farther, much farther than mrs. charmond had meant to go; but she could not begin her conversation, and in default of it kept walking. "i have seen your father," she at length resumed. "and--i am much troubled by what he told me." "what did he tell you? i have not been admitted to his confidence on anything he may have said to you." "nevertheless, why should i repeat to you what you can easily divine?" "true--true," returned grace, mournfully. "why should you repeat what we both know to be in our minds already?" "mrs. fitzpiers, your husband--" the moment that the speaker's tongue touched the dangerous subject a vivid look of self-consciousness flashed over her, in which her heart revealed, as by a lightning gleam, what filled it to overflowing. so transitory was the expression that none but a sensitive woman, and she in grace's position, would have had the power to catch its meaning. upon her the phase was not lost. "then you do love him!" she exclaimed, in a tone of much surprise. "what do you mean, my young friend?" "why," cried grace, "i thought till now that you had only been cruelly flirting with my husband, to amuse your idle moments--a rich lady with a poor professional gentleman whom in her heart she despised not much less than her who belongs to him. but i guess from your manner that you love him desperately, and i don't hate you as i did before." "yes, indeed," continued mrs. fitzpiers, with a trembling tongue, "since it is not playing in your case at all, but real. oh, i do pity you, more than i despise you, for you will s-s-suffer most!" mrs. charmond was now as much agitated as grace. "i ought not to allow myself to argue with you," she exclaimed. "i demean myself by doing it. but i liked you once, and for the sake of that time i try to tell you how mistaken you are!" much of her confusion resulted from her wonder and alarm at finding herself in a sense dominated mentally and emotionally by this simple school-girl. "i do not love him," she went on, with desperate untruth. "it was a kindness--my making somewhat more of him than one usually does of one's doctor. i was lonely; i talked--well, i trifled with him. i am very sorry if such child's playing out of pure friendship has been a serious matter to you. who could have expected it? but the world is so simple here." "oh, that's affectation," said grace, shaking her head. "it is no use--you love him. i can see in your face that in this matter of my husband you have not let your acts belie your feelings. during these last four or six months you have been terribly indiscreet; but you have not been insincere, and that almost disarms me." "i have been insincere--if you will have the word--i mean i have coquetted, and do not love him!" but grace clung to her position like a limpet. "you may have trifled with others, but him you love as you never loved another man." "oh, well--i won't argue," said mrs. charmond, laughing faintly. "and you come to reproach me for it, child." "no," said grace, magnanimously. "you may go on loving him if you like--i don't mind at all. you'll find it, let me tell you, a bitterer business for yourself than for me in the end. he'll get tired of you soon, as tired as can be--you don't know him so well as i--and then you may wish you had never seen him!" mrs. charmond had grown quite pale and weak under this prophecy. it was extraordinary that grace, whom almost every one would have characterized as a gentle girl, should be of stronger fibre than her interlocutor. "you exaggerate--cruel, silly young woman," she reiterated, writhing with little agonies. "it is nothing but playful friendship--nothing! it will be proved by my future conduct. i shall at once refuse to see him more--since it will make no difference to my heart, and much to my name." "i question if you will refuse to see him again," said grace, dryly, as with eyes askance she bent a sapling down. "but i am not incensed against you as you are against me," she added, abandoning the tree to its natural perpendicular. "before i came i had been despising you for wanton cruelty; now i only pity you for misplaced affection. when edgar has gone out of the house in hope of seeing you, at seasonable hours and unseasonable; when i have found him riding miles and miles across the country at midnight, and risking his life, and getting covered with mud, to get a glimpse of you, i have called him a foolish man--the plaything of a finished coquette. i thought that what was getting to be a tragedy to me was a comedy to you. but now i see that tragedy lies on your side of the situation no less than on mine, and more; that if i have felt trouble at my position, you have felt anguish at yours; that if i have had disappointments, you have had despairs. heaven may fortify me--god help you!" "i cannot attempt to reply to your raving eloquence," returned the other, struggling to restore a dignity which had completely collapsed. "my acts will be my proofs. in the world which you have seen nothing of, friendships between men and women are not unknown, and it would have been better both for you and your father if you had each judged me more respectfully, and left me alone. as it is i wish never to see or speak to you, madam, any more." grace bowed, and mrs. charmond turned away. the two went apart in directly opposite courses, and were soon hidden from each other by their umbrageous surroundings and by the shadows of eve. in the excitement of their long argument they had walked onward and zigzagged about without regarding direction or distance. all sound of the woodcutters had long since faded into remoteness, and even had not the interval been too great for hearing them they would have been silent and homeward bound at this twilight hour. but grace went on her course without any misgiving, though there was much underwood here, with only the narrowest passages for walking, across which brambles hung. she had not, however, traversed this the wildest part of the wood since her childhood, and the transformation of outlines had been great; old trees which once were landmarks had been felled or blown down, and the bushes which then had been small and scrubby were now large and overhanging. she soon found that her ideas as to direction were vague--that she had indeed no ideas as to direction at all. if the evening had not been growing so dark, and the wind had not put on its night moan so distinctly, grace would not have minded; but she was rather frightened now, and began to strike across hither and thither in random courses. denser grew the darkness, more developed the wind-voices, and still no recognizable spot or outlet of any kind appeared, nor any sound of the hintocks floated near, though she had wandered probably between one and two hours, and began to be weary. she was vexed at her foolishness, since the ground she had covered, if in a straight line, must inevitably have taken her out of the wood to some remote village or other; but she had wasted her forces in countermarches; and now, in much alarm, wondered if she would have to pass the night here. she stood still to meditate, and fancied that between the soughing of the wind she heard shuffling footsteps on the leaves heavier than those of rabbits or hares. though fearing at first to meet anybody on the chance of his being a friend, she decided that the fellow night-rambler, even if a poacher, would not injure her, and that he might possibly be some one sent to search for her. she accordingly shouted a rather timid "hoi!" the cry was immediately returned by the other person; and grace running at once in the direction whence it came beheld an indistinct figure hastening up to her as rapidly. they were almost in each other's arms when she recognized in her vis-a-vis the outline and white veil of her whom she had parted from an hour and a half before--mrs. charmond. "i have lost my way, i have lost my way," cried that lady. "oh--is it indeed you? i am so glad to meet you or anybody. i have been wandering up and down ever since we parted, and am nearly dead with terror and misery and fatigue!" "so am i," said grace. "what shall we, shall we do?" "you won't go away from me?" asked her companion, anxiously. "no, indeed. are you very tired?" "i can scarcely move, and i am scratched dreadfully about the ankles." grace reflected. "perhaps, as it is dry under foot, the best thing for us to do would be to sit down for half an hour, and then start again when we have thoroughly rested. by walking straight we must come to a track leading somewhere before the morning." they found a clump of bushy hollies which afforded a shelter from the wind, and sat down under it, some tufts of dead fern, crisp and dry, that remained from the previous season forming a sort of nest for them. but it was cold, nevertheless, on this march night, particularly for grace, who with the sanguine prematureness of youth in matters of dress, had considered it spring-time, and hence was not so warmly clad as mrs. charmond, who still wore her winter fur. but after sitting a while the latter lady shivered no less than grace as the warmth imparted by her hasty walking began to go off, and they felt the cold air drawing through the holly leaves which scratched their backs and shoulders. moreover, they could hear some drops of rain falling on the trees, though none reached the nook in which they had ensconced themselves. "if we were to cling close together," said mrs. charmond, "we should keep each other warm. but," she added, in an uneven voice, "i suppose you won't come near me for the world!" "why not?" "because--well, you know." "yes. i will--i don't hate you at all." they consequently crept up to one another, and being in the dark, lonely and weary, did what neither had dreamed of doing beforehand, clasped each other closely, mrs. charmond's furs consoling grace's cold face, and each one's body as she breathed alternately heaving against that of her companion. when a few minutes had been spent thus, mrs. charmond said, "i am so wretched!" in a heavy, emotional whisper. "you are frightened," said grace, kindly. "but there is nothing to fear; i know these woods well." "i am not at all frightened at the wood, but i am at other things." mrs. charmond embraced grace more and more tightly, and the younger woman could feel her neighbor's breathings grow deeper and more spasmodic, as though uncontrollable feelings were germinating. "after i had left you," she went on, "i regretted something i had said. i have to make a confession--i must make it!" she whispered, brokenly, the instinct to indulge in warmth of sentiment which had led this woman of passions to respond to fitzpiers in the first place leading her now to find luxurious comfort in opening her heart to his wife. "i said to you i could give him up without pain or deprivation--that he had only been my pastime. that was untrue--it was said to deceive you. i could not do it without much pain; and, what is more dreadful, i cannot give him up--even if i would--of myself alone." "why? because you love him, you mean." felice charmond denoted assent by a movement. "i knew i was right!" said grace, exaltedly. "but that should not deter you," she presently added, in a moral tone. "oh, do struggle against it, and you will conquer!" "you are so simple, so simple!" cried felice. "you think, because you guessed my assumed indifference to him to be a sham, that you know the extremes that people are capable of going to! but a good deal more may have been going on than you have fathomed with all your insight. i cannot give him up until he chooses to give up me." "but surely you are the superior in station and in every way, and the cut must come from you." "tchut! must i tell verbatim, you simple child? oh, i suppose i must! i shall eat away my heart if i do not let out all, after meeting you like this and finding how guileless you are." she thereupon whispered a few words in the girl's ear, and burst into a violent fit of sobbing. grace started roughly away from the shelter of the fur, and sprang to her feet. "oh, my god!" she exclaimed, thunderstruck at a revelation transcending her utmost suspicion. "can it be--can it be!" she turned as if to hasten away. but felice charmond's sobs came to her ear: deep darkness circled her about, the funereal trees rocked and chanted their diriges and placebos around her, and she did not know which way to go. after a moment of energy she felt mild again, and turned to the motionless woman at her feet. "are you rested?" she asked, in what seemed something like her own voice grown ten years older. without an answer mrs. charmond slowly rose. "you mean to betray me!" she said from the bitterest depths of her soul. "oh fool, fool i!" "no," said grace, shortly. "i mean no such thing. but let us be quick now. we have a serious undertaking before us. think of nothing but going straight on." they walked on in profound silence, pulling back boughs now growing wet, and treading down woodbine, but still keeping a pretty straight course. grace began to be thoroughly worn out, and her companion too, when, on a sudden, they broke into the deserted highway at the hill-top on which the sherton man had waited for mrs. dollery's van. grace recognized the spot as soon as she looked around her. "how we have got here i cannot tell," she said, with cold civility. "we have made a complete circuit of little hintock. the hazel copse is quite on the other side. now we have only to follow the road." they dragged themselves onward, turned into the lane, passed the track to little hintock, and so reached the park. "here i turn back," said grace, in the same passionless voice. "you are quite near home." mrs. charmond stood inert, seeming appalled by her late admission. "i have told you something in a moment of irresistible desire to unburden my soul which all but a fool would have kept silent as the grave," she said. "i cannot help it now. is it to be a secret--or do you mean war?" "a secret, certainly," said grace, mournfully. "how can you expect war from such a helpless, wretched being as i!" "and i'll do my best not to see him. i am his slave; but i'll try." grace was naturally kind; but she could not help using a small dagger now. "pray don't distress yourself," she said, with exquisitely fine scorn. "you may keep him--for me." had she been wounded instead of mortified she could not have used the words; but fitzpiers's hold upon her heart was slight. they parted thus and there, and grace went moodily homeward. passing marty's cottage she observed through the window that the girl was writing instead of chopping as usual, and wondered what her correspondence could be. directly afterwards she met people in search of her, and reached the house to find all in serious alarm. she soon explained that she had lost her way, and her general depression was attributed to exhaustion on that account. could she have known what marty was writing she would have been surprised. the rumor which agitated the other folk of hintock had reached the young girl, and she was penning a letter to fitzpiers, to tell him that mrs. charmond wore her hair. it was poor marty's only card, and she played it, knowing nothing of fashion, and thinking her revelation a fatal one for a lover. chapter xxxiv. it was at the beginning of april, a few days after the meeting between grace and mrs. charmond in the wood, that fitzpiers, just returned from london, was travelling from sherton-abbas to hintock in a hired carriage. in his eye there was a doubtful light, and the lines of his refined face showed a vague disquietude. he appeared now like one of those who impress the beholder as having suffered wrong in being born. his position was in truth gloomy, and to his appreciative mind it seemed even gloomier than it was. his practice had been slowly dwindling of late, and now threatened to die out altogether, the irrepressible old dr. jones capturing patients up to fitzpiers's very door. fitzpiers knew only too well the latest and greatest cause of his unpopularity; and yet, so illogical is man, the second branch of his sadness grew out of a remedial measure proposed for the first--a letter from felice charmond imploring him not to see her again. to bring about their severance still more effectually, she added, she had decided during his absence upon almost immediate departure for the continent. the time was that dull interval in a woodlander's life which coincides with great activity in the life of the woodland itself--a period following the close of the winter tree-cutting, and preceding the barking season, when the saps are just beginning to heave with the force of hydraulic lifts inside all the trunks of the forest. winterborne's contract was completed, and the plantations were deserted. it was dusk; there were no leaves as yet; the nightingales would not begin to sing for a fortnight; and "the mother of the months" was in her most attenuated phase--starved and bent to a mere bowed skeleton, which glided along behind the bare twigs in fitzpiers's company. when he reached home he went straight up to his wife's sitting-room. he found it deserted, and without a fire. he had mentioned no day for his return; nevertheless, he wondered why she was not there waiting to receive him. on descending to the other wing of the house and inquiring of mrs. melbury, he learned with much surprise that grace had gone on a visit to an acquaintance at shottsford-forum three days earlier; that tidings had on this morning reached her father of her being very unwell there, in consequence of which he had ridden over to see her. fitzpiers went up-stairs again, and the little drawing-room, now lighted by a solitary candle, was not rendered more cheerful by the entrance of grammer oliver with an apronful of wood, which she threw on the hearth while she raked out the grate and rattled about the fire-irons, with a view to making things comfortable. fitzpiers considered that grace ought to have let him know her plans more accurately before leaving home in a freak like this. he went desultorily to the window, the blind of which had not been pulled down, and looked out at the thin, fast-sinking moon, and at the tall stalk of smoke rising from the top of suke damson's chimney, signifying that the young woman had just lit her fire to prepare supper. he became conscious of a discussion in progress on the opposite side of the court. somebody had looked over the wall to talk to the sawyers, and was telling them in a loud voice news in which the name of mrs. charmond soon arrested his ears. "grammer, don't make so much noise with that grate," said the surgeon; at which grammer reared herself upon her knees and held the fuel suspended in her hand, while fitzpiers half opened the casement. "she is off to foreign lands again at last--hev made up her mind quite sudden-like--and it is thoughted she'll leave in a day or two. she's been all as if her mind were low for some days past--with a sort of sorrow in her face, as if she reproached her own soul. she's the wrong sort of woman for hintock--hardly knowing a beech from a woak--that i own. but i don't care who the man is, she's been a very kind friend to me. "well, the day after to-morrow is the sabbath day, and without charity we are but tinkling simples; but this i do say, that her going will be a blessed thing for a certain married couple who remain." the fire was lighted, and fitzpiers sat down in front of it, restless as the last leaf upon a tree. "a sort of sorrow in her face, as if she reproached her own soul." poor felice. how felice's frame must be pulsing under the conditions of which he had just heard the caricature; how her fair temples must ache; what a mood of wretchedness she must be in! but for the mixing up of his name with hers, and her determination to sunder their too close acquaintance on that account, she would probably have sent for him professionally. she was now sitting alone, suffering, perhaps wishing that she had not forbidden him to come again. unable to remain in this lonely room any longer, or to wait for the meal which was in course of preparation, he made himself ready for riding, descended to the yard, stood by the stable-door while darling was being saddled, and rode off down the lane. he would have preferred walking, but was weary with his day's travel. as he approached the door of marty south's cottage, which it was necessary to pass on his way, she came from the porch as if she had been awaiting him, and met him in the middle of the road, holding up a letter. fitzpiers took it without stopping, and asked over his shoulder from whom it came. marty hesitated. "from me," she said, shyly, though with noticeable firmness. this letter contained, in fact, marty's declaration that she was the original owner of mrs. charmond's supplementary locks, and enclosed a sample from the native stock, which had grown considerably by this time. it was her long contemplated apple of discord, and much her hand trembled as she handed the document up to him. but it was impossible on account of the gloom for fitzpiers to read it then, while he had the curiosity to do so, and he put it in his pocket. his imagination having already centred itself on hintock house, in his pocket the letter remained unopened and forgotten, all the while that marty was hopefully picturing its excellent weaning effect upon him. he was not long in reaching the precincts of the manor house. he drew rein under a group of dark oaks commanding a view of the front, and reflected a while. his entry would not be altogether unnatural in the circumstances of her possible indisposition; but upon the whole he thought it best to avoid riding up to the door. by silently approaching he could retreat unobserved in the event of her not being alone. thereupon he dismounted, hitched darling to a stray bough hanging a little below the general browsing line of the trees, and proceeded to the door on foot. in the mean time melbury had returned from shottsford-forum. the great court or quadrangle of the timber-merchant's house, divided from the shady lane by an ivy-covered wall, was entered by two white gates, one standing near each extremity of the wall. it so happened that at the moment when fitzpiers was riding out at the lower gate on his way to the manor house, melbury was approaching the upper gate to enter it. fitzpiers being in front of melbury was seen by the latter, but the surgeon, never turning his head, did not observe his father-in-law, ambling slowly and silently along under the trees, though his horse too was a gray one. "how is grace?" said his wife, as soon as he entered. melbury looked gloomy. "she is not at all well," he said. "i don't like the looks of her at all. i couldn't bear the notion of her biding away in a strange place any longer, and i begged her to let me get her home. at last she agreed to it, but not till after much persuading. i was then sorry that i rode over instead of driving; but i have hired a nice comfortable carriage--the easiest-going i could get--and she'll be here in a couple of hours or less. i rode on ahead to tell you to get her room ready; but i see her husband has come back." "yes," said mrs. melbury. she expressed her concern that her husband had hired a carriage all the way from shottsford. "what it will cost!" she said. "i don't care what it costs!" he exclaimed, testily. "i was determined to get her home. why she went away i can't think! she acts in a way that is not at all likely to mend matters as far as i can see." (grace had not told her father of her interview with mrs. charmond, and the disclosure that had been whispered in her startled ear.) "since edgar is come," he continued, "he might have waited in till i got home, to ask me how she was, if only for a compliment. i saw him go out; where is he gone?" mrs. melbury did not know positively; but she told her husband that there was not much doubt about the place of his first visit after an absence. she had, in fact, seen fitzpiers take the direction of the manor house. melbury said no more. it was exasperating to him that just at this moment, when there was every reason for fitzpiers to stay indoors, or at any rate to ride along the shottsford road to meet his ailing wife, he should be doing despite to her by going elsewhere. the old man went out-of-doors again; and his horse being hardly unsaddled as yet, he told upjohn to retighten the girths, when he again mounted, and rode off at the heels of the surgeon. by the time that melbury reached the park, he was prepared to go any lengths in combating this rank and reckless errantry of his daughter's husband. he would fetch home edgar fitzpiers to-night by some means, rough or fair: in his view there could come of his interference nothing worse than what existed at present. and yet to every bad there is a worse. he had entered by the bridle-gate which admitted to the park on this side, and cantered over the soft turf almost in the tracks of fitzpiers's horse, till he reached the clump of trees under which his precursor had halted. the whitish object that was indistinctly visible here in the gloom of the boughs he found to be darling, as left by fitzpiers. "d--n him! why did he not ride up to the house in an honest way?" said melbury. he profited by fitzpiers's example; dismounting, he tied his horse under an adjoining tree, and went on to the house on foot, as the other had done. he was no longer disposed to stick at trifles in his investigation, and did not hesitate to gently open the front door without ringing. the large square hall, with its oak floor, staircase, and wainscot, was lighted by a dim lamp hanging from a beam. not a soul was visible. he went into the corridor and listened at a door which he knew to be that of the drawing-room; there was no sound, and on turning the handle he found the room empty. a fire burning low in the grate was the sole light of the apartment; its beams flashed mockingly on the somewhat showy versaillese furniture and gilding here, in style as unlike that of the structural parts of the building as it was possible to be, and probably introduced by felice to counteract the fine old-english gloom of the place. disappointed in his hope of confronting his son-in-law here, he went on to the dining-room; this was without light or fire, and pervaded by a cold atmosphere, which signified that she had not dined there that day. by this time melbury's mood had a little mollified. everything here was so pacific, so unaggressive in its repose, that he was no longer incited to provoke a collision with fitzpiers or with anybody. the comparative stateliness of the apartments influenced him to an emotion, rather than to a belief, that where all was outwardly so good and proper there could not be quite that delinquency within which he had suspected. it occurred to him, too, that even if his suspicion were justified, his abrupt, if not unwarrantable, entry into the house might end in confounding its inhabitant at the expense of his daughter's dignity and his own. any ill result would be pretty sure to hit grace hardest in the long-run. he would, after all, adopt the more rational course, and plead with fitzpiers privately, as he had pleaded with mrs. charmond. he accordingly retreated as silently as he had come. passing the door of the drawing-room anew, he fancied that he heard a noise within which was not the crackling of the fire. melbury gently reopened the door to a distance of a few inches, and saw at the opposite window two figures in the act of stepping out--a man and a woman--in whom he recognized the lady of the house and his son-in-law. in a moment they had disappeared amid the gloom of the lawn. he returned into the hall, and let himself out by the carriage-entrance door, coming round to the lawn front in time to see the two figures parting at the railing which divided the precincts of the house from the open park. mrs. charmond turned to hasten back immediately that fitzpiers had left her side, and he was speedily absorbed into the duskiness of the trees. melbury waited till mrs. charmond had re-entered the drawing-room, and then followed after fitzpiers, thinking that he would allow the latter to mount and ride ahead a little way before overtaking him and giving him a piece of his mind. his son-in-law might possibly see the second horse near his own; but that would do him no harm, and might prepare him for what he was to expect. the event, however, was different from the plan. on plunging into the thick shade of the clump of oaks, he could not perceive his horse blossom anywhere; but feeling his way carefully along, he by-and-by discerned fitzpiers's mare darling still standing as before under the adjoining tree. for a moment melbury thought that his own horse, being young and strong, had broken away from her fastening; but on listening intently he could hear her ambling comfortably along a little way ahead, and a creaking of the saddle which showed that she had a rider. walking on as far as the small gate in the corner of the park, he met a laborer, who, in reply to melbury's inquiry if he had seen any person on a gray horse, said that he had only met dr. fitzpiers. it was just what melbury had begun to suspect: fitzpiers had mounted the mare which did not belong to him in mistake for his own--an oversight easily explicable, in a man ever unwitting in horse-flesh, by the darkness of the spot and the near similarity of the animals in appearance, though melbury's was readily enough seen to be the grayer horse by day. he hastened back, and did what seemed best in the circumstances--got upon old darling, and rode rapidly after fitzpiers. melbury had just entered the wood, and was winding along the cart-way which led through it, channelled deep in the leaf-mould with large ruts that were formed by the timber-wagons in fetching the spoil of the plantations, when all at once he descried in front, at a point where the road took a turning round a large chestnut-tree, the form of his own horse blossom, at which melbury quickened darling's pace, thinking to come up with fitzpiers. nearer view revealed that the horse had no rider. at melbury's approach it galloped friskily away under the trees in a homeward direction. thinking something was wrong, the timber-merchant dismounted as soon as he reached the chestnut, and after feeling about for a minute or two discovered fitzpiers lying on the ground. "here--help!" cried the latter as soon as he felt melbury's touch; "i have been thrown off, but there's not much harm done, i think." since melbury could not now very well read the younger man the lecture he had intended, and as friendliness would be hypocrisy, his instinct was to speak not a single word to his son-in-law. he raised fitzpiers into a sitting posture, and found that he was a little stunned and stupefied, but, as he had said, not otherwise hurt. how this fall had come about was readily conjecturable: fitzpiers, imagining there was only old darling under him, had been taken unawares by the younger horse's sprightliness. melbury was a traveller of the old-fashioned sort; having just come from shottsford-forum, he still had in his pocket the pilgrim's flask of rum which he always carried on journeys exceeding a dozen miles, though he seldom drank much of it. he poured it down the surgeon's throat, with such effect that he quickly revived. melbury got him on his legs; but the question was what to do with him. he could not walk more than a few steps, and the other horse had gone away. with great exertion melbury contrived to get him astride darling, mounting himself behind, and holding fitzpiers round his waist with one arm. darling being broad, straight-backed, and high in the withers, was well able to carry double, at any rate as far as hintock, and at a gentle pace. chapter xxxv. the mare paced along with firm and cautious tread through the copse where winterborne had worked, and into the heavier soil where the oaks grew; past great willy, the largest oak in the wood, and thence towards nellcombe bottom, intensely dark now with overgrowth, and popularly supposed to be haunted by the spirits of the fratricides exorcised from hintock house. by this time fitzpiers was quite recovered as to physical strength. but he had eaten nothing since making a hasty breakfast in london that morning, his anxiety about felice having hurried him away from home before dining; as a consequence, the old rum administered by his father-in-law flew to the young man's head and loosened his tongue, without his ever having recognized who it was that had lent him a kindly hand. he began to speak in desultory sentences, melbury still supporting him. "i've come all the way from london to-day," said fitzpiers. "ah, that's the place to meet your equals. i live at hintock--worse, at little hintock--and i am quite lost there. there's not a man within ten miles of hintock who can comprehend me. i tell you, farmer what's-your-name, that i'm a man of education. i know several languages; the poets and i are familiar friends; i used to read more in metaphysics than anybody within fifty miles; and since i gave that up there's nobody can match me in the whole county of wessex as a scientist. yet i an doomed to live with tradespeople in a miserable little hole like hintock!" "indeed!" muttered melbury. fitzpiers, increasingly energized by the alcohol, here reared himself up suddenly from the bowed posture he had hitherto held, thrusting his shoulders so violently against melbury's breast as to make it difficult for the old man to keep a hold on the reins. "people don't appreciate me here!" the surgeon exclaimed; lowering his voice, he added, softly and slowly, "except one--except one!...a passionate soul, as warm as she is clever, as beautiful as she is warm, and as rich as she is beautiful. i say, old fellow, those claws of yours clutch me rather tight--rather like the eagle's, you know, that ate out the liver of pro--pre--the man on mount caucasus. people don't appreciate me, i say, except her. ah, gods, i am an unlucky man! she would have been mine, she would have taken my name; but unfortunately it cannot be so. i stooped to mate beneath me, and now i rue it." the position was becoming a very trying one for melbury, corporeally and mentally. he was obliged to steady fitzpiers with his left arm, and he began to hate the contact. he hardly knew what to do. it was useless to remonstrate with fitzpiers, in his intellectual confusion from the rum and from the fall. he remained silent, his hold upon his companion, however, being stern rather than compassionate. "you hurt me a little, farmer--though i am much obliged to you for your kindness. people don't appreciate me, i say. between ourselves, i am losing my practice here; and why? because i see matchless attraction where matchless attraction is, both in person and position. i mention no names, so nobody will be the wiser. but i have lost her, in a legitimate sense, that is. if i were a free man now, things have come to such a pass that she could not refuse me; while with her fortune (which i don't covet for itself) i should have a chance of satisfying an honorable ambition--a chance i have never had yet, and now never, never shall have, probably!" melbury, his heart throbbing against the other's backbone, and his brain on fire with indignation, ventured to mutter huskily, "why?" the horse ambled on some steps before fitzpiers replied, "because i am tied and bound to another by law, as tightly as i am to you by your arm--not that i complain of your arm--i thank you for helping me. well, where are we? not nearly home yet?...home, say i. it is a home! when i might have been at the other house over there." in a stupefied way he flung his hand in the direction of the park. "i was just two months too early in committing myself. had i only seen the other first--" here the old man's arm gave fitzpiers a convulsive shake. "what are you doing?" continued the latter. "keep still, please, or put me down. i was saying that i lost her by a mere little two months! there is no chance for me now in this world, and it makes me reckless--reckless! unless, indeed, anything should happen to the other one. she is amiable enough; but if anything should happen to her--and i hear she is ill--well, if it should, i should be free--and my fame, my happiness, would be insured." these were the last words that fitzpiers uttered in his seat in front of the timber-merchant. unable longer to master himself, melbury, the skin of his face compressed, whipped away his spare arm from fitzpiers's waist, and seized him by the collar. "you heartless villain--after all that we have done for ye!" he cried, with a quivering lip. "and the money of hers that you've had, and the roof we've provided to shelter ye! it is to me, george melbury, that you dare to talk like that!" the exclamation was accompanied by a powerful swing from the shoulder, which flung the young man head-long into the road, fitzpiers fell with a heavy thud upon the stumps of some undergrowth which had been cut during the winter preceding. darling continued her walk for a few paces farther and stopped. "god forgive me!" melbury murmured, repenting of what he had done. "he tried me too sorely; and now perhaps i've murdered him!" he turned round in the saddle and looked towards the spot on which fitzpiers had fallen. to his great surprise he beheld the surgeon rise to his feet with a bound, as if unhurt, and walk away rapidly under the trees. melbury listened till the rustle of fitzpiers's footsteps died away. "it might have been a crime, but for the mercy of providence in providing leaves for his fall," he said to himself. and then his mind reverted to the words of fitzpiers, and his indignation so mounted within him that he almost wished the fall had put an end to the young man there and then. he had not ridden far when he discerned his own gray mare standing under some bushes. leaving darling for a moment, melbury went forward and easily caught the younger animal, now disheartened at its freak. he then made the pair of them fast to a tree, and turning back, endeavored to find some trace of fitzpiers, feeling pitifully that, after all, he had gone further than he intended with the offender. but though he threaded the wood hither and thither, his toes ploughing layer after layer of the little horny scrolls that had once been leaves, he could not find him. he stood still listening and looking round. the breeze was oozing through the network of boughs as through a strainer; the trunks and larger branches stood against the light of the sky in the forms of writhing men, gigantic candelabra, pikes, halberds, lances, and whatever besides the fancy chose to make of them. giving up the search, melbury came back to the horses, and walked slowly homeward, leading one in each hand. it happened that on this self-same evening a boy had been returning from great to little hintock about the time of fitzpiers's and melbury's passage home along that route. a horse-collar that had been left at the harness-mender's to be repaired was required for use at five o'clock next morning, and in consequence the boy had to fetch it overnight. he put his head through the collar, and accompanied his walk by whistling the one tune he knew, as an antidote to fear. the boy suddenly became aware of a horse trotting rather friskily along the track behind him, and not knowing whether to expect friend or foe, prudence suggested that he should cease his whistling and retreat among the trees till the horse and his rider had gone by; a course to which he was still more inclined when he found how noiselessly they approached, and saw that the horse looked pale, and remembered what he had read about death in the revelation. he therefore deposited the collar by a tree, and hid himself behind it. the horseman came on, and the youth, whose eyes were as keen as telescopes, to his great relief recognized the doctor. as melbury surmised, fitzpiers had in the darkness taken blossom for darling, and he had not discovered his mistake when he came up opposite the boy, though he was somewhat surprised at the liveliness of his usually placid mare. the only other pair of eyes on the spot whose vision was keen as the young carter's were those of the horse; and, with that strongly conservative objection to the unusual which animals show, blossom, on eying the collar under the tree--quite invisible to fitzpiers--exercised none of the patience of the older horse, but shied sufficiently to unseat so second-rate an equestrian as the surgeon. he fell, and did not move, lying as melbury afterwards found him. the boy ran away, salving his conscience for the desertion by thinking how vigorously he would spread the alarm of the accident when he got to hintock--which he uncompromisingly did, incrusting the skeleton event with a load of dramatic horrors. grace had returned, and the fly hired on her account, though not by her husband, at the crown hotel, shottsford-forum, had been paid for and dismissed. the long drive had somewhat revived her, her illness being a feverish intermittent nervousness which had more to do with mind than body, and she walked about her sitting-room in something of a hopeful mood. mrs. melbury had told her as soon as she arrived that her husband had returned from london. he had gone out, she said, to see a patient, as she supposed, and he must soon be back, since he had had no dinner or tea. grace would not allow her mind to harbor any suspicion of his whereabouts, and her step-mother said nothing of mrs. charmond's rumored sorrows and plans of departure. so the young wife sat by the fire, waiting silently. she had left hintock in a turmoil of feeling after the revelation of mrs. charmond, and had intended not to be at home when her husband returned. but she had thought the matter over, and had allowed her father's influence to prevail and bring her back; and now somewhat regretted that edgar's arrival had preceded hers. by-and-by mrs. melbury came up-stairs with a slight air of flurry and abruptness. "i have something to tell--some bad news," she said. "but you must not be alarmed, as it is not so bad as it might have been. edgar has been thrown off his horse. we don't think he is hurt much. it happened in the wood the other side of nellcombe bottom, where 'tis said the ghosts of the brothers walk." she went on to give a few of the particulars, but none of the invented horrors that had been communicated by the boy. "i thought it better to tell you at once," she added, "in case he should not be very well able to walk home, and somebody should bring him." mrs. melbury really thought matters much worse than she represented, and grace knew that she thought so. she sat down dazed for a few minutes, returning a negative to her step-mother's inquiry if she could do anything for her. "but please go into the bedroom," grace said, on second thoughts, "and see if all is ready there--in case it is serious." mrs. melbury thereupon called grammer, and they did as directed, supplying the room with everything they could think of for the accommodation of an injured man. nobody was left in the lower part of the house. not many minutes passed when grace heard a knock at the door--a single knock, not loud enough to reach the ears of those in the bedroom. she went to the top of the stairs and said, faintly, "come up," knowing that the door stood, as usual in such houses, wide open. retreating into the gloom of the broad landing she saw rise up the stairs a woman whom at first she did not recognize, till her voice revealed her to be suke damson, in great fright and sorrow. a streak of light from the partially closed door of grace's room fell upon her face as she came forward, and it was drawn and pale. "oh, miss melbury--i would say mrs. fitzpiers," she said, wringing her hands. "this terrible news. is he dead? is he hurted very bad? tell me; i couldn't help coming; please forgive me, miss melbury--mrs. fitzpiers i would say!" grace sank down on the oak chest which stood on the landing, and put her hands to her now flushed face and head. could she order suke damson down-stairs and out of the house? her husband might be brought in at any moment, and what would happen? but could she order this genuinely grieved woman away? there was a dead silence of half a minute or so, till suke said, "why don't ye speak? is he here? is he dead? if so, why can't i see him--would it be so very wrong?" before grace had answered somebody else came to the door below--a foot-fall light as a roe's. there was a hurried tapping upon the panel, as if with the impatient tips of fingers whose owner thought not whether a knocker were there or no. without a pause, and possibly guided by the stray beam of light on the landing, the newcomer ascended the staircase as the first had done. grace was sufficiently visible, and the lady, for a lady it was, came to her side. "i could make nobody hear down-stairs," said felice charmond, with lips whose dryness could almost be heard, and panting, as she stood like one ready to sink on the floor with distress. "what is--the matter--tell me the worst! can he live?" she looked at grace imploringly, without perceiving poor suke, who, dismayed at such a presence, had shrunk away into the shade. mrs. charmond's little feet were covered with mud; she was quite unconscious of her appearance now. "i have heard such a dreadful report," she went on; "i came to ascertain the truth of it. is he--killed?" "she won't tell us--he's dying--he's in that room!" burst out suke, regardless of consequences, as she heard the distant movements of mrs. melbury and grammer in the bedroom at the end of the passage. "where?" said mrs. charmond; and on suke pointing out the direction, she made as if to go thither. grace barred the way. "he is not there," she said. "i have not seen him any more than you. i have heard a report only--not so bad as you think. it must have been exaggerated to you." "please do not conceal anything--let me know all!" said felice, doubtingly. "you shall know all i know--you have a perfect right to know--who can have a better than either of you?" said grace, with a delicate sting which was lost upon felice charmond now. "i repeat, i have only heard a less alarming account than you have heard; how much it means, and how little, i cannot say. i pray god that it means not much--in common humanity. you probably pray the same--for other reasons." she regarded them both there in the dim light a while. they stood dumb in their trouble, not stinging back at her; not heeding her mood. a tenderness spread over grace like a dew. it was well, very well, conventionally, to address either one of them in the wife's regulation terms of virtuous sarcasm, as woman, creature, or thing, for losing their hearts to her husband. but life, what was it, and who was she? she had, like the singer of the psalm of asaph, been plagued and chastened all the day long; but could she, by retributive words, in order to please herself--the individual--"offend against the generation," as he would not? "he is dying, perhaps," blubbered suke damson, putting her apron to her eyes. in their gestures and faces there were anxieties, affection, agony of heart, all for a man who had wronged them--had never really behaved towards either of them anyhow but selfishly. neither one but would have wellnigh sacrificed half her life to him, even now. the tears which his possibly critical situation could not bring to her eyes surged over at the contemplation of these fellow-women. she turned to the balustrade, bent herself upon it, and wept. thereupon felice began to cry also, without using her handkerchief, and letting the tears run down silently. while these three poor women stood together thus, pitying another though most to be pitied themselves, the pacing of a horse or horses became audible in the court, and in a moment melbury's voice was heard calling to his stableman. grace at once started up, ran down the stairs and out into the quadrangle as her father crossed it towards the door. "father, what is the matter with him?" she cried. "who--edgar?" said melbury, abruptly. "matter? nothing. what, my dear, and have you got home safe? why, you are better already! but you ought not to be out in the air like this." "but he has been thrown off his horse!" "i know; i know. i saw it. he got up again, and walked off as well as ever. a fall on the leaves didn't hurt a spry fellow like him. he did not come this way," he added, significantly. "i suppose he went to look for his horse. i tried to find him, but could not. but after seeing him go away under the trees i found the horse, and have led it home for safety. so he must walk. now, don't you stay out here in this night air." she returned to the house with her father. when she had again ascended to the landing and to her own rooms beyond it was a great relief to her to find that both petticoat the first and petticoat the second of her bien-aime had silently disappeared. they had, in all probability, heard the words of her father, and departed with their anxieties relieved. presently her parents came up to grace, and busied themselves to see that she was comfortable. perceiving soon that she would prefer to be left alone they went away. grace waited on. the clock raised its voice now and then, but her husband did not return. at her father's usual hour for retiring he again came in to see her. "do not stay up," she said, as soon as he entered. "i am not at all tired. i will sit up for him." "i think it will be useless, grace," said melbury, slowly. "why?" "i have had a bitter quarrel with him; and on that account i hardly think he will return to-night." "a quarrel? was that after the fall seen by the boy?" melbury nodded an affirmative, without taking his eyes off the candle. "yes; it was as we were coming home together," he said. something had been swelling up in grace while her father was speaking. "how could you want to quarrel with him?" she cried, suddenly. "why could you not let him come home quietly if he were inclined to? he is my husband; and now you have married me to him surely you need not provoke him unnecessarily. first you induce me to accept him, and then you do things that divide us more than we should naturally be divided!" "how can you speak so unjustly to me, grace?" said melbury, with indignant sorrow. "i divide you from your husband, indeed! you little think--" he was inclined to say more--to tell her the whole story of the encounter, and that the provocation he had received had lain entirely in hearing her despised. but it would have greatly distressed her, and he forbore. "you had better lie down. you are tired," he said, soothingly. "good-night." the household went to bed, and a silence fell upon the dwelling, broken only by the occasional skirr of a halter in melbury's stables. despite her father's advice grace still waited up. but nobody came. it was a critical time in grace's emotional life that night. she thought of her husband a good deal, and for the nonce forgot winterborne. "how these unhappy women must have admired edgar!" she said to herself. "how attractive he must be to everybody; and, indeed, he is attractive." the possibility is that, piqued by rivalry, these ideas might have been transformed into their corresponding emotions by a show of the least reciprocity in fitzpiers. there was, in truth, a love-bird yearning to fly from her heart; and it wanted a lodging badly. but no husband came. the fact was that melbury had been much mistaken about the condition of fitzpiers. people do not fall headlong on stumps of underwood with impunity. had the old man been able to watch fitzpiers narrowly enough, he would have observed that on rising and walking into the thicket he dropped blood as he went; that he had not proceeded fifty yards before he showed signs of being dizzy, and, raising his hands to his head, reeled and fell down. chapter xxxvi. grace was not the only one who watched and meditated in hintock that night. felice charmond was in no mood to retire to rest at a customary hour; and over her drawing-room fire at the manor house she sat as motionless and in as deep a reverie as grace in her little apartment at the homestead. having caught ear of melbury's intelligence while she stood on the landing at his house, and been eased of much of her mental distress, her sense of personal decorum returned upon her with a rush. she descended the stairs and left the door like a ghost, keeping close to the walls of the building till she got round to the gate of the quadrangle, through which she noiselessly passed almost before grace and her father had finished their discourse. suke damson had thought it well to imitate her superior in this respect, and, descending the back stairs as felice descended the front, went out at the side door and home to her cottage. once outside melbury's gates mrs. charmond ran with all her speed to the manor house, without stopping or turning her head, and splitting her thin boots in her haste. she entered her own dwelling, as she had emerged from it, by the drawing-room window. in other circumstances she would have felt some timidity at undertaking such an unpremeditated excursion alone; but her anxiety for another had cast out her fear for herself. everything in her drawing-room was just as she had left it--the candles still burning, the casement closed, and the shutters gently pulled to, so as to hide the state of the window from the cursory glance of a servant entering the apartment. she had been gone about three-quarters of an hour by the clock, and nobody seemed to have discovered her absence. tired in body but tense in mind, she sat down, palpitating, round-eyed, bewildered at what she had done. she had been betrayed by affrighted love into a visit which, now that the emotion instigating it had calmed down under her belief that fitzpiers was in no danger, was the saddest surprise to her. this was how she had set about doing her best to escape her passionate bondage to him! somehow, in declaring to grace and to herself the unseemliness of her infatuation, she had grown a convert to its irresistibility. if heaven would only give her strength; but heaven never did! one thing was indispensable; she must go away from hintock if she meant to withstand further temptation. the struggle was too wearying, too hopeless, while she remained. it was but a continual capitulation of conscience to what she dared not name. by degrees, as she sat, felice's mind--helped perhaps by the anticlimax of learning that her lover was unharmed after all her fright about him--grew wondrously strong in wise resolve. for the moment she was in a mood, in the words of mrs. elizabeth montagu, "to run mad with discretion;" and was so persuaded that discretion lay in departure that she wished to set about going that very minute. jumping up from her seat, she began to gather together some small personal knick-knacks scattered about the room, to feel that preparations were really in train. while moving here and there she fancied that she heard a slight noise out-of-doors, and stood still. surely it was a tapping at the window. a thought entered her mind, and burned her cheek. he had come to that window before; yet was it possible that he should dare to do so now! all the servants were in bed, and in the ordinary course of affairs she would have retired also. then she remembered that on stepping in by the casement and closing it, she had not fastened the window-shutter, so that a streak of light from the interior of the room might have revealed her vigil to an observer on the lawn. how all things conspired against her keeping faith with grace! the tapping recommenced, light as from the bill of a little bird; her illegitimate hope overcame her vow; she went and pulled back the shutter, determining, however, to shake her head at him and keep the casement securely closed. what she saw outside might have struck terror into a heart stouter than a helpless woman's at midnight. in the centre of the lowest pane of the window, close to the glass, was a human face, which she barely recognized as the face of fitzpiers. it was surrounded with the darkness of the night without, corpse-like in its pallor, and covered with blood. as disclosed in the square area of the pane it met her frightened eyes like a replica of the sudarium of st. veronica. he moved his lips, and looked at her imploringly. her rapid mind pieced together in an instant a possible concatenation of events which might have led to this tragical issue. she unlatched the casement with a terrified hand, and bending down to where he was crouching, pressed her face to his with passionate solicitude. she assisted him into the room without a word, to do which it was almost necessary to lift him bodily. quickly closing the window and fastening the shutters, she bent over him breathlessly. "are you hurt much--much?" she cried, faintly. "oh, oh, how is this!" "rather much--but don't be frightened," he answered in a difficult whisper, and turning himself to obtain an easier position if possible. "a little water, please." she ran across into the dining-room, and brought a bottle and glass, from which he eagerly drank. he could then speak much better, and with her help got upon the nearest couch. "are you dying, edgar?" she said. "do speak to me!" "i am half dead," said fitzpiers. "but perhaps i shall get over it....it is chiefly loss of blood." "but i thought your fall did not hurt you," said she. "who did this?" "felice--my father-in-law!...i have crawled to you more than a mile on my hands and knees--god, i thought i should never have got here!...i have come to you--be-cause you are the only friend--i have in the world now....i can never go back to hintock--never--to the roof of the melburys! not poppy nor mandragora will ever medicine this bitter feud!...if i were only well again--" "let me bind your head, now that you have rested." "yes--but wait a moment--it has stopped bleeding, fortunately, or i should be a dead man before now. while in the wood i managed to make a tourniquet of some half-pence and my handkerchief, as well as i could in the dark....but listen, dear felice! can you hide me till i am well? whatever comes, i can be seen in hintock no more. my practice is nearly gone, you know--and after this i would not care to recover it if i could." by this time felice's tears began to blind her. where were now her discreet plans for sundering their lives forever? to administer to him in his pain, and trouble, and poverty, was her single thought. the first step was to hide him, and she asked herself where. a place occurred to her mind. she got him some wine from the dining-room, which strengthened him much. then she managed to remove his boots, and, as he could now keep himself upright by leaning upon her on one side and a walking-stick on the other, they went thus in slow march out of the room and up the stairs. at the top she took him along a gallery, pausing whenever he required rest, and thence up a smaller staircase to the least used part of the house, where she unlocked a door. within was a lumber-room, containing abandoned furniture of all descriptions, built up in piles which obscured the light of the windows, and formed between them nooks and lairs in which a person would not be discerned even should an eye gaze in at the door. the articles were mainly those that had belonged to the previous owner of the house, and had been bought in by the late mr. charmond at the auction; but changing fashion, and the tastes of a young wife, had caused them to be relegated to this dungeon. here fitzpiers sat on the floor against the wall till she had hauled out materials for a bed, which she spread on the floor in one of the aforesaid nooks. she obtained water and a basin, and washed the dried blood from his face and hands; and when he was comfortably reclining, fetched food from the larder. while he ate her eyes lingered anxiously on his face, following its every movement with such loving-kindness as only a fond woman can show. he was now in better condition, and discussed his position with her. "what i fancy i said to melbury must have been enough to enrage any man, if uttered in cold blood, and with knowledge of his presence. but i did not know him, and i was stupefied by what he had given me, so that i hardly was aware of what i said. well--the veil of that temple is rent in twain!...as i am not going to be seen again in hintock, my first efforts must be directed to allay any alarm that may be felt at my absence, before i am able to get clear away. nobody must suspect that i have been hurt, or there will be a country talk about me. felice, i must at once concoct a letter to check all search for me. i think if you can bring me a pen and paper i may be able to do it now. i could rest better if it were done. poor thing! how i tire her with running up and down!" she fetched writing materials, and held up the blotting-book as a support to his hand, while he penned a brief note to his nominal wife. "the animosity shown towards me by your father," he wrote, in this coldest of marital epistles, "is such that i cannot return again to a roof which is his, even though it shelters you. a parting is unavoidable, as you are sure to be on his side in this division. i am starting on a journey which will take me a long way from hintock, and you must not expect to see me there again for some time." he then gave her a few directions bearing upon his professional engagements and other practical matters, concluding without a hint of his destination, or a notion of when she would see him again. he offered to read the note to felice before he closed it up, but she would not hear or see it; that side of his obligations distressed her beyond endurance. she turned away from fitzpiers, and sobbed bitterly. "if you can get this posted at a place some miles away," he whispered, exhausted by the effort of writing--"at shottsford or port-bredy, or still better, budmouth--it will divert all suspicion from this house as the place of my refuge." "i will drive to one or other of the places myself--anything to keep it unknown," she murmured, her voice weighted with vague foreboding, now that the excitement of helping him had passed away. fitzpiers told her that there was yet one thing more to be done. "in creeping over the fence on to the lawn," he said, "i made the rail bloody, and it shows rather much on the white paint--i could see it in the dark. at all hazards it should be washed off. could you do that also, felice?" what will not women do on such devoted occasions? weary as she was she went all the way down the rambling staircases to the ground-floor, then to search for a lantern, which she lighted and hid under her cloak; then for a wet sponge, and next went forth into the night. the white railing stared out in the darkness at her approach, and a ray from the enshrouded lantern fell upon the blood--just where he had told her it would be found. she shuddered. it was almost too much to bear in one day--but with a shaking hand she sponged the rail clean, and returned to the house. the time occupied by these several proceedings was not much less than two hours. when all was done, and she had smoothed his extemporized bed, and placed everything within his reach that she could think of, she took her leave of him, and locked him in. chapter xxxvii. when her husband's letter reached grace's hands, bearing upon it the postmark of a distant town, it never once crossed her mind that fitzpiers was within a mile of her still. she felt relieved that he did not write more bitterly of the quarrel with her father, whatever its nature might have been; but the general frigidity of his communication quenched in her the incipient spark that events had kindled so shortly before. from this centre of information it was made known in hintock that the doctor had gone away, and as none but the melbury household was aware that he did not return on the night of his accident, no excitement manifested itself in the village. thus the early days of may passed by. none but the nocturnal birds and animals observed that late one evening, towards the middle of the month, a closely wrapped figure, with a crutch under one arm and a stick in his hand, crept out from hintock house across the lawn to the shelter of the trees, taking thence a slow and laborious walk to the nearest point of the turnpike-road. the mysterious personage was so disguised that his own wife would hardly have known him. felice charmond was a practised hand at make-ups, as well she might be; and she had done her utmost in padding and painting fitzpiers with the old materials of her art in the recesses of the lumber-room. in the highway he was met by a covered carriage, which conveyed him to sherton-abbas, whence he proceeded to the nearest port on the south coast, and immediately crossed the channel. but it was known to everybody that three days after this time mrs. charmond executed her long-deferred plan of setting out for a long term of travel and residence on the continent. she went off one morning as unostentatiously as could be, and took no maid with her, having, she said, engaged one to meet her at a point farther on in her route. after that, hintock house, so frequently deserted, was again to be let. spring had not merged in summer when a clinching rumor, founded on the best of evidence, reached the parish and neighborhood. mrs. charmond and fitzpiers had been seen together in baden, in relations which set at rest the question that had agitated the little community ever since the winter. melbury had entered the valley of humiliation even farther than grace. his spirit seemed broken. but once a week he mechanically went to market as usual, and here, as he was passing by the conduit one day, his mental condition expressed largely by his gait, he heard his name spoken by a voice formerly familiar. he turned and saw a certain fred beaucock--once a promising lawyer's clerk and local dandy, who had been called the cleverest fellow in sherton, without whose brains the firm of solicitors employing him would be nowhere. but later on beaucock had fallen into the mire. he was invited out a good deal, sang songs at agricultural meetings and burgesses' dinners; in sum, victualled himself with spirits more frequently than was good for the clever brains or body either. he lost his situation, and after an absence spent in trying his powers elsewhere, came back to his native town, where, at the time of the foregoing events in hintock, he gave legal advice for astonishingly small fees--mostly carrying on his profession on public-house settles, in whose recesses he might often have been overheard making country-people's wills for half a crown; calling with a learned voice for pen-and-ink and a halfpenny sheet of paper, on which he drew up the testament while resting it in a little space wiped with his hand on the table amid the liquid circles formed by the cups and glasses. an idea implanted early in life is difficult to uproot, and many elderly tradespeople still clung to the notion that fred beaucock knew a great deal of law. it was he who had called melbury by name. "you look very down, mr. melbury--very, if i may say as much," he observed, when the timber-merchant turned. "but i know--i know. a very sad case--very. i was bred to the law, as you know, and am professionally no stranger to such matters. well, mrs. fitzpiers has her remedy." "how--what--a remedy?" said melbury. "under the new law, sir. a new court was established last year, and under the new statute, twenty and twenty-one vic., cap. eighty-five, unmarrying is as easy as marrying. no more acts of parliament necessary; no longer one law for the rich and another for the poor. but come inside--i was just going to have a nibleykin of rum hot--i'll explain it all to you." the intelligence amazed melbury, who saw little of newspapers. and though he was a severely correct man in his habits, and had no taste for entering a tavern with fred beaucock--nay, would have been quite uninfluenced by such a character on any other matter in the world--such fascination lay in the idea of delivering his poor girl from bondage, that it deprived him of the critical faculty. he could not resist the ex-lawyer's clerk, and entered the inn. here they sat down to the rum, which melbury paid for as a matter of course, beaucock leaning back in the settle with a legal gravity which would hardly allow him to be conscious of the spirits before him, though they nevertheless disappeared with mysterious quickness. how much of the exaggerated information on the then new divorce laws which beaucock imparted to his listener was the result of ignorance, and how much of dupery, was never ascertained. but he related such a plausible story of the ease with which grace could become a free woman that her father was irradiated with the project; and though he scarcely wetted his lips, melbury never knew how he came out of the inn, or when or where he mounted his gig to pursue his way homeward. but home he found himself, his brain having all the way seemed to ring sonorously as a gong in the intensity of its stir. before he had seen grace, he was accidentally met by winterborne, who found his face shining as if he had, like the law-giver, conversed with an angel. he relinquished his horse, and took winterborne by the arm to a heap of rendlewood--as barked oak was here called--which lay under a privet-hedge. "giles," he said, when they had sat down upon the logs, "there's a new law in the land! grace can be free quite easily. i only knew it by the merest accident. i might not have found it out for the next ten years. she can get rid of him--d'ye hear?--get rid of him. think of that, my friend giles!" he related what he had learned of the new legal remedy. a subdued tremulousness about the mouth was all the response that winterborne made; and melbury added, "my boy, you shall have her yet--if you want her." his feelings had gathered volume as he said this, and the articulate sound of the old idea drowned his sight in mist. "are you sure--about this new law?" asked winterborne, so disquieted by a gigantic exultation which loomed alternately with fearful doubt that he evaded the full acceptance of melbury's last statement. melbury said that he had no manner of doubt, for since his talk with beaucock it had come into his mind that he had seen some time ago in the weekly paper an allusion to such a legal change; but, having no interest in those desperate remedies at the moment, he had passed it over. "but i'm not going to let the matter rest doubtful for a single day," he continued. "i am going to london. beaucock will go with me, and we shall get the best advice as soon as we possibly can. beaucock is a thorough lawyer--nothing the matter with him but a fiery palate. i knew him as the stay and refuge of sherton in knots of law at one time." winterborne's replies were of the vaguest. the new possibility was almost unthinkable by him at the moment. he was what was called at hintock "a solid-going fellow;" he maintained his abeyant mood, not from want of reciprocity, but from a taciturn hesitancy, taught by life as he knew it. "but," continued the timber-merchant, a temporary crease or two of anxiety supplementing those already established in his forehead by time and care, "grace is not at all well. nothing constitutional, you know; but she has been in a low, nervous state ever since that night of fright. i don't doubt but that she will be all right soon....i wonder how she is this evening?" he rose with the words, as if he had too long forgotten her personality in the excitement of her previsioned career. they had sat till the evening was beginning to dye the garden brown, and now went towards melbury's house, giles a few steps in the rear of his old friend, who was stimulated by the enthusiasm of the moment to outstep the ordinary walking of winterborne. he felt shy of entering grace's presence as her reconstituted lover--which was how her father's manner would be sure to present him--before definite information as to her future state was forthcoming; it seemed too nearly like the act of those who rush in where angels fear to tread. a chill to counterbalance all the glowing promise of the day was prompt enough in coming. no sooner had he followed the timber-merchant in at the door than he heard grammer inform him that mrs. fitzpiers was still more unwell than she had been in the morning. old dr. jones being in the neighborhood they had called him in, and he had instantly directed them to get her to bed. they were not, however, to consider her illness serious--a feverish, nervous attack the result of recent events, was what she was suffering from, and she would doubtless be well in a few days. winterborne, therefore, did not remain, and his hope of seeing her that evening was disappointed. even this aggravation of her morning condition did not greatly depress melbury. he knew, he said, that his daughter's constitution was sound enough. it was only these domestic troubles that were pulling her down. once free she would be blooming again. melbury diagnosed rightly, as parents usually do. he set out for london the next morning, jones having paid another visit and assured him that he might leave home without uneasiness, especially on an errand of that sort, which would the sooner put an end to her suspense. the timber-merchant had been away only a day or two when it was told in hintock that mr. fitzpiers's hat had been found in the wood. later on in the afternoon the hat was brought to melbury, and, by a piece of ill-fortune, into grace's presence. it had doubtless lain in the wood ever since his fall from the horse, but it looked so clean and uninjured--the summer weather and leafy shelter having much favored its preservation--that grace could not believe it had remained so long concealed. a very little of fact was enough to set her fevered fancy at work at this juncture; she thought him still in the neighborhood; she feared his sudden appearance; and her nervous malady developed consequences so grave that dr. jones began to look serious, and the household was alarmed. it was the beginning of june, and the cuckoo at this time of the summer scarcely ceased his cry for more than two or three hours during the night. the bird's note, so familiar to her ears from infancy, was now absolute torture to the poor girl. on the friday following the wednesday of melbury's departure, and the day after the discovery of fitzpiers's hat, the cuckoo began at two o'clock in the morning with a sudden cry from one of melbury's apple-trees, not three yards from the window of grace's room. "oh, he is coming!" she cried, and in her terror sprang clean from the bed out upon the floor. these starts and frights continued till noon; and when the doctor had arrived and had seen her, and had talked with mrs. melbury, he sat down and meditated. that ever-present terror it was indispensable to remove from her mind at all hazards; and he thought how this might be done. without saying a word to anybody in the house, or to the disquieted winterborne waiting in the lane below, dr. jones went home and wrote to mr. melbury at the london address he had obtained from his wife. the gist of his communication was that mrs. fitzpiers should be assured as soon as possible that steps were being taken to sever the bond which was becoming a torture to her; that she would soon be free, and was even then virtually so. "if you can say it at once it may be the means of averting much harm," he said. "write to herself; not to me." on saturday he drove over to hintock, and assured her with mysterious pacifications that in a day or two she might expect to receive some assuring news. so it turned out. when sunday morning came there was a letter for grace from her father. it arrived at seven o'clock, the usual time at which the toddling postman passed by hintock; at eight grace awoke, having slept an hour or two for a wonder, and mrs. melbury brought up the letter. "can you open it yourself?" said she. "oh yes, yes!" said grace, with feeble impatience. she tore the envelope, unfolded the sheet, and read; when a creeping blush tinctured her white neck and cheek. her father had exercised a bold discretion. he informed her that she need have no further concern about fitzpiers's return; that she would shortly be a free woman; and therefore, if she should desire to wed her old lover--which he trusted was the case, since it was his own deep wish--she would be in a position to do so. in this melbury had not written beyond his belief. but he very much stretched the facts in adding that the legal formalities for dissolving her union were practically settled. the truth was that on the arrival of the doctor's letter poor melbury had been much agitated, and could with difficulty be prevented by beaucock from returning to her bedside. what was the use of his rushing back to hintock? beaucock had asked him. the only thing that could do her any good was a breaking of the bond. though he had not as yet had an interview with the eminent solicitor they were about to consult, he was on the point of seeing him; and the case was clear enough. thus the simple melbury, urged by his parental alarm at her danger by the representations of his companion, and by the doctor's letter, had yielded, and sat down to tell her roundly that she was virtually free. "and you'd better write also to the gentleman," suggested beaucock, who, scenting notoriety and the germ of a large practice in the case, wished to commit melbury to it irretrievably; to effect which he knew that nothing would be so potent as awakening the passion of grace for winterborne, so that her father might not have the heart to withdraw from his attempt to make her love legitimate when he discovered that there were difficulties in the way. the nervous, impatient melbury was much pleased with the idea of "starting them at once," as he called it. to put his long-delayed reparative scheme in train had become a passion with him now. he added to the letter addressed to his daughter a passage hinting that she ought to begin to encourage winterborne, lest she should lose him altogether; and he wrote to giles that the path was virtually open for him at last. life was short, he declared; there were slips betwixt the cup and the lip; her interest in him should be reawakened at once, that all might be ready when the good time came for uniting them. chapter xxxviii. at these warm words winterborne was not less dazed than he was moved in heart. the novelty of the avowal rendered what it carried with it inapprehensible by him in its entirety. only a few short months ago completely estranged from this family--beholding grace going to and fro in the distance, clothed with the alienating radiance of obvious superiority, the wife of the then popular and fashionable fitzpiers, hopelessly outside his social boundary down to so recent a time that flowers then folded were hardly faded yet--he was now asked by that jealously guarding father of hers to take courage--to get himself ready for the day when he should be able to claim her. the old times came back to him in dim procession. how he had been snubbed; how melbury had despised his christmas party; how that sweet, coy grace herself had looked down upon him and his household arrangements, and poor creedle's contrivances! well, he could not believe it. surely the adamantine barrier of marriage with another could not be pierced like this! it did violence to custom. yet a new law might do anything. but was it at all within the bounds of probability that a woman who, over and above her own attainments, had been accustomed to those of a cultivated professional man, could ever be the wife of such as he? since the date of his rejection he had almost grown to see the reasonableness of that treatment. he had said to himself again and again that her father was right; that the poor ceorl, giles winterborne, would never have been able to make such a dainty girl happy. yet, now that she had stood in a position farther removed from his own than at first, he was asked to prepare to woo her. he was full of doubt. nevertheless, it was not in him to show backwardness. to act so promptly as melbury desired him to act seemed, indeed, scarcely wise, because of the uncertainty of events. giles knew nothing of legal procedure, but he did know that for him to step up to grace as a lover before the bond which bound her was actually dissolved was simply an extravagant dream of her father's overstrained mind. he pitied melbury for his almost childish enthusiasm, and saw that the aging man must have suffered acutely to be weakened to this unreasoning desire. winterborne was far too magnanimous to harbor any cynical conjecture that the timber-merchant, in his intense affection for grace, was courting him now because that young lady, when disunited, would be left in an anomalous position, to escape which a bad husband was better than none. he felt quite sure that his old friend was simply on tenterhooks of anxiety to repair the almost irreparable error of dividing two whom nature had striven to join together in earlier days, and that in his ardor to do this he was oblivious of formalities. the cautious supervision of his past years had overleaped itself at last. hence, winterborne perceived that, in this new beginning, the necessary care not to compromise grace by too early advances must be exercised by himself. perhaps winterborne was not quite so ardent as heretofore. there is no such thing as a stationary love: men are either loving more or loving less. but giles himself recognized no decline in his sense of her dearness. if the flame did indeed burn lower now than when he had fetched her from sherton at her last return from school, the marvel was small. he had been laboring ever since his rejection and her marriage to reduce his former passion to a docile friendship, out of pure regard to its expediency; and their separation may have helped him to a partial success. a week and more passed, and there was no further news of melbury. but the effect of the intelligence he had already transmitted upon the elastic-nerved daughter of the woods had been much what the old surgeon jones had surmised. it had soothed her perturbed spirit better than all the opiates in the pharmacopoeia. she had slept unbrokenly a whole night and a day. the "new law" was to her a mysterious, beneficent, godlike entity, lately descended upon earth, that would make her as she once had been without trouble or annoyance. her position fretted her, its abstract features rousing an aversion which was even greater than her aversion to the personality of him who had caused it. it was mortifying, productive of slights, undignified. him she could forget; her circumstances she had always with her. she saw nothing of winterborne during the days of her recovery; and perhaps on that account her fancy wove about him a more romantic tissue than it could have done if he had stood before her with all the specks and flaws inseparable from corporeity. he rose upon her memory as the fruit-god and the wood-god in alternation; sometimes leafy, and smeared with green lichen, as she had seen him among the sappy boughs of the plantations; sometimes cider-stained, and with apple-pips in the hair of his arms, as she had met him on his return from cider-making in white hart vale, with his vats and presses beside him. in her secret heart she almost approximated to her father's enthusiasm in wishing to show giles once for all how she still regarded him. the question whether the future would indeed bring them together for life was a standing wonder with her. she knew that it could not with any propriety do so just yet. but reverently believing in her father's sound judgment and knowledge, as good girls are wont to do, she remembered what he had written about her giving a hint to winterborne lest there should be risk in delay, and her feelings were not averse to such a step, so far as it could be done without danger at this early stage of the proceedings. from being a frail phantom of her former equable self she returned in bounds to a condition of passable philosophy. she bloomed again in the face in the course of a few days, and was well enough to go about as usual. one day mrs. melbury proposed that for a change she should be driven in the gig to sherton market, whither melbury's man was going on other errands. grace had no business whatever in sherton; but it crossed her mind that winterborne would probably be there, and this made the thought of such a drive interesting. on the way she saw nothing of him; but when the horse was walking slowly through the obstructions of sheep street, she discerned the young man on the pavement. she thought of that time when he had been standing under his apple-tree on her return from school, and of the tender opportunity then missed through her fastidiousness. her heart rose in her throat. she abjured all such fastidiousness now. nor did she forget the last occasion on which she had beheld him in that town, making cider in the court-yard of the earl of wessex hotel, while she was figuring as a fine lady in the balcony above. grace directed the man to set her down there in the midst, and immediately went up to her lover. giles had not before observed her, and his eyes now suppressedly looked his pleasure, without the embarrassment that had formerly marked him at such meetings. when a few words had been spoken, she said, archly, "i have nothing to do. perhaps you are deeply engaged?" "i? not a bit. my business now at the best of times is small, i am sorry to say." "well, then, i am going into the abbey. come along with me." the proposition had suggested itself as a quick escape from publicity, for many eyes were regarding her. she had hoped that sufficient time had elapsed for the extinction of curiosity; but it was quite otherwise. the people looked at her with tender interest as the deserted girl-wife--without obtrusiveness, and without vulgarity; but she was ill prepared for scrutiny in any shape. they walked about the abbey aisles, and presently sat down. not a soul was in the building save themselves. she regarded a stained window, with her head sideways, and tentatively asked him if he remembered the last time they were in that town alone. he remembered it perfectly, and remarked, "you were a proud miss then, and as dainty as you were high. perhaps you are now?" grace slowly shook her head. "affliction has taken all that out of me," she answered, impressively. "perhaps i am too far the other way now." as there was something lurking in this that she could not explain, she added, so quickly as not to allow him time to think of it, "has my father written to you at all?" "yes," said winterborne. she glanced ponderingly up at him. "not about me?" "yes." his mouth was lined with charactery which told her that he had been bidden to take the hint as to the future which she had been bidden to give. the unexpected discovery sent a scarlet pulsation through grace for the moment. however, it was only giles who stood there, of whom she had no fear; and her self-possession returned. "he said i was to sound you with a view to--what you will understand, if you care to," continued winterborne, in a low voice. having been put on this track by herself, he was not disposed to abandon it in a hurry. they had been children together, and there was between them that familiarity as to personal affairs which only such acquaintanceship can give. "you know, giles," she answered, speaking in a very practical tone, "that that is all very well; but i am in a very anomalous position at present, and i cannot say anything to the point about such things as those." "no?" he said, with a stray air as regarded the subject. he was looking at her with a curious consciousness of discovery. he had not been imagining that their renewed intercourse would show her to him thus. for the first time he realized an unexpectedness in her, which, after all, should not have been unexpected. she before him was not the girl grace melbury whom he used to know. of course, he might easily have prefigured as much; but it had never occurred to him. she was a woman who had been married; she had moved on; and without having lost her girlish modesty, she had lost her girlish shyness. the inevitable change, though known to him, had not been heeded; and it struck him into a momentary fixity. the truth was that he had never come into close comradeship with her since her engagement to fitzpiers, with the brief exception of the evening encounter on rubdown hill, when she met him with his cider apparatus; and that interview had been of too cursory a kind for insight. winterborne had advanced, too. he could criticise her. times had been when to criticise a single trait in grace melbury would have lain as far beyond his powers as to criticise a deity. this thing was sure: it was a new woman in many ways whom he had come out to see; a creature of more ideas, more dignity, and, above all, more assurance, than the original grace had been capable of. he could not at first decide whether he were pleased or displeased at this. but upon the whole the novelty attracted him. she was so sweet and sensitive that she feared his silence betokened something in his brain of the nature of an enemy to her. "what are you thinking of that makes those lines come in your forehead?" she asked. "i did not mean to offend you by speaking of the time being premature as yet." touched by the genuine loving-kindness which had lain at the foundation of these words, and much moved, winterborne turned his face aside, as he took her by the hand. he was grieved that he had criticised her. "you are very good, dear grace," he said, in a low voice. "you are better, much better, than you used to be." "how?" he could not very well tell her how, and said, with an evasive smile, "you are prettier;" which was not what he really had meant. he then remained still holding her right hand in his own right, so that they faced in opposite ways; and as he did not let go, she ventured upon a tender remonstrance. "i think we have gone as far as we ought to go at present--and far enough to satisfy my poor father that we are the same as ever. you see, giles, my case is not settled yet, and if--oh, suppose i never get free!--there should be any hitch or informality!" she drew a catching breath, and turned pale. the dialogue had been affectionate comedy up to this point. the gloomy atmosphere of the past, and the still gloomy horizon of the present, had been for the interval forgotten. now the whole environment came back, the due balance of shade among the light was restored. "it is sure to be all right, i trust?" she resumed, in uneasy accents. "what did my father say the solicitor had told him?" "oh--that all is sure enough. the case is so clear--nothing could be clearer. but the legal part is not yet quite done and finished, as is natural." "oh no--of course not," she said, sunk in meek thought. "but father said it was almost--did he not? do you know anything about the new law that makes these things so easy?" "nothing--except the general fact that it enables ill-assorted husbands and wives to part in a way they could not formerly do without an act of parliament." "have you to sign a paper, or swear anything? is it something like that?" "yes, i believe so." "how long has it been introduced?" "about six months or a year, the lawyer said, i think." to hear these two poor arcadian innocents talk of imperial law would have made a humane person weep who should have known what a dangerous structure they were building up on their supposed knowledge. they remained in thought, like children in the presence of the incomprehensible. "giles," she said, at last, "it makes me quite weary when i think how serious my situation is, or has been. shall we not go out from here now, as it may seem rather fast of me--our being so long together, i mean--if anybody were to see us? i am almost sure," she added, uncertainly, "that i ought not to let you hold my hand yet, knowing that the documents--or whatever it may be--have not been signed; so that i--am still as married as ever--or almost. my dear father has forgotten himself. not that i feel morally bound to any one else, after what has taken place--no woman of spirit could--now, too, that several months have passed. but i wish to keep the proprieties as well as i can." "yes, yes. still, your father reminds us that life is short. i myself feel that it is; that is why i wished to understand you in this that we have begun. at times, dear grace, since receiving your father's letter, i am as uneasy and fearful as a child at what he said. if one of us were to die before the formal signing and sealing that is to release you have been done--if we should drop out of the world and never have made the most of this little, short, but real opportunity, i should think to myself as i sunk down dying, 'would to my god that i had spoken out my whole heart--given her one poor little kiss when i had the chance to give it! but i never did, although she had promised to be mine some day; and now i never can.' that's what i should think." she had begun by watching the words from his lips with a mournful regard, as though their passage were visible; but as he went on she dropped her glance. "yes," she said, "i have thought that, too. and, because i have thought it, i by no means meant, in speaking of the proprieties, to be reserved and cold to you who loved me so long ago, or to hurt your heart as i used to do at that thoughtless time. oh, not at all, indeed! but--ought i to allow you?--oh, it is too quick--surely!" her eyes filled with tears of bewildered, alarmed emotion. winterborne was too straightforward to influence her further against her better judgment. "yes--i suppose it is," he said, repentantly. "i'll wait till all is settled. what did your father say in that last letter?" he meant about his progress with the petition; but she, mistaking him, frankly spoke of the personal part. "he said--what i have implied. should i tell more plainly?" "oh no--don't, if it is a secret." "not at all. i will tell every word, straight out, giles, if you wish. he said i was to encourage you. there. but i cannot obey him further to-day. come, let us go now." she gently slid her hand from his, and went in front of him out of the abbey. "i was thinking of getting some dinner," said winterborne, changing to the prosaic, as they walked. "and you, too, must require something. do let me take you to a place i know." grace was almost without a friend in the world outside her father's house; her life with fitzpiers had brought her no society; had sometimes, indeed, brought her deeper solitude and inconsideration than any she had ever known before. hence it was a treat to her to find herself again the object of thoughtful care. but she questioned if to go publicly to dine with giles winterborne were not a proposal, due rather to his unsophistication than to his discretion. she said gently that she would much prefer his ordering her lunch at some place and then coming to tell her it was ready, while she remained in the abbey porch. giles saw her secret reasoning, thought how hopelessly blind to propriety he was beside her, and went to do as she wished. he was not absent more than ten minutes, and found grace where he had left her. "it will be quite ready by the time you get there," he said, and told her the name of the inn at which the meal had been ordered, which was one that she had never heard of. "i'll find it by inquiry," said grace, setting out. "and shall i see you again?" "oh yes--come to me there. it will not be like going together. i shall want you to find my father's man and the gig for me." he waited on some ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, till he thought her lunch ended, and that he might fairly take advantage of her invitation to start her on her way home. he went straight to the three tuns--a little tavern in a side street, scrupulously clean, but humble and inexpensive. on his way he had an occasional misgiving as to whether the place had been elegant enough for her; and as soon as he entered it, and saw her ensconced there, he perceived that he had blundered. grace was seated in the only dining-room that the simple old hostelry could boast of, which was also a general parlor on market-days; a long, low apartment, with a sanded floor herring-boned with a broom; a wide, red-curtained window to the street, and another to the garden. grace had retreated to the end of the room looking out upon the latter, the front part being full of a mixed company which had dropped in since he was there. she was in a mood of the greatest depression. on arriving, and seeing what the tavern was like, she had been taken by surprise; but having gone too far to retreat, she had heroically entered and sat down on the well-scrubbed settle, opposite the narrow table with its knives and steel forks, tin pepper-boxes, blue salt-cellars, and posters advertising the sale of bullocks against the wall. the last time that she had taken any meal in a public place it had been with fitzpiers at the grand new earl of wessex hotel in that town, after a two months' roaming and sojourning at the gigantic hotels of the continent. how could she have expected any other kind of accommodation in present circumstances than such as giles had provided? and yet how unprepared she was for this change! the tastes that she had acquired from fitzpiers had been imbibed so subtly that she hardly knew she possessed them till confronted by this contrast. the elegant fitzpiers, in fact, at that very moment owed a long bill at the above-mentioned hotel for the luxurious style in which he used to put her up there whenever they drove to sherton. but such is social sentiment, that she had been quite comfortable under those debt-impending conditions, while she felt humiliated by her present situation, which winterborne had paid for honestly on the nail. he had noticed in a moment that she shrunk from her position, and all his pleasure was gone. it was the same susceptibility over again which had spoiled his christmas party long ago. but he did not know that this recrudescence was only the casual result of grace's apprenticeship to what she was determined to learn in spite of it--a consequence of one of those sudden surprises which confront everybody bent upon turning over a new leaf. she had finished her lunch, which he saw had been a very mincing performance; and he brought her out of the house as soon as he could. "now," he said, with great sad eyes, "you have not finished at all well, i know. come round to the earl of wessex. i'll order a tea there. i did not remember that what was good enough for me was not good enough for you." her face faded into an aspect of deep distress when she saw what had happened. "oh no, giles," she said, with extreme pathos; "certainly not. why do you--say that when you know better? you ever will misunderstand me." "indeed, that's not so, mrs. fitzpiers. can you deny that you felt out of place at the three tuns?" "i don't know. well, since you make me speak, i do not deny it." "and yet i have felt at home there these twenty years. your husband used always to take you to the earl of wessex, did he not?" "yes," she reluctantly admitted. how could she explain in the street of a market-town that it was her superficial and transitory taste which had been offended, and not her nature or her affection? fortunately, or unfortunately, at that moment they saw melbury's man driving vacantly along the street in search of her, the hour having passed at which he had been told to take her up. winterborne hailed him, and she was powerless then to prolong the discourse. she entered the vehicle sadly, and the horse trotted away. chapter xxxix. all night did winterborne think over that unsatisfactory ending of a pleasant time, forgetting the pleasant time itself. he feared anew that they could never be happy together, even should she be free to choose him. she was accomplished; he was unrefined. it was the original difficulty, which he was too sensitive to recklessly ignore, as some men would have done in his place. he was one of those silent, unobtrusive beings who want little from others in the way of favor or condescension, and perhaps on that very account scrutinize those others' behavior too closely. he was not versatile, but one in whom a hope or belief which had once had its rise, meridian, and decline seldom again exactly recurred, as in the breasts of more sanguine mortals. he had once worshipped her, laid out his life to suit her, wooed her, and lost her. though it was with almost the same zest, it was with not quite the same hope, that he had begun to tread the old tracks again, and allowed himself to be so charmed with her that day. move another step towards her he would not. he would even repulse her--as a tribute to conscience. it would be sheer sin to let her prepare a pitfall for her happiness not much smaller than the first by inveigling her into a union with such as he. her poor father was now blind to these subtleties, which he had formerly beheld as in noontide light. it was his own duty to declare them--for her dear sake. grace, too, had a very uncomfortable night, and her solicitous embarrassment was not lessened the next morning when another letter from her father was put into her hands. its tenor was an intenser strain of the one that had preceded it. after stating how extremely glad he was to hear that she was better, and able to get out-of-doors, he went on: "this is a wearisome business, the solicitor we have come to see being out of town. i do not know when i shall get home. my great anxiety in this delay is still lest you should lose giles winterborne. i cannot rest at night for thinking that while our business is hanging fire he may become estranged, or go away from the neighborhood. i have set my heart upon seeing him your husband, if you ever have another. do, then, grace, give him some temporary encouragement, even though it is over-early. for when i consider the past i do think god will forgive me and you for being a little forward. i have another reason for this, my dear. i feel myself going rapidly downhill, and late affairs have still further helped me that way. and until this thing is done i cannot rest in peace." he added a postscript: "i have just heard that the solicitor is to be seen to-morrow. possibly, therefore, i shall return in the evening after you get this." the paternal longing ran on all fours with her own desire; and yet in forwarding it yesterday she had been on the brink of giving offence. while craving to be a country girl again just as her father requested; to put off the old eve, the fastidious miss--or rather madam--completely, her first attempt had been beaten by the unexpected vitality of that fastidiousness. her father on returning and seeing the trifling coolness of giles would be sure to say that the same perversity which had led her to make difficulties about marrying fitzpiers was now prompting her to blow hot and cold with poor winterborne. if the latter had been the most subtle hand at touching the stops of her delicate soul instead of one who had just bound himself to let her drift away from him again (if she would) on the wind of her estranging education, he could not have acted more seductively than he did that day. he chanced to be superintending some temporary work in a field opposite her windows. she could not discover what he was doing, but she read his mood keenly and truly: she could see in his coming and going an air of determined abandonment of the whole landscape that lay in her direction. oh, how she longed to make it up with him! her father coming in the evening--which meant, she supposed, that all formalities would be in train, her marriage virtually annulled, and she be free to be won again--how could she look him in the face if he should see them estranged thus? it was a fair green evening in june. she was seated in the garden, in the rustic chair which stood under the laurel-bushes--made of peeled oak-branches that came to melbury's premises as refuse after barking-time. the mass of full-juiced leafage on the heights around her was just swayed into faint gestures by a nearly spent wind which, even in its enfeebled state, did not reach her shelter. all day she had expected giles to call--to inquire how she had got home, or something or other; but he had not come. and he still tantalized her by going athwart and across that orchard opposite. she could see him as she sat. a slight diversion was presently created by creedle bringing him a letter. she knew from this that creedle had just come from sherton, and had called as usual at the post-office for anything that had arrived by the afternoon post, of which there was no delivery at hintock. she pondered on what the letter might contain--particularly whether it were a second refresher for winterborne from her father, like her own of the morning. but it appeared to have no bearing upon herself whatever. giles read its contents; and almost immediately turned away to a gap in the hedge of the orchard--if that could be called a hedge which, owing to the drippings of the trees, was little more than a bank with a bush upon it here and there. he entered the plantation, and was no doubt going that way homeward to the mysterious hut he occupied on the other side of the woodland. the sad sands were running swiftly through time's glass; she had often felt it in these latter days; and, like giles, she felt it doubly now after the solemn and pathetic reminder in her father's communication. her freshness would pass, the long-suffering devotion of giles might suddenly end--might end that very hour. men were so strange. the thought took away from her all her former reticence, and made her action bold. she started from her seat. if the little breach, quarrel, or whatever it might be called, of yesterday, was to be healed up it must be done by her on the instant. she crossed into the orchard, and clambered through the gap after giles, just as he was diminishing to a faun-like figure under the green canopy and over the brown floor. grace had been wrong--very far wrong--in assuming that the letter had no reference to herself because giles had turned away into the wood after its perusal. it was, sad to say, because the missive had so much reference to herself that he had thus turned away. he feared that his grieved discomfiture might be observed. the letter was from beaucock, written a few hours later than melbury's to his daughter. it announced failure. giles had once done that thriftless man a good turn, and now was the moment when beaucock had chosen to remember it in his own way. during his absence in town with melbury, the lawyer's clerk had naturally heard a great deal of the timber-merchant's family scheme of justice to giles, and his communication was to inform winterborne at the earliest possible moment that their attempt had failed, in order that the young man should not place himself in a false position towards grace in the belief of its coming success. the news was, in sum, that fitzpiers's conduct had not been sufficiently cruel to grace to enable her to snap the bond. she was apparently doomed to be his wife till the end of the chapter. winterborne quite forgot his superficial differences with the poor girl under the warm rush of deep and distracting love for her which the almost tragical information engendered. to renounce her forever--that was then the end of it for him, after all. there was no longer any question about suitability, or room for tiffs on petty tastes. the curtain had fallen again between them. she could not be his. the cruelty of their late revived hope was now terrible. how could they all have been so simple as to suppose this thing could be done? it was at this moment that, hearing some one coming behind him, he turned and saw her hastening on between the thickets. he perceived in an instant that she did not know the blighting news. "giles, why didn't you come across to me?" she asked, with arch reproach. "didn't you see me sitting there ever so long?" "oh yes," he said, in unprepared, extemporized tones, for her unexpected presence caught him without the slightest plan of behavior in the conjuncture. his manner made her think that she had been too chiding in her speech; and a mild scarlet wave passed over her as she resolved to soften it. "i have had another letter from my father," she hastened to continue. "he thinks he may come home this evening. and--in view of his hopes--it will grieve him if there is any little difference between us, giles." "there is none," he said, sadly regarding her from the face downward as he pondered how to lay the cruel truth bare. "still--i fear you have not quite forgiven me about my being uncomfortable at the inn." "i have, grace, i'm sure." "but you speak in quite an unhappy way," she returned, coming up close to him with the most winning of the many pretty airs that appertained to her. "don't you think you will ever be happy, giles?" he did not reply for some instants. "when the sun shines on the north front of sherton abbey--that's when my happiness will come to me!" said he, staring as it were into the earth. "but--then that means that there is something more than my offending you in not liking the three tuns. if it is because i--did not like to let you kiss me in the abbey--well, you know, giles, that it was not on account of my cold feelings, but because i did certainly, just then, think it was rather premature, in spite of my poor father. that was the true reason--the sole one. but i do not want to be hard--god knows i do not," she said, her voice fluctuating. "and perhaps--as i am on the verge of freedom--i am not right, after all, in thinking there is any harm in your kissing me." "oh god!" said winterborne within himself. his head was turned askance as he still resolutely regarded the ground. for the last several minutes he had seen this great temptation approaching him in regular siege; and now it had come. the wrong, the social sin, of now taking advantage of the offer of her lips had a magnitude, in the eyes of one whose life had been so primitive, so ruled by purest household laws, as giles's, which can hardly be explained. "did you say anything?" she asked, timidly. "oh no--only that--" "you mean that it must be settled, since my father is coming home?" she said, gladly. winterborne, though fighting valiantly against himself all this while--though he would have protected grace's good repute as the apple of his eye--was a man; and, as desdemona said, men are not gods. in face of the agonizing seductiveness shown by her, in her unenlightened school-girl simplicity about the laws and ordinances, he betrayed a man's weakness. since it was so--since it had come to this, that grace, deeming herself free to do it, was virtually asking him to demonstrate that he loved her--since he could demonstrate it only too truly--since life was short and love was strong--he gave way to the temptation, notwithstanding that he perfectly well knew her to be wedded irrevocably to fitzpiers. indeed, he cared for nothing past or future, simply accepting the present and what it brought, desiring once in his life to clasp in his arms her he had watched over and loved so long. she started back suddenly from his embrace, influenced by a sort of inspiration. "oh, i suppose," she stammered, "that i am really free?--that this is right? is there really a new law? father cannot have been too sanguine in saying--" he did not answer, and a moment afterwards grace burst into tears in spite of herself. "oh, why does not my father come home and explain," she sobbed, "and let me know clearly what i am? it is too trying, this, to ask me to--and then to leave me so long in so vague a state that i do not know what to do, and perhaps do wrong!" winterborne felt like a very cain, over and above his previous sorrow. how he had sinned against her in not telling her what he knew. he turned aside; the feeling of his cruelty mounted higher and higher. how could he have dreamed of kissing her? he could hardly refrain from tears. surely nothing more pitiable had ever been known than the condition of this poor young thing, now as heretofore the victim of her father's well-meant but blundering policy. even in the hour of melbury's greatest assurance winterborne had harbored a suspicion that no law, new or old, could undo grace's marriage without her appearance in public; though he was not sufficiently sure of what might have been enacted to destroy by his own words her pleasing idea that a mere dash of the pen, on her father's testimony, was going to be sufficient. but he had never suspected the sad fact that the position was irremediable. poor grace, perhaps feeling that she had indulged in too much fluster for a mere kiss, calmed herself at finding how grave he was. "i am glad we are friends again anyhow," she said, smiling through her tears. "giles, if you had only shown half the boldness before i married that you show now, you would have carried me off for your own first instead of second. if we do marry, i hope you will never think badly of me for encouraging you a little, but my father is so impatient, you know, as his years and infirmities increase, that he will wish to see us a little advanced when he comes. that is my only excuse." to winterborne all this was sadder than it was sweet. how could she so trust her father's conjectures? he did not know how to tell her the truth and shame himself. and yet he felt that it must be done. "we may have been wrong," he began, almost fearfully, "in supposing that it can all be carried out while we stay here at hintock. i am not sure but that people may have to appear in a public court even under the new act; and if there should be any difficulty, and we cannot marry after all--" her cheeks became slowly bloodless. "oh, giles," she said, grasping his arm, "you have heard something! what--cannot my father conclude it there and now? surely he has done it? oh, giles, giles, don't deceive me. what terrible position am i in?" he could not tell her, try as he would. the sense of her implicit trust in his honor absolutely disabled him. "i cannot inform you," he murmured, his voice as husky as that of the leaves underfoot. "your father will soon be here. then we shall know. i will take you home." inexpressibly dear as she was to him, he offered her his arm with the most reserved air, as he added, correctingly, "i will take you, at any rate, into the drive." thus they walked on together. grace vibrating between happiness and misgiving. it was only a few minutes' walk to where the drive ran, and they had hardly descended into it when they heard a voice behind them cry, "take out that arm!" for a moment they did not heed, and the voice repeated, more loudly and hoarsely, "take out that arm!" it was melbury's. he had returned sooner than they expected, and now came up to them. grace's hand had been withdrawn like lightning on her hearing the second command. "i don't blame you--i don't blame you," he said, in the weary cadence of one broken down with scourgings. "but you two must walk together no more--i have been surprised--i have been cruelly deceived--giles, don't say anything to me; but go away!" he was evidently not aware that winterborne had known the truth before he brought it; and giles would not stay to discuss it with him then. when the young man had gone melbury took his daughter in-doors to the room he used as his office. there he sat down, and bent over the slope of the bureau, her bewildered gaze fixed upon him. when melbury had recovered a little he said, "you are now, as ever, fitzpiers's wife. i was deluded. he has not done you enough harm. you are still subject to his beck and call." "then let it be, and never mind, father," she said, with dignified sorrow. "i can bear it. it is your trouble that grieves me most." she stooped over him, and put her arm round his neck, which distressed melbury still more. "i don't mind at all what comes to me," grace continued; "whose wife i am, or whose i am not. i do love giles; i cannot help that; and i have gone further with him than i should have done if i had known exactly how things were. but i do not reproach you." "then giles did not tell you?" said melbury. "no," said she. "he could not have known it. his behavior to me proved that he did not know." her father said nothing more, and grace went away to the solitude of her chamber. her heavy disquietude had many shapes; and for a time she put aside the dominant fact to think of her too free conduct towards giles. his love-making had been brief as it was sweet; but would he on reflection contemn her for forwardness? how could she have been so simple as to suppose she was in a position to behave as she had done! thus she mentally blamed her ignorance; and yet in the centre of her heart she blessed it a little for what it had momentarily brought her. chapter xl. life among the people involved in these events seemed to be suppressed and hide-bound for a while. grace seldom showed herself outside the house, never outside the garden; for she feared she might encounter giles winterborne; and that she could not bear. this pensive intramural existence of the self-constituted nun appeared likely to continue for an indefinite time. she had learned that there was one possibility in which her formerly imagined position might become real, and only one; that her husband's absence should continue long enough to amount to positive desertion. but she never allowed her mind to dwell much upon the thought; still less did she deliberately hope for such a result. her regard for winterborne had been rarefied by the shock which followed its avowal into an ethereal emotion that had little to do with living and doing. as for giles, he was lying--or rather sitting--ill at his hut. a feverish indisposition which had been hanging about him for some time, the result of a chill caught the previous winter, seemed to acquire virulence with the prostration of his hopes. but not a soul knew of his languor, and he did not think the case serious enough to send for a medical man. after a few days he was better again, and crept about his home in a great coat, attending to his simple wants as usual with his own hands. so matters stood when the limpid inertion of grace's pool-like existence was disturbed as by a geyser. she received a letter from fitzpiers. such a terrible letter it was in its import, though couched in the gentlest language. in his absence grace had grown to regard him with toleration, and her relation to him with equanimity, till she had almost forgotten how trying his presence would be. he wrote briefly and unaffectedly; he made no excuses, but informed her that he was living quite alone, and had been led to think that they ought to be together, if she would make up her mind to forgive him. he therefore purported to cross the channel to budmouth by the steamer on a day he named, which she found to be three days after the time of her present reading. he said that he could not come to hintock for obvious reasons, which her father would understand even better than herself. as the only alternative she was to be on the quay to meet the steamer when it arrived from the opposite coast, probably about half an hour before midnight, bringing with her any luggage she might require; join him there, and pass with him into the twin vessel, which left immediately the other entered the harbor; returning thus with him to his continental dwelling-place, which he did not name. he had no intention of showing himself on land at all. the troubled grace took the letter to her father, who now continued for long hours by the fireless summer chimney-corner, as if he thought it were winter, the pitcher of cider standing beside him, mostly untasted, and coated with a film of dust. after reading it he looked up. "you sha'n't go," said he. "i had felt i would not," she answered. "but i did not know what you would say." "if he comes and lives in england, not too near here and in a respectable way, and wants you to come to him, i am not sure that i'll oppose him in wishing it," muttered melbury. "i'd stint myself to keep you both in a genteel and seemly style. but go abroad you never shall with my consent." there the question rested that day. grace was unable to reply to her husband in the absence of an address, and the morrow came, and the next day, and the evening on which he had requested her to meet him. throughout the whole of it she remained within the four walls of her room. the sense of her harassment, carking doubt of what might be impending, hung like a cowl of blackness over the melbury household. they spoke almost in whispers, and wondered what fitzpiers would do next. it was the hope of every one that, finding she did not arrive, he would return again to france; and as for grace, she was willing to write to him on the most kindly terms if he would only keep away. the night passed, grace lying tense and wide awake, and her relatives, in great part, likewise. when they met the next morning they were pale and anxious, though neither speaking of the subject which occupied all their thoughts. the day passed as quietly as the previous ones, and she began to think that in the rank caprice of his moods he had abandoned the idea of getting her to join him as quickly as it was formed. all on a sudden, some person who had just come from sherton entered the house with the news that mr. fitzpiers was on his way home to hintock. he had been seen hiring a carriage at the earl of wessex hotel. her father and grace were both present when the intelligence was announced. "now," said melbury, "we must make the best of what has been a very bad matter. the man is repenting; the partner of his shame, i hear, is gone away from him to switzerland, so that chapter of his life is probably over. if he chooses to make a home for ye i think you should not say him nay, grace. certainly he cannot very well live at hintock without a blow to his pride; but if he can bear that, and likes hintock best, why, there's the empty wing of the house as it was before." "oh, father!" said grace, turning white with dismay. "why not?" said he, a little of his former doggedness returning. he was, in truth, disposed to somewhat more leniency towards her husband just now than he had shown formerly, from a conviction that he had treated him over-roughly in his anger. "surely it is the most respectable thing to do?" he continued. "i don't like this state that you are in--neither married nor single. it hurts me, and it hurts you, and it will always be remembered against us in hintock. there has never been any scandal like it in the family before." "he will be here in less than an hour," murmured grace. the twilight of the room prevented her father seeing the despondent misery of her face. the one intolerable condition, the condition she had deprecated above all others, was that of fitzpiers's reinstatement there. "oh, i won't, i won't see him," she said, sinking down. she was almost hysterical. "try if you cannot," he returned, moodily. "oh yes, i will, i will," she went on, inconsequently. "i'll try;" and jumping up suddenly, she left the room. in the darkness of the apartment to which she flew nothing could have been seen during the next half-hour; but from a corner a quick breathing was audible from this impressible creature, who combined modern nerves with primitive emotions, and was doomed by such coexistence to be numbered among the distressed, and to take her scourgings to their exquisite extremity. the window was open. on this quiet, late summer evening, whatever sound arose in so secluded a district--the chirp of a bird, a call from a voice, the turning of a wheel--extended over bush and tree to unwonted distances. very few sounds did arise. but as grace invisibly breathed in the brown glooms of the chamber, the small remote noise of light wheels came in to her, accompanied by the trot of a horse on the turnpike-road. there seemed to be a sudden hitch or pause in the progress of the vehicle, which was what first drew her attention to it. she knew the point whence the sound proceeded--the hill-top over which travellers passed on their way hitherward from sherton abbas--the place at which she had emerged from the wood with mrs. charmond. grace slid along the floor, and bent her head over the window-sill, listening with open lips. the carriage had stopped, and she heard a man use exclamatory words. then another said, "what the devil is the matter with the horse?" she recognized the voice as her husband's. the accident, such as it had been, was soon remedied, and the carriage could be heard descending the hill on the hintock side, soon to turn into the lane leading out of the highway, and then into the "drong" which led out of the lane to the house where she was. a spasm passed through grace. the daphnean instinct, exceptionally strong in her as a girl, had been revived by her widowed seclusion; and it was not lessened by her affronted sentiments towards the comer, and her regard for another man. she opened some little ivory tablets that lay on the dressing-table, scribbled in pencil on one of them, "i am gone to visit one of my school-friends," gathered a few toilet necessaries into a hand-bag, and not three minutes after that voice had been heard, her slim form, hastily wrapped up from observation, might have been seen passing out of the back door of melbury's house. thence she skimmed up the garden-path, through the gap in the hedge, and into the mossy cart-track under the trees which led into the depth of the woods. the leaves overhead were now in their latter green--so opaque, that it was darker at some of the densest spots than in winter-time, scarce a crevice existing by which a ray could get down to the ground. but in open places she could see well enough. summer was ending: in the daytime singing insects hung in every sunbeam; vegetation was heavy nightly with globes of dew; and after showers creeping damps and twilight chills came up from the hollows. the plantations were always weird at this hour of eve--more spectral far than in the leafless season, when there were fewer masses and more minute lineality. the smooth surfaces of glossy plants came out like weak, lidless eyes; there were strange faces and figures from expiring lights that had somehow wandered into the canopied obscurity; while now and then low peeps of the sky between the trunks were like sheeted shapes, and on the tips of boughs sat faint cloven tongues. but grace's fear just now was not imaginative or spiritual, and she heeded these impressions but little. she went on as silently as she could, avoiding the hollows wherein leaves had accumulated, and stepping upon soundless moss and grass-tufts. she paused breathlessly once or twice, and fancied that she could hear, above the beat of her strumming pulse, the vehicle containing fitzpiers turning in at the gate of her father's premises. she hastened on again. the hintock woods owned by mrs. charmond were presently left behind, and those into which she next plunged were divided from the latter by a bank, from whose top the hedge had long ago perished--starved for want of sun. it was with some caution that grace now walked, though she was quite free from any of the commonplace timidities of her ordinary pilgrimages to such spots. she feared no lurking harms, but that her effort would be all in vain, and her return to the house rendered imperative. she had walked between three and four miles when that prescriptive comfort and relief to wanderers in woods--a distant light--broke at last upon her searching eyes. it was so very small as to be almost sinister to a stranger, but to her it was what she sought. she pushed forward, and the dim outline of a dwelling was disclosed. the house was a square cot of one story only, sloping up on all sides to a chimney in the midst. it had formerly been the home of a charcoal-burner, in times when that fuel was still used in the county houses. its only appurtenance was a paled enclosure, there being no garden, the shade of the trees preventing the growth of vegetables. she advanced to the window whence the rays of light proceeded, and the shutters being as yet unclosed, she could survey the whole interior through the panes. the room within was kitchen, parlor, and scullery all in one; the natural sandstone floor was worn into hills and dales by long treading, so that none of the furniture stood level, and the table slanted like a desk. a fire burned on the hearth, in front of which revolved the skinned carcass of a rabbit, suspended by a string from a nail. leaning with one arm on the mantle-shelf stood winterborne, his eyes on the roasting animal, his face so rapt that speculation could build nothing on it concerning his thoughts, more than that they were not with the scene before him. she thought his features had changed a little since she saw them last. the fire-light did not enable her to perceive that they were positively haggard. grace's throat emitted a gasp of relief at finding the result so nearly as she had hoped. she went to the door and tapped lightly. he seemed to be accustomed to the noises of woodpeckers, squirrels, and such small creatures, for he took no notice of her tiny signal, and she knocked again. this time he came and opened the door. when the light of the room fell upon her face he started, and, hardly knowing what he did, crossed the threshold to her, placing his hands upon her two arms, while surprise, joy, alarm, sadness, chased through him by turns. with grace it was the same: even in this stress there was the fond fact that they had met again. thus they stood, "long tears upon their faces, waxen white with extreme sad delight." he broke the silence by saying in a whisper, "come in." "no, no, giles!" she answered, hurriedly, stepping yet farther back from the door. "i am passing by--and i have called on you--i won't enter. will you help me? i am afraid. i want to get by a roundabout way to sherton, and so to exbury. i have a school-fellow there--but i cannot get to sherton alone. oh, if you will only accompany me a little way! don't condemn me, giles, and be offended! i was obliged to come to you because--i have no other help here. three months ago you were my lover; now you are only my friend. the law has stepped in, and forbidden what we thought of. it must not be. but we can act honestly, and yet you can be my friend for one little hour? i have no other--" she could get no further. covering her eyes with one hand, by an effort of repression she wept a silent trickle, without a sigh or sob. winterborne took her other hand. "what has happened?" he said. "he has come." there was a stillness as of death, till winterborne asked, "you mean this, grace--that i am to help you to get away?" "yes," said she. "appearance is no matter, when the reality is right. i have said to myself i can trust you." giles knew from this that she did not suspect his treachery--if it could be called such--earlier in the summer, when they met for the last time as lovers; and in the intensity of his contrition for that tender wrong, he determined to deserve her faith now at least, and so wipe out that reproach from his conscience. "i'll come at once," he said. "i'll light a lantern." he unhooked a dark-lantern from a nail under the eaves and she did not notice how his hand shook with the slight strain, or dream that in making this offer he was taxing a convalescence which could ill afford such self-sacrifice. the lantern was lit, and they started. chapter xli. the first hundred yards of their course lay under motionless trees, whose upper foliage began to hiss with falling drops of rain. by the time that they emerged upon a glade it rained heavily. "this is awkward," said grace, with an effort to hide her concern. winterborne stopped. "grace," he said, preserving a strictly business manner which belied him, "you cannot go to sherton to-night." "but i must!" "why? it is nine miles from here. it is almost an impossibility in this rain." "true--why?" she replied, mournfully, at the end of a silence. "what is reputation to me?" "now hearken," said giles. "you won't--go back to your--" "no, no, no! don't make me!" she cried, piteously. "then let us turn." they slowly retraced their steps, and again stood before his door. "now, this house from this moment is yours, and not mine," he said, deliberately. "i have a place near by where i can stay very well." her face had drooped. "oh!" she murmured, as she saw the dilemma. "what have i done!" there was a smell of something burning within, and he looked through the window. the rabbit that he had been cooking to coax a weak appetite was beginning to char. "please go in and attend to it," he said. "do what you like. now i leave. you will find everything about the hut that is necessary." "but, giles--your supper," she exclaimed. "an out-house would do for me--anything--till to-morrow at day-break!" he signified a negative. "i tell you to go in--you may catch agues out here in your delicate state. you can give me my supper through the window, if you feel well enough. i'll wait a while." he gently urged her to pass the door-way, and was relieved when he saw her within the room sitting down. without so much as crossing the threshold himself, he closed the door upon her, and turned the key in the lock. tapping at the window, he signified that she should open the casement, and when she had done this he handed in the key to her. "you are locked in," he said; "and your own mistress." even in her trouble she could not refrain from a faint smile at his scrupulousness, as she took the door-key. "do you feel better?" he went on. "if so, and you wish to give me some of your supper, please do. if not, it is of no importance. i can get some elsewhere." the grateful sense of his kindness stirred her to action, though she only knew half what that kindness really was. at the end of some ten minutes she again came to the window, pushed it open, and said in a whisper, "giles!" he at once emerged from the shade, and saw that she was preparing to hand him his share of the meal upon a plate. "i don't like to treat you so hardly," she murmured, with deep regret in her words as she heard the rain pattering on the leaves. "but--i suppose it is best to arrange like this?" "oh yes," he said, quickly. "i feel that i could never have reached sherton." "it was impossible." "are you sure you have a snug place out there?" (with renewed misgiving.) "quite. have you found everything you want? i am afraid it is rather rough accommodation." "can i notice defects? i have long passed that stage, and you know it, giles, or you ought to." his eyes sadly contemplated her face as its pale responsiveness modulated through a crowd of expressions that showed only too clearly to what a pitch she was strung. if ever winterborne's heart fretted his bosom it was at this sight of a perfectly defenceless creature conditioned by such circumstances. he forgot his own agony in the satisfaction of having at least found her a shelter. he took his plate and cup from her hands, saying, "now i'll push the shutter to, and you will find an iron pin on the inside, which you must fix into the bolt. do not stir in the morning till i come and call you." she expressed an alarmed hope that he would not go very far away. "oh no--i shall be quite within hail," said winterborne. she bolted the window as directed, and he retreated. his snug place proved to be a wretched little shelter of the roughest kind, formed of four hurdles thatched with brake-fern. underneath were dry sticks, hay, and other litter of the sort, upon which he sat down; and there in the dark tried to eat his meal. but his appetite was quite gone. he pushed the plate aside, and shook up the hay and sacks, so as to form a rude couch, on which he flung himself down to sleep, for it was getting late. but sleep he could not, for many reasons, of which not the least was thought of his charge. he sat up, and looked towards the cot through the damp obscurity. with all its external features the same as usual, he could scarcely believe that it contained the dear friend--he would not use a warmer name--who had come to him so unexpectedly, and, he could not help admitting, so rashly. he had not ventured to ask her any particulars; but the position was pretty clear without them. though social law had negatived forever their opening paradise of the previous june, it was not without stoical pride that he accepted the present trying conjuncture. there was one man on earth in whom she believed absolutely, and he was that man. that this crisis could end in nothing but sorrow was a view for a moment effaced by this triumphant thought of her trust in him; and the purity of the affection with which he responded to that trust rendered him more than proof against any frailty that besieged him in relation to her. the rain, which had never ceased, now drew his attention by beginning to drop through the meagre screen that covered him. he rose to attempt some remedy for this discomfort, but the trembling of his knees and the throbbing of his pulse told him that in his weakness he was unable to fence against the storm, and he lay down to bear it as best he might. he was angry with himself for his feebleness--he who had been so strong. it was imperative that she should know nothing of his present state, and to do that she must not see his face by daylight, for its color would inevitably betray him. the next morning, accordingly, when it was hardly light, he rose and dragged his stiff limbs about the precincts, preparing for her everything she could require for getting breakfast within. on the bench outside the window-sill he placed water, wood, and other necessaries, writing with a piece of chalk beside them, "it is best that i should not see you. put my breakfast on the bench." at seven o'clock he tapped at her window, as he had promised, retreating at once, that she might not catch sight of him. but from his shelter under the boughs he could see her very well, when, in response to his signal, she opened the window and the light fell upon her face. the languid largeness of her eyes showed that her sleep had been little more than his own, and the pinkness of their lids, that her waking hours had not been free from tears. she read the writing, seemed, he thought, disappointed, but took up the materials he had provided, evidently thinking him some way off. giles waited on, assured that a girl who, in spite of her culture, knew what country life was, would find no difficulty in the simple preparation of their food. within the cot it was all very much as he conjectured, though grace had slept much longer than he. after the loneliness of the night, she would have been glad to see him; but appreciating his feeling when she read the writing, she made no attempt to recall him. she found abundance of provisions laid in, his plan being to replenish his buttery weekly, and this being the day after the victualling van had called from sherton. when the meal was ready, she put what he required outside, as she had done with the supper; and, notwithstanding her longing to see him, withdrew from the window promptly, and left him to himself. it had been a leaden dawn, and the rain now steadily renewed its fall. as she heard no more of winterborne, she concluded that he had gone away to his daily work, and forgotten that he had promised to accompany her to sherton; an erroneous conclusion, for he remained all day, by force of his condition, within fifty yards of where she was. the morning wore on; and in her doubt when to start, and how to travel, she lingered yet, keeping the door carefully bolted, lest an intruder should discover her. locked in this place, she was comparatively safe, at any rate, and doubted if she would be safe elsewhere. the humid gloom of an ordinary wet day was doubled by the shade and drip of the leafage. autumn, this year, was coming in with rains. gazing, in her enforced idleness, from the one window of the living-room, she could see various small members of the animal community that lived unmolested there--creatures of hair, fluff, and scale, the toothed kind and the billed kind; underground creatures, jointed and ringed--circumambulating the hut, under the impression that, giles having gone away, nobody was there; and eying it inquisitively with a view to winter-quarters. watching these neighbors, who knew neither law nor sin, distracted her a little from her trouble; and she managed to while away some portion of the afternoon by putting giles's home in order and making little improvements which she deemed that he would value when she was gone. once or twice she fancied that she heard a faint noise amid the trees, resembling a cough; but as it never came any nearer she concluded that it was a squirrel or a bird. at last the daylight lessened, and she made up a larger fire for the evenings were chilly. as soon as it was too dark--which was comparatively early--to discern the human countenance in this place of shadows, there came to the window to her great delight, a tapping which she knew from its method to be giles's. she opened the casement instantly, and put out her hand to him, though she could only just perceive his outline. he clasped her fingers, and she noticed the heat of his palm and its shakiness. "he has been walking fast, in order to get here quickly," she thought. how could she know that he had just crawled out from the straw of the shelter hard by; and that the heat of his hand was feverishness? "my dear, good giles!" she burst out, impulsively. "anybody would have done it for you," replied winterborne, with as much matter-of-fact as he could summon. "about my getting to exbury?" she said. "i have been thinking," responded giles, with tender deference, "that you had better stay where you are for the present, if you wish not to be caught. i need not tell you that the place is yours as long as you like; and perhaps in a day or two, finding you absent, he will go away. at any rate, in two or three days i could do anything to assist--such as make inquiries, or go a great way towards sherton-abbas with you; for the cider season will soon be coming on, and i want to run down to the vale to see how the crops are, and i shall go by the sherton road. but for a day or two i am busy here." he was hoping that by the time mentioned he would be strong enough to engage himself actively on her behalf. "i hope you do not feel over-much melancholy in being a prisoner?" she declared that she did not mind it; but she sighed. from long acquaintance they could read each other's heart-symptoms like books of large type. "i fear you are sorry you came," said giles, "and that you think i should have advised you more firmly than i did not to stay." "oh no, dear, dear friend," answered grace, with a heaving bosom. "don't think that that is what i regret. what i regret is my enforced treatment of you--dislodging you, excluding you from your own house. why should i not speak out? you know what i feel for you--what i have felt for no other living man, what i shall never feel for a man again! but as i have vowed myself to somebody else than you, and cannot be released, i must behave as i do behave, and keep that vow. i am not bound to him by any divine law, after what he has done; but i have promised, and i will pay." the rest of the evening was passed in his handing her such things as she would require the next day, and casual remarks thereupon, an occupation which diverted her mind to some degree from pathetic views of her attitude towards him, and of her life in general. the only infringement--if infringement it could be called--of his predetermined bearing towards her was an involuntary pressing of her hand to his lips when she put it through the casement to bid him good-night. he knew she was weeping, though he could not see her tears. she again entreated his forgiveness for so selfishly appropriating the cottage. but it would only be for a day or two more, she thought, since go she must. he replied, yearningly, "i--i don't like you to go away." "oh, giles," said she, "i know--i know! but--i am a woman, and you are a man. i cannot speak more plainly. 'whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are of good report'--you know what is in my mind, because you know me so well." "yes, grace, yes. i do not at all mean that the question between us has not been settled by the fact of your marriage turning out hopelessly unalterable. i merely meant--well, a feeling no more." "in a week, at the outside, i should be discovered if i stayed here: and i think that by law he could compel me to return to him." "yes; perhaps you are right. go when you wish, dear grace." his last words that evening were a hopeful remark that all might be well with her yet; that mr. fitzpiers would not intrude upon her life, if he found that his presence cost her so much pain. then the window was closed, the shutters folded, and the rustle of his footsteps died away. no sooner had she retired to rest that night than the wind began to rise, and, after a few prefatory blasts, to be accompanied by rain. the wind grew more violent, and as the storm went on, it was difficult to believe that no opaque body, but only an invisible colorless thing, was trampling and climbing over the roof, making branches creak, springing out of the trees upon the chimney, popping its head into the flue, and shrieking and blaspheming at every corner of the walls. as in the old story, the assailant was a spectre which could be felt but not seen. she had never before been so struck with the devilry of a gusty night in a wood, because she had never been so entirely alone in spirit as she was now. she seemed almost to be apart from herself--a vacuous duplicate only. the recent self of physical animation and clear intentions was not there. sometimes a bough from an adjoining tree was swayed so low as to smite the roof in the manner of a gigantic hand smiting the mouth of an adversary, to be followed by a trickle of rain, as blood from the wound. to all this weather giles must be more or less exposed; how much, she did not know. at last grace could hardly endure the idea of such a hardship in relation to him. whatever he was suffering, it was she who had caused it; he vacated his house on account of her. she was not worth such self-sacrifice; she should not have accepted it of him. and then, as her anxiety increased with increasing thought, there returned upon her mind some incidents of her late intercourse with him, which she had heeded but little at the time. the look of his face--what had there been about his face which seemed different from its appearance as of yore? was it not thinner, less rich in hue, less like that of ripe autumn's brother to whom she had formerly compared him? and his voice; she had distinctly noticed a change in tone. and his gait; surely it had been feebler, stiffer, more like the gait of a weary man. that slight occasional noise she had heard in the day, and attributed to squirrels, it might have been his cough after all. thus conviction took root in her perturbed mind that winterborne was ill, or had been so, and that he had carefully concealed his condition from her that she might have no scruples about accepting a hospitality which by the nature of the case expelled her entertainer. "my own, own, true l----, my dear kind friend!" she cried to herself. "oh, it shall not be--it shall not be!" she hastily wrapped herself up, and obtained a light, with which she entered the adjoining room, the cot possessing only one floor. setting down the candle on the table here, she went to the door with the key in her hand, and placed it in the lock. before turning it she paused, her fingers still clutching it; and pressing her other hand to her forehead, she fell into agitating thought. a tattoo on the window, caused by the tree-droppings blowing against it, brought her indecision to a close. she turned the key and opened the door. the darkness was intense, seeming to touch her pupils like a substance. she only now became aware how heavy the rainfall had been and was; the dripping of the eaves splashed like a fountain. she stood listening with parted lips, and holding the door in one hand, till her eyes, growing accustomed to the obscurity, discerned the wild brandishing of their boughs by the adjoining trees. at last she cried loudly with an effort, "giles! you may come in!" there was no immediate answer to her cry, and overpowered by her own temerity, grace retreated quickly, shut the door, and stood looking on the floor. but it was not for long. she again lifted the latch, and with far more determination than at first. "giles, giles!" she cried, with the full strength of her voice, and without any of the shamefacedness that had characterized her first cry. "oh, come in--come in! where are you? i have been wicked. i have thought too much of myself! do you hear? i don't want to keep you out any longer. i cannot bear that you should suffer so. gi-i-iles!" a reply! it was a reply! through the darkness and wind a voice reached her, floating upon the weather as though a part of it. "here i am--all right. don't trouble about me." "don't you want to come in? are you not ill? i don't mind what they say, or what they think any more." "i am all right," he repeated. "it is not necessary for me to come. good-night! good-night!" grace sighed, turned and shut the door slowly. could she have been mistaken about his health? perhaps, after all, she had perceived a change in him because she had not seen him for so long. time sometimes did his ageing work in jerks, as she knew. well, she had done all she could. he would not come in. she retired to rest again. chapter xlii. the next morning grace was at the window early. she felt determined to see him somehow that day, and prepared his breakfast eagerly. eight o'clock struck, and she had remembered that he had not come to arouse her by a knocking, as usual, her own anxiety having caused her to stir. the breakfast was set in its place without. but he did not arrive to take it; and she waited on. nine o'clock arrived, and the breakfast was cold; and still there was no giles. a thrush, that had been repeating itself a good deal on an opposite bush for some time, came and took a morsel from the plate and bolted it, waited, looked around, and took another. at ten o'clock she drew in the tray, and sat down to her own solitary meal. he must have been called away on business early, the rain having cleared off. yet she would have liked to assure herself, by thoroughly exploring the precincts of the hut, that he was nowhere in its vicinity; but as the day was comparatively fine, the dread lest some stray passenger or woodman should encounter her in such a reconnoitre paralyzed her wish. the solitude was further accentuated to-day by the stopping of the clock for want of winding, and the fall into the chimney-corner of flakes of soot loosened by the rains. at noon she heard a slight rustling outside the window, and found that it was caused by an eft which had crept out of the leaves to bask in the last sun-rays that would be worth having till the following may. she continually peeped out through the lattice, but could see little. in front lay the brown leaves of last year, and upon them some yellowish-green ones of this season that had been prematurely blown down by the gale. above stretched an old beech, with vast armpits, and great pocket-holes in its sides where branches had been amputated in past times; a black slug was trying to climb it. dead boughs were scattered about like ichthyosauri in a museum, and beyond them were perishing woodbine stems resembling old ropes. from the other window all she could see were more trees, jacketed with lichen and stockinged with moss. at their roots were stemless yellow fungi like lemons and apricots, and tall fungi with more stem than stool. next were more trees close together, wrestling for existence, their branches disfigured with wounds resulting from their mutual rubbings and blows. it was the struggle between these neighbors that she had heard in the night. beneath them were the rotting stumps of those of the group that had been vanquished long ago, rising from their mossy setting like decayed teeth from green gums. farther on were other tufts of moss in islands divided by the shed leaves--variety upon variety, dark green and pale green; moss-like little fir-trees, like plush, like malachite stars, like nothing on earth except moss. the strain upon grace's mind in various ways was so great on this the most desolate day she had passed there that she felt it would be well-nigh impossible to spend another in such circumstances. the evening came at last; the sun, when its chin was on the earth, found an opening through which to pierce the shade, and stretched irradiated gauzes across the damp atmosphere, making the wet trunks shine, and throwing splotches of such ruddiness on the leaves beneath the beech that they were turned to gory hues. when night at last arrived, and with it the time for his return, she was nearly broken down with suspense. the simple evening meal, partly tea, partly supper, which grace had prepared, stood waiting upon the hearth; and yet giles did not come. it was now nearly twenty-four hours since she had seen him. as the room grew darker, and only the firelight broke against the gloom of the walls, she was convinced that it would be beyond her staying power to pass the night without hearing from him or from somebody. yet eight o'clock drew on, and his form at the window did not appear. the meal remained untasted. suddenly rising from before the hearth of smouldering embers, where she had been crouching with her hands clasped over her knees, she crossed the room, unlocked the door, and listened. every breath of wind had ceased with the decline of day, but the rain had resumed the steady dripping of the night before. grace might have stood there five minutes when she fancied she heard that old sound, a cough, at no great distance; and it was presently repeated. if it were winterborne's, he must be near her; why, then, had he not visited her? a horrid misgiving that he could not visit her took possession of grace, and she looked up anxiously for the lantern, which was hanging above her head. to light it and go in the direction of the sound would be the obvious way to solve the dread problem; but the conditions made her hesitate, and in a moment a cold sweat pervaded her at further sounds from the same quarter. they were low mutterings; at first like persons in conversation, but gradually resolving themselves into varieties of one voice. it was an endless monologue, like that we sometimes hear from inanimate nature in deep secret places where water flows, or where ivy leaves flap against stones; but by degrees she was convinced that the voice was winterborne's. yet who could be his listener, so mute and patient; for though he argued so rapidly and persistently, nobody replied. a dreadful enlightenment spread through the mind of grace. "oh," she cried, in her anguish, as she hastily prepared herself to go out, "how selfishly correct i am always--too, too correct! cruel propriety is killing the dearest heart that ever woman clasped to her own." while speaking thus to herself she had lit the lantern, and hastening out without further thought, took the direction whence the mutterings had proceeded. the course was marked by a little path, which ended at a distance of about forty yards in a small erection of hurdles, not much larger than a shock of corn, such as were frequent in the woods and copses when the cutting season was going on. it was too slight even to be called a hovel, and was not high enough to stand upright in; appearing, in short, to be erected for the temporary shelter of fuel. the side towards grace was open, and turning the light upon the interior, she beheld what her prescient fear had pictured in snatches all the way thither. upon the straw within, winterborne lay in his clothes, just as she had seen him during the whole of her stay here, except that his hat was off, and his hair matted and wild. both his clothes and the straw were saturated with rain. his arms were flung over his head; his face was flushed to an unnatural crimson. his eyes had a burning brightness, and though they met her own, she perceived that he did not recognize her. "oh, my giles," she cried, "what have i done to you!" but she stopped no longer even to reproach herself. she saw that the first thing to be thought of was to get him indoors. how grace performed that labor she never could have exactly explained. but by dint of clasping her arms round him, rearing him into a sitting posture, and straining her strength to the uttermost, she put him on one of the hurdles that was loose alongside, and taking the end of it in both her hands, dragged him along the path to the entrance of the hut, and, after a pause for breath, in at the door-way. it was somewhat singular that giles in his semi-conscious state acquiesced unresistingly in all that she did. but he never for a moment recognized her--continuing his rapid conversation to himself, and seeming to look upon her as some angel, or other supernatural creature of the visionary world in which he was mentally living. the undertaking occupied her more than ten minutes; but by that time, to her great thankfulness, he was in the inner room, lying on the bed, his damp outer clothing removed. then the unhappy grace regarded him by the light of the candle. there was something in his look which agonized her, in the rush of his thoughts, accelerating their speed from minute to minute. he seemed to be passing through the universe of ideas like a comet--erratic, inapprehensible, untraceable. grace's distraction was almost as great as his. in a few moments she firmly believed he was dying. unable to withstand her impulse, she knelt down beside him, kissed his hands and his face and his hair, exclaiming, in a low voice, "how could i? how could i?" her timid morality had, indeed, underrated his chivalry till now, though she knew him so well. the purity of his nature, his freedom from the grosser passions, his scrupulous delicacy, had never been fully understood by grace till this strange self-sacrifice in lonely juxtaposition to her own person was revealed. the perception of it added something that was little short of reverence to the deep affection for him of a woman who, herself, had more of artemis than of aphrodite in her constitution. all that a tender nurse could do, grace did; and the power to express her solicitude in action, unconscious though the sufferer was, brought her mournful satisfaction. she bathed his hot head, wiped his perspiring hands, moistened his lips, cooled his fiery eyelids, sponged his heated skin, and administered whatever she could find in the house that the imagination could conceive as likely to be in any way alleviating. that she might have been the cause, or partially the cause, of all this, interfused misery with her sorrow. six months before this date a scene, almost similar in its mechanical parts, had been enacted at hintock house. it was between a pair of persons most intimately connected in their lives with these. outwardly like as it had been, it was yet infinite in spiritual difference, though a woman's devotion had been common to both. grace rose from her attitude of affection, and, bracing her energies, saw that something practical must immediately be done. much as she would have liked, in the emotion of the moment, to keep him entirely to herself, medical assistance was necessary while there remained a possibility of preserving him alive. such assistance was fatal to her own concealment; but even had the chance of benefiting him been less than it was, she would have run the hazard for his sake. the question was, where should she get a medical man, competent and near? there was one such man, and only one, within accessible distance; a man who, if it were possible to save winterborne's life, had the brain most likely to do it. if human pressure could bring him, that man ought to be brought to the sick giles's side. the attempt should be made. yet she dreaded to leave her patient, and the minutes raced past, and yet she postponed her departure. at last, when it was after eleven o'clock, winterborne fell into a fitful sleep, and it seemed to afford her an opportunity. she hastily made him as comfortable as she could, put on her things, cut a new candle from the bunch hanging in the cupboard, and having set it up, and placed it so that the light did not fall upon his eyes, she closed the door and started. the spirit of winterborne seemed to keep her company and banish all sense of darkness from her mind. the rains had imparted a phosphorescence to the pieces of touchwood and rotting leaves that lay about her path, which, as scattered by her feet, spread abroad like spilt milk. she would not run the hazard of losing her way by plunging into any short, unfrequented track through the denser parts of the woodland, but followed a more open course, which eventually brought her to the highway. once here, she ran along with great speed, animated by a devoted purpose which had much about it that was stoical; and it was with scarcely any faltering of spirit that, after an hour's progress, she passed over rubdown hill, and onward towards that same hintock, and that same house, out of which she had fled a few days before in irresistible alarm. but that had happened which, above all other things of chance and change, could make her deliberately frustrate her plan of flight and sink all regard of personal consequences. one speciality of fitzpiers's was respected by grace as much as ever--his professional skill. in this she was right. had his persistence equalled his insight, instead of being the spasmodic and fitful thing it was, fame and fortune need never have remained a wish with him. his freedom from conventional errors and crusted prejudices had, indeed, been such as to retard rather than accelerate his advance in hintock and its neighborhood, where people could not believe that nature herself effected cures, and that the doctor's business was only to smooth the way. it was past midnight when grace arrived opposite her father's house, now again temporarily occupied by her husband, unless he had already gone away. ever since her emergence from the denser plantations about winterborne's residence a pervasive lightness had hung in the damp autumn sky, in spite of the vault of cloud, signifying that a moon of some age was shining above its arch. the two white gates were distinct, and the white balls on the pillars, and the puddles and damp ruts left by the recent rain, had a cold, corpse-eyed luminousness. she entered by the lower gate, and crossed the quadrangle to the wing wherein the apartments that had been hers since her marriage were situate, till she stood under a window which, if her husband were in the house, gave light to his bedchamber. she faltered, and paused with her hand on her heart, in spite of herself. could she call to her presence the very cause of all her foregoing troubles? alas!--old jones was seven miles off; giles was possibly dying--what else could she do? it was in a perspiration, wrought even more by consciousness than by exercise, that she picked up some gravel, threw it at the panes, and waited to see the result. the night-bell which had been fixed when fitzpiers first took up his residence there still remained; but as it had fallen into disuse with the collapse of his practice, and his elopement, she did not venture to pull it now. whoever slept in the room had heard her signal, slight as it was. in half a minute the window was opened, and a voice said "yes?" inquiringly. grace recognized her husband in the speaker at once. her effort was now to disguise her own accents. "doctor," she said, in as unusual a tone as she could command, "a man is dangerously ill in one-chimney hut, out towards delborough, and you must go to him at once--in all mercy!" "i will, readily." the alacrity, surprise, and pleasure expressed in his reply amazed her for a moment. but, in truth, they denoted the sudden relief of a man who, having got back in a mood of contrition, from erratic abandonment to fearful joys, found the soothing routine of professional practice unexpectedly opening anew to him. the highest desire of his soul just now was for a respectable life of painstaking. if this, his first summons since his return, had been to attend upon a cat or dog, he would scarcely have refused it in the circumstances. "do you know the way?" she asked. "yes," said he. "one-chimney hut," she repeated. "and--immediately!" "yes, yes," said fitzpiers. grace remained no longer. she passed out of the white gate without slamming it, and hastened on her way back. her husband, then, had re-entered her father's house. how he had been able to effect a reconciliation with the old man, what were the terms of the treaty between them, she could not so much as conjecture. some sort of truce must have been entered into, that was all she could say. but close as the question lay to her own life, there was a more urgent one which banished it; and she traced her steps quickly along the meandering track-ways. meanwhile, fitzpiers was preparing to leave the house. the state of his mind, over and above his professional zeal, was peculiar. at grace's first remark he had not recognized or suspected her presence; but as she went on, he was awakened to the great resemblance of the speaker's voice to his wife's. he had taken in such good faith the statement of the household on his arrival, that she had gone on a visit for a time because she could not at once bring her mind to be reconciled to him, that he could not quite actually believe this comer to be she. it was one of the features of fitzpiers's repentant humor at this date that, on receiving the explanation of her absence, he had made no attempt to outrage her feelings by following her; though nobody had informed him how very shortly her departure had preceded his entry, and of all that might have been inferred from her precipitancy. melbury, after much alarm and consideration, had decided not to follow her either. he sympathized with her flight, much as he deplored it; moreover, the tragic color of the antecedent events that he had been a great means of creating checked his instinct to interfere. he prayed and trusted that she had got into no danger on her way (as he supposed) to sherton, and thence to exbury, if that were the place she had gone to, forbearing all inquiry which the strangeness of her departure would have made natural. a few months before this time a performance by grace of one-tenth the magnitude of this would have aroused him to unwonted investigation. it was in the same spirit that he had tacitly assented to fitzpiers's domicilation there. the two men had not met face to face, but mrs. melbury had proposed herself as an intermediary, who made the surgeon's re-entrance comparatively easy to him. everything was provisional, and nobody asked questions. fitzpiers had come in the performance of a plan of penitence, which had originated in circumstances hereafter to be explained; his self-humiliation to the very bass-string was deliberate; and as soon as a call reached him from the bedside of a dying man his desire was to set to work and do as much good as he could with the least possible fuss or show. he therefore refrained from calling up a stableman to get ready any horse or gig, and set out for one-chimney hut on foot, as grace had done. chapter xliii. she re-entered the hut, flung off her bonnet and cloak, and approached the sufferer. he had begun anew those terrible mutterings, and his hands were cold. as soon as she saw him there returned to her that agony of mind which the stimulus of her journey had thrown off for a time. could he really be dying? she bathed him, kissed him, forgot all things but the fact that lying there before her was he who had loved her more than the mere lover would have loved; had martyred himself for her comfort, cared more for her self-respect than she had thought of caring. this mood continued till she heard quick, smart footsteps without; she knew whose footsteps they were. grace sat on the inside of the bed against the wall, holding giles's hand, so that when her husband entered the patient lay between herself and him. he stood transfixed at first, noticing grace only. slowly he dropped his glance and discerned who the prostrate man was. strangely enough, though grace's distaste for her husband's company had amounted almost to dread, and culminated in actual flight, at this moment her last and least feeling was personal. sensitive femininity was eclipsed by self-effacing purpose, and that it was a husband who stood there was forgotten. the first look that possessed her face was relief; satisfaction at the presence of the physician obliterated thought of the man, which only returned in the form of a sub-consciousness that did not interfere with her words. "is he dying--is there any hope?" she cried. "grace!" said fitzpiers, in an indescribable whisper--more than invocating, if not quite deprecatory. he was arrested by the spectacle, not so much in its intrinsic character--though that was striking enough to a man who called himself the husband of the sufferer's friend and nurse--but in its character as the counterpart of one that had its hour many months before, in which he had figured as the patient, and the woman had been felice charmond. "is he in great danger--can you save him?" she cried again. fitzpiers aroused himself, came a little nearer, and examined winterborne as he stood. his inspection was concluded in a mere glance. before he spoke he looked at her contemplatively as to the effect of his coming words. "he is dying," he said, with dry precision. "what?" said she. "nothing can be done, by me or any other man. it will soon be all over. the extremities are dead already." his eyes still remained fixed on her; the conclusion to which he had come seeming to end his interest, professional and otherwise, in winterborne forever. "but it cannot be! he was well three days ago." "not well, i suspect. this seems like a secondary attack, which has followed some previous illness--possibly typhoid--it may have been months ago, or recently." "ah--he was not well--you are right. he was ill--he was ill when i came." there was nothing more to do or say. she crouched down at the side of the bed, and fitzpiers took a seat. thus they remained in silence, and long as it lasted she never turned her eyes, or apparently her thoughts, at all to her husband. he occasionally murmured, with automatic authority, some slight directions for alleviating the pain of the dying man, which she mechanically obeyed, bending over him during the intervals in silent tears. winterborne never recovered consciousness of what was passing; and that he was going became soon perceptible also to her. in less than an hour the delirium ceased; then there was an interval of somnolent painlessness and soft breathing, at the end of which winterborne passed quietly away. then fitzpiers broke the silence. "have you lived here long?" said he. grace was wild with sorrow--with all that had befallen her--with the cruelties that had attacked her--with life--with heaven. she answered at random. "yes. by what right do you ask?" "don't think i claim any right," said fitzpiers, sadly. "it is for you to do and say what you choose. i admit, quite as much as you feel, that i am a vagabond--a brute--not worthy to possess the smallest fragment of you. but here i am, and i have happened to take sufficient interest in you to make that inquiry." "he is everything to me!" said grace, hardly heeding her husband, and laying her hand reverently on the dead man's eyelids, where she kept it a long time, pressing down their lashes with gentle touches, as if she were stroking a little bird. he watched her a while, and then glanced round the chamber where his eyes fell upon a few dressing necessaries that she had brought. "grace--if i may call you so," he said, "i have been already humiliated almost to the depths. i have come back since you refused to join me elsewhere--i have entered your father's house, and borne all that that cost me without flinching, because i have felt that i deserved humiliation. but is there a yet greater humiliation in store for me? you say you have been living here--that he is everything to you. am i to draw from that the obvious, the extremest inference?" triumph at any price is sweet to men and women--especially the latter. it was her first and last opportunity of repaying him for the cruel contumely which she had borne at his hands so docilely. "yes," she answered; and there was that in her subtly compounded nature which made her feel a thrill of pride as she did so. yet the moment after she had so mightily belied her character she half repented. her husband had turned as white as the wall behind him. it seemed as if all that remained to him of life and spirit had been abstracted at a stroke. yet he did not move, and in his efforts at self-control closed his mouth together as a vice. his determination was fairly successful, though she saw how very much greater than she had expected her triumph had been. presently he looked across at winterborne. "would it startle you to hear," he said, as if he hardly had breath to utter the words, "that she who was to me what he was to you is dead also?" "dead--she dead?" exclaimed grace. "yes. felice charmond is where this young man is." "never!" said grace, vehemently. he went on without heeding the insinuation: "and i came back to try to make it up with you--but--" fitzpiers rose, and moved across the room to go away, looking downward with the droop of a man whose hope was turned to apathy, if not despair. in going round the door his eye fell upon her once more. she was still bending over the body of winterborne, her face close to the young man's. "have you been kissing him during his illness?" asked her husband. "yes." "since his fevered state set in?" "yes." "on his lips?" "yes." "then you will do well to take a few drops of this in water as soon as possible." he drew a small phial from his pocket and returned to offer it to her. grace shook her head. "if you don't do as i tell you you may soon be like him." "i don't care. i wish to die." "i'll put it here," said fitzpiers, placing the bottle on a ledge beside him. "the sin of not having warned you will not be upon my head at any rate, among my other sins. i am now going, and i will send somebody to you. your father does not know that you are here, so i suppose i shall be bound to tell him?" "certainly." fitzpiers left the cot, and the stroke of his feet was soon immersed in the silence that pervaded the spot. grace remained kneeling and weeping, she hardly knew how long, and then she sat up, covered poor giles's features, and went towards the door where her husband had stood. no sign of any other comer greeted her ear, the only perceptible sounds being the tiny cracklings of the dead leaves, which, like a feather-bed, had not yet done rising to their normal level where indented by the pressure of her husband's receding footsteps. it reminded her that she had been struck with the change in his aspect; the extremely intellectual look that had always been in his face was wrought to a finer phase by thinness, and a care-worn dignity had been superadded. she returned to winterborne's side, and during her meditations another tread drew near the door, entered the outer room, and halted at the entrance of the chamber where grace was. "what--marty!" said grace. "yes. i have heard," said marty, whose demeanor had lost all its girlishness under the stroke that seemed almost literally to have bruised her. "he died for me!" murmured grace, heavily. marty did not fully comprehend; and she answered, "he belongs to neither of us now, and your beauty is no more powerful with him than my plainness. i have come to help you, ma'am. he never cared for me, and he cared much for you; but he cares for us both alike now." "oh don't, don't, marty!" marty said no more, but knelt over winterborne from the other side. "did you meet my hus--mr. fitzpiers?" "no!" "then what brought you here?" "i come this way sometimes. i have got to go to the farther side of the wood this time of the year, and am obliged to get there before four o'clock in the morning, to begin heating the oven for the early baking. i have passed by here often at this time." grace looked at her quickly. "then did you know i was here?" "yes, ma'am." "did you tell anybody?" "no. i knew you lived in the hut, that he had gied it up to ye, and lodged out himself." "did you know where he lodged?" "no. that i couldn't find out. was it at delborough?" "no. it was not there, marty. would it had been! it would have saved--saved--" to check her tears she turned, and seeing a book on the window-bench, took it up. "look, marty, this is a psalter. he was not an outwardly religious man, but he was pure and perfect in his heart. shall we read a psalm over him?" "oh yes--we will--with all my heart!" grace opened the thin brown book, which poor giles had kept at hand mainly for the convenience of whetting his pen-knife upon its leather covers. she began to read in that rich, devotional voice peculiar to women only on such occasions. when it was over, marty said, "i should like to pray for his soul." "so should i," said her companion. "but we must not." "why? nobody would know." grace could not resist the argument, influenced as she was by the sense of making amends for having neglected him in the body; and their tender voices united and filled the narrow room with supplicatory murmurs that a calvinist might have envied. they had hardly ended when now and more numerous foot-falls were audible, also persons in conversation, one of whom grace recognized as her father. she rose, and went to the outer apartment, in which there was only such light as beamed from the inner one. melbury and mrs. melbury were standing there. "i don't reproach you, grace," said her father, with an estranged manner, and in a voice not at all like his old voice. "what has come upon you and us is beyond reproach, beyond weeping, and beyond wailing. perhaps i drove you to it. but i am hurt; i am scourged; i am astonished. in the face of this there is nothing to be said." without replying, grace turned and glided back to the inner chamber. "marty," she said, quickly, "i cannot look my father in the face until he knows the true circumstances of my life here. go and tell him--what you have told me--what you saw--that he gave up his house to me." she sat down, her face buried in her hands, and marty went, and after a short absence returned. then grace rose, and going out asked her father if he had met her husband. "yes," said melbury. "and you know all that has happened?" "i do. forgive me, grace, for suspecting ye of worse than rashness--i ought to know ye better. are you coming with me to what was once your home?" "no. i stay here with him. take no account of me any more." the unwonted, perplexing, agitating relations in which she had stood to winterborne quite lately--brought about by melbury's own contrivance--could not fail to soften the natural anger of a parent at her more recent doings. "my daughter, things are bad," he rejoined. "but why do you persevere to make 'em worse? what good can you do to giles by staying here with him? mind, i ask no questions. i don't inquire why you decided to come here, or anything as to what your course would have been if he had not died, though i know there's no deliberate harm in ye. as for me, i have lost all claim upon you, and i make no complaint. but i do say that by coming back with me now you will show no less kindness to him, and escape any sound of shame. "but i don't wish to escape it." "if you don't on your own account, cannot you wish to on mine and hers? nobody except our household knows that you have left home. then why should you, by a piece of perverseness, bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave?" "if it were not for my husband--" she began, moved by his words. "but how can i meet him there? how can any woman who is not a mere man's creature join him after what has taken place?" "he would go away again rather than keep you out of my house." "how do you know that, father?" "we met him on our way here, and he told us so," said mrs. melbury. "he had said something like it before. he seems very much upset altogether." "he declared to her when he came to our house that he would wait for time and devotion to bring about his forgiveness," said her husband. "that was it, wasn't it, lucy?" "yes. that he would not intrude upon you, grace, till you gave him absolute permission," mrs. melbury added. this antecedent considerateness in fitzpiers was as welcome to grace as it was unexpected; and though she did not desire his presence, she was sorry that by her retaliatory fiction she had given him a different reason for avoiding her. she made no further objections to accompanying her parents, taking them into the inner room to give winterborne a last look, and gathering up the two or three things that belonged to her. while she was doing this the two women came who had been called by melbury, and at their heels poor creedle. "forgive me, but i can't rule my mourning nohow as a man should, mr. melbury," he said. "i ha'n't seen him since thursday se'night, and have wondered for days and days where he's been keeping. there was i expecting him to come and tell me to wash out the cider-barrels against the making, and here was he-- well, i've knowed him from table-high; i knowed his father--used to bide about upon two sticks in the sun afore he died!--and now i've seen the end of the family, which we can ill afford to lose, wi' such a scanty lot of good folk in hintock as we've got. and now robert creedle will be nailed up in parish boards 'a b'lieve; and noboby will glutch down a sigh for he!" they started for home, marty and creedle remaining behind. for a time grace and her father walked side by side without speaking. it was just in the blue of the dawn, and the chilling tone of the sky was reflected in her cold, wet face. the whole wood seemed to be a house of death, pervaded by loss to its uttermost length and breadth. winterborne was gone, and the copses seemed to show the want of him; those young trees, so many of which he had planted, and of which he had spoken so truly when he said that he should fall before they fell, were at that very moment sending out their roots in the direction that he had given them with his subtle hand. "one thing made it tolerable to us that your husband should come back to the house," said melbury at last--"the death of mrs. charmond." "ah, yes," said grace, arousing slightly to the recollection, "he told me so." "did he tell you how she died? it was no such death as giles's. she was shot--by a disappointed lover. it occurred in germany. the unfortunate man shot himself afterwards. he was that south carolina gentleman of very passionate nature who used to haunt this place to force her to an interview, and followed her about everywhere. so ends the brilliant felice charmond--once a good friend to me--but no friend to you." "i can forgive her," said grace, absently. "did edgar tell you of this?" "no; but he put a london newspaper, giving an account of it, on the hall table, folded in such a way that we should see it. it will be in the sherton paper this week, no doubt. to make the event more solemn still to him, he had just before had sharp words with her, and left her. he told lucy this, as nothing about him appears in the newspaper. and the cause of the quarrel was, of all people, she we've left behind us." "do you mean marty?" grace spoke the words but perfunctorily. for, pertinent and pointed as melbury's story was, she had no heart for it now. "yes. marty south." melbury persisted in his narrative, to divert her from her present grief, if possible. "before he went away she wrote him a letter, which he kept in his, pocket a long while before reading. he chanced to pull it out in mrs. charmond's, presence, and read it out loud. it contained something which teased her very much, and that led to the rupture. she was following him to make it up when she met with her terrible death." melbury did not know enough to give the gist of the incident, which was that marty south's letter had been concerning a certain personal adornment common to herself and mrs. charmond. her bullet reached its billet at last. the scene between fitzpiers and felice had been sharp, as only a scene can be which arises out of the mortification of one woman by another in the presence of a lover. true, marty had not effected it by word of mouth; the charge about the locks of hair was made simply by fitzpiers reading her letter to him aloud to felice in the playfully ironical tones of one who had become a little weary of his situation, and was finding his friend, in the phrase of george herbert, a "flat delight." he had stroked those false tresses with his hand many a time without knowing them to be transplanted, and it was impossible when the discovery was so abruptly made to avoid being finely satirical, despite her generous disposition. that was how it had begun, and tragedy had been its end. on his abrupt departure she had followed him to the station but the train was gone; and in travelling to baden in search of him she had met his rival, whose reproaches led to an altercation, and the death of both. of that precipitate scene of passion and crime fitzpiers had known nothing till he saw an account of it in the papers, where, fortunately for himself, no mention was made of his prior acquaintance with the unhappy lady; nor was there any allusion to him in the subsequent inquiry, the double death being attributed to some gambling losses, though, in point of fact, neither one of them had visited the tables. melbury and his daughter drew near their house, having seen but one living thing on their way, a squirrel, which did not run up its tree, but, dropping the sweet chestnut which it carried, cried chut-chut-chut, and stamped with its hind legs on the ground. when the roofs and chimneys of the homestead began to emerge from the screen of boughs, grace started, and checked herself in her abstracted advance. "you clearly understand," she said to her step-mother some of her old misgiving returning, "that i am coming back only on condition of his leaving as he promised? will you let him know this, that there may be no mistake?" mrs. melbury, who had some long private talks with fitzpiers, assured grace that she need have no doubts on that point, and that he would probably be gone by the evening. grace then entered with them into melbury's wing of the house, and sat down listlessly in the parlor, while her step-mother went to fitzpiers. the prompt obedience to her wishes which the surgeon showed did honor to him, if anything could. before mrs. melbury had returned to the room grace, who was sitting on the parlor window-bench, saw her husband go from the door under the increasing light of morning, with a bag in his hand. while passing through the gate he turned his head. the firelight of the room she sat in threw her figure into dark relief against the window as she looked through the panes, and he must have seen her distinctly. in a moment he went on, the gate fell to, and he disappeared. at the hut she had declared that another had displaced him; and now she had banished him. chapter xliv. fitzpiers had hardly been gone an hour when grace began to sicken. the next day she kept her room. old jones was called in; he murmured some statements in which the words "feverish symptoms" occurred. grace heard them, and guessed the means by which she had brought this visitation upon herself. one day, while she still lay there with her head throbbing, wondering if she were really going to join him who had gone before, grammer oliver came to her bedside. "i don't know whe'r this is meant for you to take, ma'am," she said, "but i have found it on the table. it was left by marty, i think, when she came this morning." grace turned her hot eyes upon what grammer held up. it was the phial left at the hut by her husband when he had begged her to take some drops of its contents if she wished to preserve herself from falling a victim to the malady which had pulled down winterborne. she examined it as well as she could. the liquid was of an opaline hue, and bore a label with an inscription in italian. he had probably got it in his wanderings abroad. she knew but little italian, but could understand that the cordial was a febrifuge of some sort. her father, her mother, and all the household were anxious for her recovery, and she resolved to obey her husband's directions. whatever the risk, if any, she was prepared to run it. a glass of water was brought, and the drops dropped in. the effect, though not miraculous, was remarkable. in less than an hour she felt calmer, cooler, better able to reflect--less inclined to fret and chafe and wear herself away. she took a few drops more. from that time the fever retreated, and went out like a damped conflagration. "how clever he is!" she said, regretfully. "why could he not have had more principle, so as to turn his great talents to good account? perhaps he has saved my useless life. but he doesn't know it, and doesn't care whether he has saved it or not; and on that account will never be told by me! probably he only gave it to me in the arrogance of his skill, to show the greatness of his resources beside mine, as elijah drew down fire from heaven." as soon as she had quite recovered from this foiled attack upon her life, grace went to marty south's cottage. the current of her being had again set towards the lost giles winterborne. "marty," she said, "we both loved him. we will go to his grave together." great hintock church stood at the upper part of the village, and could be reached without passing through the street. in the dusk of the late september day they went thither by secret ways, walking mostly in silence side by side, each busied with her own thoughts. grace had a trouble exceeding marty's--that haunting sense of having put out the light of his life by her own hasty doings. she had tried to persuade herself that he might have died of his illness, even if she had not taken possession of his house. sometimes she succeeded in her attempt; sometimes she did not. they stood by the grave together, and though the sun had gone down, they could see over the woodland for miles, and down to the vale in which he had been accustomed to descend every year, with his portable mill and press, to make cider about this time. perhaps grace's first grief, the discovery that if he had lived he could never have claimed her, had some power in softening this, the second. on marty's part there was the same consideration; never would she have been his. as no anticipation of gratified affection had been in existence while he was with them, there was none to be disappointed now that he had gone. grace was abased when, by degrees, she found that she had never understood giles as marty had done. marty south alone, of all the women in hintock and the world, had approximated to winterborne's level of intelligent intercourse with nature. in that respect she had formed the complement to him in the other sex, had lived as his counterpart, had subjoined her thought to his as a corollary. the casual glimpses which the ordinary population bestowed upon that wondrous world of sap and leaves called the hintock woods had been with these two, giles and marty, a clear gaze. they had been possessed of its finer mysteries as of commonplace knowledge; had been able to read its hieroglyphs as ordinary writing; to them the sights and sounds of night, winter, wind, storm, amid those dense boughs, which had to grace a touch of the uncanny, and even the supernatural, were simple occurrences whose origin, continuance, and laws they foreknew. they had planted together, and together they had felled; together they had, with the run of the years, mentally collected those remoter signs and symbols which, seen in few, were of runic obscurity, but all together made an alphabet. from the light lashing of the twigs upon their faces, when brushing through them in the dark, they could pronounce upon the species of the tree whence they stretched; from the quality of the wind's murmur through a bough they could in like manner name its sort afar off. they knew by a glance at a trunk if its heart were sound, or tainted with incipient decay, and by the state of its upper twigs, the stratum that had been reached by its roots. the artifices of the seasons were seen by them from the conjuror's own point of view, and not from that of the spectator's. "he ought to have married you, marty, and nobody else in the world!" said grace, with conviction, after thinking somewhat in the above strain. marty shook her head. "in all our out-door days and years together, ma'am," she replied, "the one thing he never spoke of to me was love; nor i to him." "yet you and he could speak in a tongue that nobody else knew--not even my father, though he came nearest knowing--the tongue of the trees and fruits and flowers themselves." she could indulge in mournful fancies like this to marty; but the hard core to her grief--which marty's had not--remained. had she been sure that giles's death resulted entirely from his exposure, it would have driven her well-nigh to insanity; but there was always that bare possibility that his exposure had only precipitated what was inevitable. she longed to believe that it had not done even this. there was only one man whose opinion on the circumstances she would be at all disposed to trust. her husband was that man. yet to ask him it would be necessary to detail the true conditions in which she and winterborne had lived during these three or four critical days that followed her flight; and in withdrawing her original defiant announcement on that point, there seemed a weakness she did not care to show. she never doubted that fitzpiers would believe her if she made a clean confession of the actual situation; but to volunteer the correction would seem like signalling for a truce, and that, in her present frame of mind, was what she did not feel the need of. it will probably not appear a surprising statement, after what has been already declared of fitzpiers, that the man whom grace's fidelity could not keep faithful was stung into passionate throbs of interest concerning her by her avowal of the contrary. he declared to himself that he had never known her dangerously full compass if she were capable of such a reprisal; and, melancholy as it may be to admit the fact, his own humiliation and regret engendered a smouldering admiration of her. he passed a month or two of great misery at exbury, the place to which he had retired--quite as much misery indeed as grace, could she have known of it, would have been inclined to inflict upon any living creature, how much soever he might have wronged her. then a sudden hope dawned upon him; he wondered if her affirmation were true. he asked himself whether it were not the act of a woman whose natural purity and innocence had blinded her to the contingencies of such an announcement. his wide experience of the sex had taught him that, in many cases, women who ventured on hazardous matters did so because they lacked an imagination sensuous enough to feel their full force. in this light grace's bold avowal might merely have denoted the desperation of one who was a child to the realities of obliquity. fitzpiers's mental sufferings and suspense led him at last to take a melancholy journey to the neighborhood of little hintock; and here he hovered for hours around the scene of the purest emotional experiences that he had ever known in his life. he walked about the woods that surrounded melbury's house, keeping out of sight like a criminal. it was a fine evening, and on his way homeward he passed near marty south's cottage. as usual she had lighted her candle without closing her shutters; he saw her within as he had seen her many times before. she was polishing tools, and though he had not wished to show himself, he could not resist speaking in to her through the half-open door. "what are you doing that for, marty?" "because i want to clean them. they are not mine." he could see, indeed, that they were not hers, for one was a spade, large and heavy, and another was a bill-hook which she could only have used with both hands. the spade, though not a new one, had been so completely burnished that it was bright as silver. fitzpiers somehow divined that they were giles winterborne's, and he put the question to her. she replied in the affirmative. "i am going to keep 'em," she said, "but i can't get his apple-mill and press. i wish could; it is going to be sold, they say." "then i will buy it for you," said fitzpiers. "that will be making you a return for a kindness you did me." his glance fell upon the girl's rare-colored hair, which had grown again. "oh, marty, those locks of yours--and that letter! but it was a kindness to send it, nevertheless," he added, musingly. after this there was confidence between them--such confidence as there had never been before. marty was shy, indeed, of speaking about the letter, and her motives in writing it; but she thanked him warmly for his promise of the cider-press. she would travel with it in the autumn season, as he had done, she said. she would be quite strong enough, with old creedle as an assistant. "ah! there was one nearer to him than you," said fitzpiers, referring to winterborne. "one who lived where he lived, and was with him when he died." then marty, suspecting that he did not know the true circumstances, from the fact that mrs. fitzpiers and himself were living apart, told him of giles's generosity to grace in giving up his house to her at the risk, and possibly the sacrifice, of his own life. when the surgeon heard it he almost envied giles his chivalrous character. he expressed a wish to marty that his visit to her should be kept secret, and went home thoughtful, feeling that in more that one sense his journey to hintock had not been in vain. he would have given much to win grace's forgiveness then. but whatever he dared hope for in that kind from the future, there was nothing to be done yet, while giles winterborne's memory was green. to wait was imperative. a little time might melt her frozen thoughts, and lead her to look on him with toleration, if not with love. chapter xlv. weeks and months of mourning for winterborne had been passed by grace in the soothing monotony of the memorial act to which she and marty had devoted themselves. twice a week the pair went in the dusk to great hintock, and, like the two mourners in cymbeline, sweetened his sad grave with their flowers and their tears. sometimes grace thought that it was a pity neither one of them had been his wife for a little while, and given the world a copy of him who was so valuable in their eyes. nothing ever had brought home to her with such force as this death how little acquirements and culture weigh beside sterling personal character. while her simple sorrow for his loss took a softer edge with the lapse of the autumn and winter seasons, her self-reproach at having had a possible hand in causing it knew little abatement. little occurred at hintock during these months of the fall and decay of the leaf. discussion of the almost contemporaneous death of mrs. charmond abroad had waxed and waned. fitzpiers had had a marvellous escape from being dragged into the inquiry which followed it, through the accident of their having parted just before under the influence of marty south's letter--the tiny instrument of a cause deep in nature. her body was not brought home. it seemed to accord well with the fitful fever of that impassioned woman's life that she should not have found a native grave. she had enjoyed but a life-interest in the estate, which, after her death, passed to a relative of her husband's--one who knew not felice, one whose purpose seemed to be to blot out every vestige of her. on a certain day in february--the cheerful day of st. valentine, in fact--a letter reached mrs. fitzpiers, which had been mentally promised her for that particular day a long time before. it announced that fitzpiers was living at some midland town, where he had obtained a temporary practice as assistant to some local medical man, whose curative principles were all wrong, though he dared not set them right. he had thought fit to communicate with her on that day of tender traditions to inquire if, in the event of his obtaining a substantial practice that he had in view elsewhere, she could forget the past and bring herself to join him. there the practical part ended; he then went on-- "my last year of experience has added ten years to my age, dear grace and dearest wife that ever erring man undervalued. you may be absolutely indifferent to what i say, but let me say it: i have never loved any woman alive or dead as i love, respect, and honor you at this present moment. what you told me in the pride and haughtiness of your heart i never believed [this, by the way, was not strictly true]; but even if i had believed it, it could never have estranged me from you. is there any use in telling you--no, there is not--that i dream of your ripe lips more frequently than i say my prayers; that the old familiar rustle of your dress often returns upon my mind till it distracts me? if you could condescend even only to see me again you would be breathing life into a corpse. my pure, pure grace, modest as a turtledove, how came i ever to possess you? for the sake of being present in your mind on this lovers' day, i think i would almost rather have you hate me a little than not think of me at all. you may call my fancies whimsical; but remember, sweet, lost one, that 'nature is one in love, and where 'tis fine it sends some instance of itself.' i will not intrude upon you further now. make me a little bit happy by sending back one line to say that you will consent, at any rate, to a short interview. i will meet you and leave you as a mere acquaintance, if you will only afford me this slight means of making a few explanations, and of putting my position before you. believe me, in spite of all you may do or feel, your lover always (once your husband), "e." it was, oddly enough, the first occasion, or nearly the first on which grace had ever received a love-letter from him, his courtship having taken place under conditions which rendered letter-writing unnecessary. its perusal, therefore, had a certain novelty for her. she thought that, upon the whole, he wrote love-letters very well. but the chief rational interest of the letter to the reflective grace lay in the chance that such a meeting as he proposed would afford her of setting her doubts at rest, one way or the other, on her actual share in winterborne's death. the relief of consulting a skilled mind, the one professional man who had seen giles at that time, would be immense. as for that statement that she had uttered in her disdainful grief, which at the time she had regarded as her triumph, she was quite prepared to admit to him that his belief was the true one; for in wronging herself as she did when she made it, she had done what to her was a far more serious thing, wronged winterborne's memory. without consulting her father, or any one in the house or out of it, grace replied to the letter. she agreed to meet fitzpiers on two conditions, of which the first was that the place of meeting should be the top of rubdown hill, the second that he would not object to marty south accompanying her. whatever part, much or little, there may have been in fitzpiers's so-called valentine to his wife, he felt a delight as of the bursting of spring when her brief reply came. it was one of the few pleasures that he had experienced of late years at all resembling those of his early youth. he promptly replied that he accepted the conditions, and named the day and hour at which he would be on the spot she mentioned. a few minutes before three on the appointed day found him climbing the well-known hill, which had been the axis of so many critical movements in their lives during his residence at hintock. the sight of each homely and well-remembered object swelled the regret that seldom left him now. whatever paths might lie open to his future, the soothing shades of hintock were forbidden him forever as a permanent dwelling-place. he longed for the society of grace. but to lay offerings on her slighted altar was his first aim, and until her propitiation was complete he would constrain her in no way to return to him. the least reparation that he could make, in a case where he would gladly have made much, would be to let her feel herself absolutely free to choose between living with him and without him. moreover, a subtlist in emotions, he cultivated as under glasses strange and mournful pleasures that he would not willingly let die just at present. to show any forwardness in suggesting a modus vivendi to grace would be to put an end to these exotics. to be the vassal of her sweet will for a time, he demanded no more, and found solace in the contemplation of the soft miseries she caused him. approaching the hill-top with a mind strung to these notions, fitzpiers discerned a gay procession of people coming over the crest, and was not long in perceiving it to be a wedding-party. though the wind was keen the women were in light attire, and the flowered waistcoats of the men had a pleasing vividness of pattern. each of the gentler ones clung to the arm of her partner so tightly as to have with him one step, rise, swing, gait, almost one centre of gravity. in the buxom bride fitzpiers recognized no other than suke damson, who in her light gown looked a giantess; the small husband beside her he saw to be tim tangs. fitzpiers could not escape, for they had seen him; though of all the beauties of the world whom he did not wish to meet suke was the chief. but he put the best face on the matter that he could and came on, the approaching company evidently discussing him and his separation from mrs. fitzpiers. as the couples closed upon him he expressed his congratulations. "we be just walking round the parishes to show ourselves a bit," said tim. "first we het across to delborough, then athwart to here, and from here we go to rubdown and millshot, and then round by the cross-roads home. home says i, but it won't be that long! we be off next month." "indeed. where to?" tim informed him that they were going to new zealand. not but that he would have been contented with hintock, but his wife was ambitious and wanted to leave, so he had given way. "then good-by," said fitzpiers; "i may not see you again." he shook hands with tim and turned to the bride. "good-by, suke," he said, taking her hand also. "i wish you and your husband prosperity in the country you have chosen." with this he left them, and hastened on to his appointment. the wedding-party re-formed and resumed march likewise. but in restoring his arm to suke, tim noticed that her full and blooming countenance had undergone a change. "holloa! me dear--what's the matter?" said tim. "nothing to speak o'," said she. but to give the lie to her assertion she was seized with lachrymose twitches, that soon produced a dribbling face. "how--what the devil's this about!" exclaimed the bridegroom. "she's a little wee bit overcome, poor dear!" said the first bridesmaid, unfolding her handkerchief and wiping suke's eyes. "i never did like parting from people!" said suke, as soon as she could speak. "why him in particular?" "well--he's such a clever doctor, that 'tis a thousand pities we sha'n't see him any more! there'll be no such clever doctor as he in new zealand, if i should require one; and the thought o't got the better of my feelings!" they walked on, but tim's face had grown rigid and pale, for he recalled slight circumstances, disregarded at the time of their occurrence. the former boisterous laughter of the wedding-party at the groomsman's jokes was heard ringing through the woods no more. by this time fitzpiers had advanced on his way to the top of the hill, where he saw two figures emerging from the bank on the right hand. these were the expected ones, grace and marty south, who had evidently come there by a short and secret path through the wood. grace was muffled up in her winter dress, and he thought that she had never looked so seductive as at this moment, in the noontide bright but heatless sun, and the keen wind, and the purplish-gray masses of brushwood around. fitzpiers continued to regard the nearing picture, till at length their glances met for a moment, when she demurely sent off hers at a tangent and gave him the benefit of her three-quarter face, while with courteous completeness of conduct he lifted his hat in a large arc. marty dropped behind; and when fitzpiers held out his hand, grace touched it with her fingers. "i have agreed to be here mostly because i wanted to ask you something important," said mrs. fitzpiers, her intonation modulating in a direction that she had not quite wished it to take. "i am most attentive," said her husband. "shall we take to the wood for privacy?" grace demurred, and fitzpiers gave in, and they kept the public road. at any rate she would take his arm? this also was gravely negatived, the refusal being audible to marty. "why not?" he inquired. "oh, mr. fitzpiers--how can you ask?" "right, right," said he, his effusiveness shrivelled up. as they walked on she returned to her inquiry. "it is about a matter that may perhaps be unpleasant to you. but i think i need not consider that too carefully." "not at all," said fitzpiers, heroically. she then took him back to the time of poor winterborne's death, and related the precise circumstances amid which his fatal illness had come upon him, particularizing the dampness of the shelter to which he had betaken himself, his concealment from her of the hardships that he was undergoing, all that he had put up with, all that he had done for her in his scrupulous considerateness. the retrospect brought her to tears as she asked him if he thought that the sin of having driven him to his death was upon her. fitzpiers could hardly help showing his satisfaction at what her narrative indirectly revealed, the actual harmlessness of an escapade with her lover, which had at first, by her own showing, looked so grave, and he did not care to inquire whether that harmlessness had been the result of aim or of accident. with regard to her question, he declared that in his judgment no human being could answer it. he thought that upon the whole the balance of probabilities turned in her favor. winterborne's apparent strength, during the last months of his life, must have been delusive. it had often occurred that after a first attack of that insidious disease a person's apparent recovery was a physiological mendacity. the relief which came to grace lay almost as much in sharing her knowledge of the particulars with an intelligent mind as in the assurances fitzpiers gave her. "well, then, to put this case before you, and obtain your professional opinion, was chiefly why i consented to come here to-day," said she, when he had reached the aforesaid conclusion. "for no other reason at all?" he asked, ruefully. "it was nearly the whole." they stood and looked over a gate at twenty or thirty starlings feeding in the grass, and he started the talk again by saying, in a low voice, "and yet i love you more than ever i loved you in my life." grace did not move her eyes from the birds, and folded her delicate lips as if to keep them in subjection. "it is a different kind of love altogether," said he. "less passionate; more profound. it has nothing to do with the material conditions of the object at all; much to do with her character and goodness, as revealed by closer observation. 'love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge with dearer love.'" "that's out of 'measure for measure,'" said she, slyly. "oh yes--i meant it as a citation," blandly replied fitzpiers. "well, then, why not give me a very little bit of your heart again?" the crash of a felled tree in the remote depths of the wood recalled the past at that moment, and all the homely faithfulness of winterborne. "don't ask it! my heart is in the grave with giles," she replied, stanchly. "mine is with you--in no less deep a grave, i fear, according to that." "i am very sorry; but it cannot be helped." "how can you be sorry for me, when you wilfully keep open the grave?" "oh no--that's not so," returned grace, quickly, and moved to go away from him. "but, dearest grace," said he, "you have condescended to come; and i thought from it that perhaps when i had passed through a long state of probation you would be generous. but if there can be no hope of our getting completely reconciled, treat me gently--wretch though i am." "i did not say you were a wretch, nor have i ever said so." "but you have such a contemptuous way of looking at me that i fear you think so." grace's heart struggled between the wish not to be harsh and the fear that she might mislead him. "i cannot look contemptuous unless i feel contempt," she said, evasively. "and all i feel is lovelessness." "i have been very bad, i know," he returned. "but unless you can really love me again, grace, i would rather go away from you forever. i don't want you to receive me again for duty's sake, or anything of that sort. if i had not cared more for your affection and forgiveness than my own personal comfort, i should never have come back here. i could have obtained a practice at a distance, and have lived my own life without coldness or reproach. but i have chosen to return to the one spot on earth where my name is tarnished--to enter the house of a man from whom i have had worse treatment than from any other man alive--all for you!" this was undeniably true, and it had its weight with grace, who began to look as if she thought she had been shockingly severe. "before you go," he continued, "i want to know your pleasure about me--what you wish me to do, or not to do." "you are independent of me, and it seems a mockery to ask that. far be it from me to advise. but i will think it over. i rather need advice myself than stand in a position to give it." "you don't need advice, wisest, dearest woman that ever lived. if you did--" "would you give it to me?" "would you act upon what i gave?" "that's not a fair inquiry," said she, smiling despite her gravity. "i don't mind hearing it--what you do really think the most correct and proper course for me." "it is so easy for me to say, and yet i dare not, for it would be provoking you to remonstrances." knowing, of course, what the advice would be, she did not press him further, and was about to beckon marty forward and leave him, when he interrupted her with, "oh, one moment, dear grace--you will meet me again?" she eventually agreed to see him that day fortnight. fitzpiers expostulated at the interval, but the half-alarmed earnestness with which she entreated him not to come sooner made him say hastily that he submitted to her will--that he would regard her as a friend only, anxious for his reform and well-being, till such time as she might allow him to exceed that privilege. all this was to assure her; it was only too clear that he had not won her confidence yet. it amazed fitzpiers, and overthrew all his deductions from previous experience, to find that this girl, though she had been married to him, could yet be so coy. notwithstanding a certain fascination that it carried with it, his reflections were sombre as he went homeward; he saw how deep had been his offence to produce so great a wariness in a gentle and once unsuspicious soul. he was himself too fastidious to care to coerce her. to be an object of misgiving or dislike to a woman who shared his home was what he could not endure the thought of. life as it stood was more tolerable. when he was gone, marty joined mrs. fitzpiers. she would fain have consulted marty on the question of platonic relations with her former husband, as she preferred to regard him. but marty showed no great interest in their affairs, so grace said nothing. they came onward, and saw melbury standing at the scene of the felling which had been audible to them, when, telling marty that she wished her meeting with mr. fitzpiers to be kept private, she left the girl to join her father. at any rate, she would consult him on the expediency of occasionally seeing her husband. her father was cheerful, and walked by her side as he had done in earlier days. "i was thinking of you when you came up," he said. "i have considered that what has happened is for the best. since your husband is gone away, and seems not to wish to trouble you, why, let him go, and drop out of your life. many women are worse off. you can live here comfortably enough, and he can emigrate, or do what he likes for his good. i wouldn't mind sending him the further sum of money he might naturally expect to come to him, so that you may not be bothered with him any more. he could hardly have gone on living here without speaking to me, or meeting me; and that would have been very unpleasant on both sides." these remarks checked her intention. there was a sense of weakness in following them by saying that she had just met her husband by appointment. "then you would advise me not to communicate with him?" she observed. "i shall never advise ye again. you are your own mistress--do as you like. but my opinion is that if you don't live with him, you had better live without him, and not go shilly-shallying and playing bopeep. you sent him away; and now he's gone. very well; trouble him no more." grace felt a guiltiness--she hardly knew why--and made no confession. chapter xlvi. the woods were uninteresting, and grace stayed in-doors a great deal. she became quite a student, reading more than she had done since her marriage but her seclusion was always broken for the periodical visit to winterborne's grave with marty, which was kept up with pious strictness, for the purpose of putting snow-drops, primroses, and other vernal flowers thereon as they came. one afternoon at sunset she was standing just outside her father's garden, which, like the rest of the hintock enclosures, abutted into the wood. a slight foot-path led along here, forming a secret way to either of the houses by getting through its boundary hedge. grace was just about to adopt this mode of entry when a figure approached along the path, and held up his hand to detain her. it was her husband. "i am delighted," he said, coming up out of breath; and there seemed no reason to doubt his words. "i saw you some way off--i was afraid you would go in before i could reach you." "it is a week before the time," said she, reproachfully. "i said a fortnight from the last meeting." "my dear, you don't suppose i could wait a fortnight without trying to get a glimpse of you, even though you had declined to meet me! would it make you angry to know that i have been along this path at dusk three or four times since our last meeting? well, how are you?" she did not refuse her hand, but when he showed a wish to retain it a moment longer than mere formality required, she made it smaller, so that it slipped away from him, with again that same alarmed look which always followed his attempts in this direction. he saw that she was not yet out of the elusive mood; not yet to be treated presumingly; and he was correspondingly careful to tranquillize her. his assertion had seemed to impress her somewhat. "i had no idea you came so often," she said. "how far do you come from?" "from exbury. i always walk from sherton-abbas, for if i hire, people will know that i come; and my success with you so far has not been great enough to justify such overtness. now, my dear one--as i must call you--i put it to you: will you see me a little oftener as the spring advances?" grace lapsed into unwonted sedateness, and avoiding the question, said, "i wish you would concentrate on your profession, and give up those strange studies that used to distract you so much. i am sure you would get on." "it is the very thing i am doing. i was going to ask you to burn--or, at least, get rid of--all my philosophical literature. it is in the bookcases in your rooms. the fact is, i never cared much for abstruse studies." "i am so glad to hear you say that. and those other books--those piles of old plays--what good are they to a medical man?" "none whatever!" he replied, cheerfully. "sell them at sherton for what they will fetch." "and those dreadful old french romances, with their horrid spellings of 'filz' and 'ung' and 'ilz' and 'mary' and 'ma foy?'" "you haven't been reading them, grace?" "oh no--i just looked into them, that was all." "make a bonfire of 'em directly you get home. i meant to do it myself. i can't think what possessed me ever to collect them. i have only a few professional hand-books now, and am quite a practical man. i am in hopes of having some good news to tell you soon, and then do you think you could--come to me again?" "i would rather you did not press me on that just now," she replied, with some feeling. "you have said you mean to lead a new, useful, effectual life; but i should like to see you put it in practice for a little while before you address that query to me. besides--i could not live with you." "why not?" grace was silent a few instants. "i go with marty to giles's grave. we swore we would show him that devotion. and i mean to keep it up." "well, i wouldn't mind that at all. i have no right to expect anything else, and i will not wish you to keep away. i liked the man as well as any i ever knew. in short, i would accompany you a part of the way to the place, and smoke a cigar on the stile while i waited till you came back." "then you haven't given up smoking?" "well--ahem--no. i have thought of doing so, but--" his extreme complacence had rather disconcerted grace, and the question about smoking had been to effect a diversion. presently she said, firmly, and with a moisture in her eye that he could not see, as her mind returned to poor giles's "frustrate ghost," "i don't like you--to speak lightly on that subject, if you did speak lightly. to be frank with you--quite frank--i think of him as my betrothed lover still. i cannot help it. so that it would be wrong for me to join you." fitzpiers was now uneasy. "you say your betrothed lover still," he rejoined. "when, then, were you betrothed to him, or engaged, as we common people say?" "when you were away." "how could that be?" grace would have avoided this; but her natural candor led her on. "it was when i was under the impression that my marriage with you was about to be annulled, and that he could then marry me. so i encouraged him to love me." fitzpiers winced visibly; and yet, upon the whole, she was right in telling it. indeed, his perception that she was right in her absolute sincerity kept up his affectionate admiration for her under the pain of the rebuff. time had been when the avowal that grace had deliberately taken steps to replace him would have brought him no sorrow. but she so far dominated him now that he could not bear to hear her words, although the object of her high regard was no more. "it is rough upon me--that!" he said, bitterly. "oh, grace--i did not know you--tried to get rid of me! i suppose it is of no use, but i ask, cannot you hope to--find a little love in your heart for me again?" "if i could i would oblige you; but i fear i cannot!" she replied, with illogical ruefulness. "and i don't see why you should mind my having had one lover besides yourself in my life, when you have had so many." "but i can tell you honestly that i love you better than all of them put together, and that's what you will not tell me!" "i am sorry; but i fear i cannot," she said, sighing again. "i wonder if you ever will?" he looked musingly into her indistinct face, as if he would read the future there. "now have pity, and tell me: will you try?" "to love you again?" "yes; if you can." "i don't know how to reply," she answered, her embarrassment proving her truth. "will you promise to leave me quite free as to seeing you or not seeing you?" "certainly. have i given any ground for you to doubt my first promise in that respect?" she was obliged to admit that he had not. "then i think that you might get your heart out of that grave," said he, with playful sadness. "it has been there a long time." she faintly shook her head, but said, "i'll try to think of you more--if i can." with this fitzpiers was compelled to be satisfied, and he asked her when she would meet him again. "as we arranged--in a fortnight." "if it must be a fortnight it must!" "this time at least. i'll consider by the day i see you again if i can shorten the interval." "well, be that as it may, i shall come at least twice a week to look at your window." "you must do as you like about that. good-night." "say 'husband.'" she seemed almost inclined to give him the word; but exclaiming, "no, no; i cannot," slipped through the garden-hedge and disappeared. fitzpiers did not exaggerate when he told her that he should haunt the precincts of the dwelling. but his persistence in this course did not result in his seeing her much oftener than at the fortnightly interval which she had herself marked out as proper. at these times, however, she punctually appeared, and as the spring wore on the meetings were kept up, though their character changed but little with the increase in their number. the small garden of the cottage occupied by the tangs family--father, son, and now son's wife--aligned with the larger one of the timber-dealer at its upper end; and when young tim, after leaving work at melbury's, stood at dusk in the little bower at the corner of his enclosure to smoke a pipe, he frequently observed the surgeon pass along the outside track before-mentioned. fitzpiers always walked loiteringly, pensively, looking with a sharp eye into the gardens one after another as he proceeded; for fitzpiers did not wish to leave the now absorbing spot too quickly, after travelling so far to reach it; hoping always for a glimpse of her whom he passionately desired to take to his arms anew. now tim began to be struck with these loitering progresses along the garden boundaries in the gloaming, and wondered what they boded. it was, naturally, quite out of his power to divine the singular, sentimental revival in fitzpiers's heart; the fineness of tissue which could take a deep, emotional--almost also an artistic--pleasure in being the yearning inamorato of a woman he once had deserted, would have seemed an absurdity to the young sawyer. mr. and mrs. fitzpiers were separated; therefore the question of affection as between them was settled. but his suke had, since that meeting on their marriage-day, repentantly admitted, to the urgency of his questioning, a good deal concerning her past levities. putting all things together, he could hardly avoid connecting fitzpiers's mysterious visits to this spot with suke's residence under his roof. but he made himself fairly easy: the vessel in which they were about to emigrate sailed that month; and then suke would be out of fitzpiers's way forever. the interval at last expired, and the eve of their departure arrived. they were pausing in the room of the cottage allotted to them by tim's father, after a busy day of preparation, which left them weary. in a corner stood their boxes, crammed and corded, their large case for the hold having already been sent away. the firelight shone upon suke's fine face and form as she stood looking into it, and upon the face of tim seated in a corner, and upon the walls of his father's house, which he was beholding that night almost for the last time. tim tangs was not happy. this scheme of emigration was dividing him from his father--for old tangs would on no account leave hintock--and had it not been for suke's reputation and his own dignity, tim would at the last moment have abandoned the project. as he sat in the back part of the room he regarded her moodily, and the fire and the boxes. one thing he had particularly noticed this evening--she was very restless; fitful in her actions, unable to remain seated, and in a marked degree depressed. "sorry that you be going, after all, suke?" he said. she sighed involuntarily. "i don't know but that i be," she answered. "'tis natural, isn't it, when one is going away?" "but you wasn't born here as i was." "no." "there's folk left behind that you'd fain have with 'ee, i reckon?" "why do you think that?" "i've seen things and i've heard things; and, suke, i say 'twill be a good move for me to get 'ee away. i don't mind his leavings abroad, but i do mind 'em at home." suke's face was not changed from its aspect of listless indifference by the words. she answered nothing; and shortly after he went out for his customary pipe of tobacco at the top of the garden. the restlessness of suke had indeed owed its presence to the gentleman of tim's suspicions, but in a different--and it must be added in justice to her--more innocent sense than he supposed, judging from former doings. she had accidentally discovered that fitzpiers was in the habit of coming secretly once or twice a week to hintock, and knew that this evening was a favorite one of the seven for his journey. as she was going next day to leave the country, suke thought there could be no great harm in giving way to a little sentimentality by obtaining a glimpse of him quite unknown to himself or to anybody, and thus taking a silent last farewell. aware that fitzpiers's time for passing was at hand she thus betrayed her feeling. no sooner, therefore, had tim left the room than she let herself noiselessly out of the house, and hastened to the corner of the garden, whence she could witness the surgeon's transit across the scene--if he had not already gone by. her light cotton dress was visible to tim lounging in the arbor of the opposite corner, though he was hidden from her. he saw her stealthily climb into the hedge, and so ensconce herself there that nobody could have the least doubt her purpose was to watch unseen for a passer-by. he went across to the spot and stood behind her. suke started, having in her blundering way forgotten that he might be near. she at once descended from the hedge. "so he's coming to-night," said tim, laconically. "and we be always anxious to see our dears." "he is coming to-night," she replied, with defiance. "and we be anxious for our dears." "then will you step in-doors, where your dear will soon jine 'ee? we've to mouster by half-past three to-morrow, and if we don't get to bed by eight at latest our faces will be as long as clock-cases all day." she hesitated for a minute, but ultimately obeyed, going slowly down the garden to the house, where he heard the door-latch click behind her. tim was incensed beyond measure. his marriage had so far been a total failure, a source of bitter regret; and the only course for improving his case, that of leaving the country, was a sorry, and possibly might not be a very effectual one. do what he would, his domestic sky was likely to be overcast to the end of the day. thus he brooded, and his resentment gathered force. he craved a means of striking one blow back at the cause of his cheerless plight, while he was still on the scene of his discomfiture. for some minutes no method suggested itself, and then he had an idea. coming to a sudden resolution, he hastened along the garden, and entered the one attached to the next cottage, which had formerly been the dwelling of a game-keeper. tim descended the path to the back of the house, where only an old woman lived at present, and reaching the wall he stopped. owing to the slope of the ground the roof-eaves of the linhay were here within touch, and he thrust his arm up under them, feeling about in the space on the top of the wall-plate. "ah, i thought my memory didn't deceive me!" he lipped silently. with some exertion he drew down a cobwebbed object curiously framed in iron, which clanked as he moved it. it was about three feet in length and half as wide. tim contemplated it as well as he could in the dying light of day, and raked off the cobwebs with his hand. "that will spoil his pretty shins for'n, i reckon!" he said. it was a man-trap. chapter xlvii. were the inventors of automatic machines to be ranged according to the excellence of their devices for producing sound artistic torture, the creator of the man-trap would occupy a very respectable if not a very high place. it should rather, however, be said, the inventor of the particular form of man-trap of which this found in the keeper's out-house was a specimen. for there were other shapes and other sizes, instruments which, if placed in a row beside one of the type disinterred by tim, would have worn the subordinate aspect of the bears, wild boars, or wolves in a travelling menagerie, as compared with the leading lion or tiger. in short, though many varieties had been in use during those centuries which we are accustomed to look back upon as the true and only period of merry england--in the rural districts more especially--and onward down to the third decade of the nineteenth century, this model had borne the palm, and had been most usually followed when the orchards and estates required new ones. there had been the toothless variety used by the softer-hearted landlords--quite contemptible in their clemency. the jaws of these resembled the jaws of an old woman to whom time has left nothing but gums. there were also the intermediate or half-toothed sorts, probably devised by the middle-natured squires, or those under the influence of their wives: two inches of mercy, two inches of cruelty, two inches of mere nip, two inches of probe, and so on, through the whole extent of the jaws. there were also, as a class apart, the bruisers, which did not lacerate the flesh, but only crushed the bone. the sight of one of these gins when set produced a vivid impression that it was endowed with life. it exhibited the combined aspects of a shark, a crocodile, and a scorpion. each tooth was in the form of a tapering spine, two and a quarter inches long, which, when the jaws were closed, stood in alternation from this side and from that. when they were open, the two halves formed a complete circle between two and three feet in diameter, the plate or treading-place in the midst being about a foot square, while from beneath extended in opposite directions the soul of the apparatus, the pair of springs, each one being of a stiffness to render necessary a lever or the whole weight of the body when forcing it down. there were men at this time still living at hintock who remembered when the gin and others like it were in use. tim tangs's great-uncle had endured a night of six hours in this very trap, which lamed him for life. once a keeper of hintock woods set it on the track of a poacher, and afterwards, coming back that way, forgetful of what he had done, walked into it himself. the wound brought on lockjaw, of which he died. this event occurred during the thirties, and by the year the use of such implements was well-nigh discontinued in the neighborhood. but being made entirely of iron, they by no means disappeared, and in almost every village one could be found in some nook or corner as readily as this was found by tim. it had, indeed, been a fearful amusement of tim and other hintock lads--especially those who had a dim sense of becoming renowned poachers when they reached their prime--to drag out this trap from its hiding, set it, and throw it with billets of wood, which were penetrated by the teeth to the depth of near an inch. as soon as he had examined the trap, and found that the hinges and springs were still perfect, he shouldered it without more ado, and returned with his burden to his own garden, passing on through the hedge to the path immediately outside the boundary. here, by the help of a stout stake, he set the trap, and laid it carefully behind a bush while he went forward to reconnoitre. as has been stated, nobody passed this way for days together sometimes; but there was just a possibility that some other pedestrian than the one in request might arrive, and it behooved tim to be careful as to the identity of his victim. going about a hundred yards along the rising ground to the right, he reached a ridge whereon a large and thick holly grew. beyond this for some distance the wood was more open, and the course which fitzpiers must pursue to reach the point, if he came to-night, was visible a long way forward. for some time there was no sign of him or of anybody. then there shaped itself a spot out of the dim mid-distance, between the masses of brushwood on either hand. and it enlarged, and tim could hear the brushing of feet over the tufts of sour-grass. the airy gait revealed fitzpiers even before his exact outline could be seen. tim tangs turned about, and ran down the opposite side of the hill, till he was again at the head of his own garden. it was the work of a few moments to drag out the man-trap, very gently--that the plate might not be disturbed sufficiently to throw it--to a space between a pair of young oaks which, rooted in contiguity, grew apart upward, forming a v-shaped opening between; and, being backed up by bushes, left this as the only course for a foot-passenger. in it he laid the trap with the same gentleness of handling, locked the chain round one of the trees, and finally slid back the guard which was placed to keep the gin from accidentally catching the arms of him who set it, or, to use the local and better word, "toiled" it. having completed these arrangements, tim sprang through the adjoining hedge of his father's garden, ran down the path, and softly entered the house. obedient to his order, suke had gone to bed; and as soon as he had bolted the door, tim unlaced and kicked off his boots at the foot of the stairs, and retired likewise, without lighting a candle. his object seemed to be to undress as soon as possible. before, however, he had completed the operation, a long cry resounded without--penetrating, but indescribable. "what's that?" said suke, starting up in bed. "sounds as if somebody had caught a hare in his gin." "oh no," said she. "it was not a hare, 'twas louder. hark!" "do 'ee get to sleep," said tim. "how be you going to wake at half-past three else?" she lay down and was silent. tim stealthily opened the window and listened. above the low harmonies produced by the instrumentation of the various species of trees around the premises he could hear the twitching of a chain from the spot whereon he had set the man-trap. but further human sound there was none. tim was puzzled. in the haste of his project he had not calculated upon a cry; but if one, why not more? he soon ceased to essay an answer, for hintock was dead to him already. in half a dozen hours he would be out of its precincts for life, on his way to the antipodes. he closed the window and lay down. the hour which had brought these movements of tim to birth had been operating actively elsewhere. awaiting in her father's house the minute of her appointment with her husband, grace fitzpiers deliberated on many things. should she inform her father before going out that the estrangement of herself and edgar was not so complete as he had imagined, and deemed desirable for her happiness? if she did so she must in some measure become the apologist of her husband, and she was not prepared to go so far. as for him, he kept her in a mood of considerate gravity. he certainly had changed. he had at his worst times always been gentle in his manner towards her. could it be that she might make of him a true and worthy husband yet? she had married him; there was no getting over that; and ought she any longer to keep him at a distance? his suave deference to her lightest whim on the question of his comings and goings, when as her lawful husband he might show a little independence, was a trait in his character as unexpected as it was engaging. if she had been his empress, and he her thrall, he could not have exhibited a more sensitive care to avoid intruding upon her against her will. impelled by a remembrance she took down a prayer-book and turned to the marriage-service. reading it slowly through, she became quite appalled at her recent off-handedness, when she rediscovered what awfully solemn promises she had made him at those chancel steps not so very long ago. she became lost in long ponderings on how far a person's conscience might be bound by vows made without at the time a full recognition of their force. that particular sentence, beginning "whom god hath joined together," was a staggerer for a gentlewoman of strong devotional sentiment. she wondered whether god really did join them together. before she had done deliberating the time of her engagement drew near, and she went out of the house almost at the moment that tim tangs retired to his own. the position of things at that critical juncture was briefly as follows. two hundred yards to the right of the upper end of tangs's garden fitzpiers was still advancing, having now nearly reached the summit of the wood-clothed ridge, the path being the actual one which further on passed between the two young oaks. thus far it was according to tim's conjecture. but about two hundred yards to the left, or rather less, was arising a condition which he had not divined, the emergence of grace as aforesaid from the upper corner of her father's garden, with the view of meeting tim's intended victim. midway between husband and wife was the diabolical trap, silent, open, ready. fitzpiers's walk that night had been cheerful, for he was convinced that the slow and gentle method he had adopted was promising success. the very restraint that he was obliged to exercise upon himself, so as not to kill the delicate bud of returning confidence, fed his flame. he walked so much more rapidly than grace that, if they continued advancing as they had begun, he would reach the trap a good half-minute before she could reach the same spot. but here a new circumstance came in; to escape the unpleasantness of being watched or listened to by lurkers--naturally curious by reason of their strained relations--they had arranged that their meeting for to-night should be at the holm-tree on the ridge above named. so soon, accordingly, as fitzpiers reached the tree he stood still to await her. he had not paused under the prickly foliage more than two minutes when he thought he heard a scream from the other side of the ridge. fitzpiers wondered what it could mean; but such wind as there was just now blew in an adverse direction, and his mood was light. he set down the origin of the sound to one of the superstitious freaks or frolicsome scrimmages between sweethearts that still survived in hintock from old-english times; and waited on where he stood till ten minutes had passed. feeling then a little uneasy, his mind reverted to the scream; and he went forward over the summit and down the embowered incline, till he reached the pair of sister oaks with the narrow opening between them. fitzpiers stumbled and all but fell. stretching down his hand to ascertain the obstruction, it came in contact with a confused mass of silken drapery and iron-work that conveyed absolutely no explanatory idea to his mind at all. it was but the work of a moment to strike a match; and then he saw a sight which congealed his blood. the man-trap was thrown; and between its jaws was part of a woman's clothing--a patterned silk skirt--gripped with such violence that the iron teeth had passed through it, skewering its tissue in a score of places. he immediately recognized the skirt as that of one of his wife's gowns--the gown that she had worn when she met him on the very last occasion. fitzpiers had often studied the effect of these instruments when examining the collection at hintock house, and the conception instantly flashed through him that grace had been caught, taken out mangled by some chance passer, and carried home, some of her clothes being left behind in the difficulty of getting her free. the shock of this conviction, striking into the very current of high hope, was so great that he cried out like one in corporal agony, and in his misery bowed himself down to the ground. of all the degrees and qualities of punishment that fitzpiers had undergone since his sins against grace first began, not any even approximated in intensity to this. "oh, my own--my darling! oh, cruel heaven--it is too much, this!" he cried, writhing and rocking himself over the sorry accessaries of her he deplored. the voice of his distress was sufficiently loud to be audible to any one who might have been there to hear it; and one there was. right and left of the narrow pass between the oaks were dense bushes; and now from behind these a female figure glided, whose appearance even in the gloom was, though graceful in outline, noticeably strange. she was in white up to the waist, and figured above. she was, in short, grace, his wife, lacking the portion of her dress which the gin retained. "don't be grieved about me--don't, dear edgar!" she exclaimed, rushing up and bending over him. "i am not hurt a bit! i was coming on to find you after i had released myself, but i heard footsteps; and i hid away, because i was without some of my clothing, and i did not know who the person might be." fitzpiers had sprung to his feet, and his next act was no less unpremeditated by him than it was irresistible by her, and would have been so by any woman not of amazonian strength. he clasped his arms completely round, pressed her to his breast, and kissed her passionately. "you are not dead!--you are not hurt! thank god--thank god!" he said, almost sobbing in his delight and relief from the horror of his apprehension. "grace, my wife, my love, how is this--what has happened?" "i was coming on to you," she said as distinctly as she could in the half-smothered state of her face against his. "i was trying to be as punctual as possible, and as i had started a minute late i ran along the path very swiftly--fortunately for myself. just when i had passed between these trees i felt something clutch at my dress from behind with a noise, and the next moment i was pulled backward by it, and fell to the ground. i screamed with terror, thinking it was a man lying down there to murder me, but the next moment i discovered it was iron, and that my clothes were caught in a trap. i pulled this way and that, but the thing would not let go, drag it as i would, and i did not know what to do. i did not want to alarm my father or anybody, as i wished nobody to know of these meetings with you; so i could think of no other plan than slipping off my skirt, meaning to run on and tell you what a strange accident had happened to me. but when i had just freed myself by leaving the dress behind, i heard steps, and not being sure it was you, i did not like to be seen in such a pickle, so i hid away." "it was only your speed that saved you! one or both of your legs would have been broken if you had come at ordinary walking pace." "or yours, if you had got here first," said she, beginning to realize the whole ghastliness of the possibility. "oh, edgar, there has been an eye watching over us to-night, and we should be thankful indeed!" he continued to press his face to hers. "you are mine--mine again now." she gently owned that she supposed she was. "i heard what you said when you thought i was injured," she went on, shyly, "and i know that a man who could suffer as you were suffering must have a tender regard for me. but how does this awful thing come here?" "i suppose it has something to do with poachers." fitzpiers was still so shaken by the sense of her danger that he was obliged to sit awhile, and it was not until grace said, "if i could only get my skirt out nobody would know anything about it," that he bestirred himself. by their united efforts, each standing on one of the springs of the trap, they pressed them down sufficiently to insert across the jaws a billet which they dragged from a faggot near at hand; and it was then possible to extract the silk mouthful from the monster's bite, creased and pierced with many holes, but not torn. fitzpiers assisted her to put it on again; and when her customary contours were thus restored they walked on together, grace taking his arm, till he effected an improvement by clasping it round her waist. the ice having been broken in this unexpected manner, she made no further attempt at reserve. "i would ask you to come into the house," she said, "but my meetings with you have been kept secret from my father, and i should like to prepare him." "never mind, dearest. i could not very well have accepted the invitation. i shall never live here again--as much for your sake as for mine. i have news to tell you on this very point, but my alarm had put it out of my head. i have bought a practice, or rather a partnership, in the midlands, and i must go there in a week to take up permanent residence. my poor old great-aunt died about eight months ago, and left me enough to do this. i have taken a little furnished house for a time, till we can get one of our own." he described the place, and the surroundings, and the view from the windows, and grace became much interested. "but why are you not there now?" she said. "because i cannot tear myself away from here till i have your promise. now, darling, you will accompany me there--will you not? to-night has settled that." grace's tremblings had gone off, and she did not say nay. they went on together. the adventure, and the emotions consequent upon the reunion which that event had forced on, combined to render grace oblivious of the direction of their desultory ramble, till she noticed they were in an encircled glade in the densest part of the wood, whereon the moon, that had imperceptibly added its rays to the scene, shone almost vertically. it was an exceptionally soft, balmy evening for the time of year, which was just that transient period in the may month when beech-trees have suddenly unfolded large limp young leaves of the softness of butterflies' wings. boughs bearing such leaves hung low around, and completely enclosed them, so that it was as if they were in a great green vase, which had moss for its bottom and leaf sides. the clouds having been packed in the west that evening so as to retain the departing glare a long while, the hour had seemed much earlier than it was. but suddenly the question of time occurred to her. "i must go back," she said; and without further delay they set their faces towards hintock. as they walked he examined his watch by the aid of the now strong moonlight. "by the gods, i think i have lost my train!" said fitzpiers. "dear me--whereabouts are we?" said she. "two miles in the direction of sherton." "then do you hasten on, edgar. i am not in the least afraid. i recognize now the part of the wood we are in and i can find my way back quite easily. i'll tell my father that we have made it up. i wish i had not kept our meetings so private, for it may vex him a little to know i have been seeing you. he is getting old and irritable, that was why i did not. good-by." "but, as i must stay at the earl of wessex to-night, for i cannot possibly catch the train, i think it would be safer for you to let me take care of you." "but what will my father think has become of me? he does not know in the least where i am--he thinks i only went into the garden for a few minutes." "he will surely guess--somebody has seen me for certain. i'll go all the way back with you to-morrow." "but that newly done-up place--the earl of wessex!" "if you are so very particular about the publicity i will stay at the three tuns." "oh no--it is not that i am particular--but i haven't a brush or comb or anything!" chapter xlviii. all the evening melbury had been coming to his door, saying, "i wonder where in the world that girl is! never in all my born days did i know her bide out like this! she surely said she was going into the garden to get some parsley." melbury searched the garden, the parsley-bed, and the orchard, but could find no trace of her, and then he made inquiries at the cottages of such of his workmen as had not gone to bed, avoiding tangs's because he knew the young people were to rise early to leave. in these inquiries one of the men's wives somewhat incautiously let out the fact that she had heard a scream in the wood, though from which direction she could not say. this set melbury's fears on end. he told the men to light lanterns, and headed by himself they started, creedle following at the last moment with quite a burden of grapnels and ropes, which he could not be persuaded to leave behind, and the company being joined by the hollow-turner and the man who kept the cider-house as they went along. they explored the precincts of the village, and in a short time lighted upon the man-trap. its discovery simply added an item of fact without helping their conjectures; but melbury's indefinite alarm was greatly increased when, holding a candle to the ground, he saw in the teeth of the instrument some frayings from grace's clothing. no intelligence of any kind was gained till they met a woodman of delborough, who said that he had seen a lady answering to the description her father gave of grace, walking through the wood on a gentleman's arm in the direction of sherton. "was he clutching her tight?" said melbury. "well--rather," said the man. "did she walk lame?" "well, 'tis true her head hung over towards him a bit." creedle groaned tragically. melbury, not suspecting the presence of fitzpiers, coupled this account with the man-trap and the scream; he could not understand what it all meant; but the sinister event of the trap made him follow on. accordingly, they bore away towards the town, shouting as they went, and in due course emerged upon the highway. nearing sherton-abbas, the previous information was confirmed by other strollers, though the gentleman's supporting arm had disappeared from these later accounts. at last they were so near sherton that melbury informed his faithful followers that he did not wish to drag them farther at so late an hour, since he could go on alone and inquire if the woman who had been seen were really grace. but they would not leave him alone in his anxiety, and trudged onward till the lamplight from the town began to illuminate their fronts. at the entrance to the high street they got fresh scent of the pursued, but coupled with the new condition that the lady in the costume described had been going up the street alone. "faith!--i believe she's mesmerized, or walking in her sleep," said melbury. however, the identity of this woman with grace was by no means certain; but they plodded along the street. percombe, the hair-dresser, who had despoiled marty of her tresses, was standing at his door, and they duly put inquiries to him. "ah--how's little hintock folk by now?" he said, before replying. "never have i been over there since one winter night some three year ago--and then i lost myself finding it. how can ye live in such a one-eyed place? great hintock is bad enough--hut little hintock--the bats and owls would drive me melancholy-mad! it took two days to raise my sperrits to their true pitch again after that night i went there. mr. melbury, sir, as a man's that put by money, why not retire and live here, and see something of the world?" the responses at last given by him to their queries guided them to the building that offered the best accommodation in sherton--having been enlarged contemporaneously with the construction of the railway--namely, the earl of wessex hotel. leaving the others without, melbury made prompt inquiry here. his alarm was lessened, though his perplexity was increased, when he received a brief reply that such a lady was in the house. "do you know if it is my daughter?" asked melbury. the waiter did not. "do you know the lady's name?" of this, too, the household was ignorant, the hotel having been taken by brand-new people from a distance. they knew the gentleman very well by sight, and had not thought it necessary to ask him to enter his name. "oh, the gentleman appears again now," said melbury to himself. "well, i want to see the lady," he declared. a message was taken up, and after some delay the shape of grace appeared descending round the bend of the stair-case, looking as if she lived there, but in other respects rather guilty and frightened. "why--what the name--" began her father. "i thought you went out to get parsley!" "oh, yes--i did--but it is all right," said grace, in a flurried whisper. "i am not alone here. i am here with edgar. it is entirely owing to an accident, father." "edgar! an accident! how does he come here? i thought he was two hundred mile off." "yes, so he is--i mean he has got a beautiful practice two hundred miles off; he has bought it with his own money, some that came to him. but he travelled here, and i was nearly caught in a man-trap, and that's how it is i am here. we were just thinking of sending a messenger to let you know." melbury did not seem to be particularly enlightened by this explanation. "you were caught in a man-trap?" "yes; my dress was. that's how it arose. edgar is up-stairs in his own sitting-room," she went on. "he would not mind seeing you, i am sure." "oh, faith, i don't want to see him! i have seen him too often a'ready. i'll see him another time, perhaps, if 'tis to oblige 'ee." "he came to see me; he wanted to consult me about this large partnership i speak of, as it is very promising." "oh, i am glad to hear it," said melbury, dryly. a pause ensued, during which the inquiring faces and whity-brown clothes of melbury's companions appeared in the door-way. "then bain't you coming home with us?" he asked. "i--i think not," said grace, blushing. "h'm--very well--you are your own mistress," he returned, in tones which seemed to assert otherwise. "good-night;" and melbury retreated towards the door. "don't be angry, father," she said, following him a few steps. "i have done it for the best." "i am not angry, though it is true i have been a little misled in this. however, good-night. i must get home along." he left the hotel, not without relief, for to be under the eyes of strangers while he conversed with his lost child had embarrassed him much. his search-party, too, had looked awkward there, having rushed to the task of investigation--some in their shirt sleeves, others in their leather aprons, and all much stained--just as they had come from their work of barking, and not in their sherton marketing attire; while creedle, with his ropes and grapnels and air of impending tragedy, had added melancholy to gawkiness. "now, neighbors," said melbury, on joining them, "as it is getting late, we'll leg it home again as fast as we can. i ought to tell you that there has been some mistake--some arrangement entered into between mr. and mrs. fitzpiers which i didn't quite understand--an important practice in the midland counties has come to him, which made it necessary for her to join him to-night--so she says. that's all it was--and i'm sorry i dragged you out." "well," said the hollow-turner, "here be we six mile from home, and night-time, and not a hoss or four-footed creeping thing to our name. i say, we'll have a mossel and a drop o' summat to strengthen our nerves afore we vamp all the way back again? my throat's as dry as a kex. what d'ye say so's?" they all concurred in the need for this course, and proceeded to the antique and lampless back street, in which the red curtain of the three tuns was the only radiant object. as soon as they had stumbled down into the room melbury ordered them to be served, when they made themselves comfortable by the long table, and stretched out their legs upon the herring-boned sand of the floor. melbury himself, restless as usual, walked to the door while he waited for them, and looked up and down the street. "i'd gie her a good shaking if she were my maid; pretending to go out in the garden, and leading folk a twelve-mile traipse that have got to get up at five o'clock to morrow," said a bark-ripper; who, not working regularly for melbury, could afford to indulge in strong opinions. "i don't speak so warm as that," said the hollow-turner, "but if 'tis right for couples to make a country talk about their separating, and excite the neighbors, and then make fools of 'em like this, why, i haven't stood upon one leg for five-and-twenty year." all his listeners knew that when he alluded to his foot-lathe in these enigmatic terms, the speaker meant to be impressive; and creedle chimed in with, "ah, young women do wax wanton in these days! why couldn't she ha' bode with her father, and been faithful?" poor creedle was thinking of his old employer. "but this deceiving of folks is nothing unusual in matrimony," said farmer bawtree. "i knowed a man and wife--faith, i don't mind owning, as there's no strangers here, that the pair were my own relations--they'd be at it that hot one hour that you'd hear the poker and the tongs and the bellows and the warming-pan flee across the house with the movements of their vengeance; and the next hour you'd hear 'em singing 'the spotted cow' together as peaceable as two holy twins; yes--and very good voices they had, and would strike in like professional ballet-singers to one another's support in the high notes." "and i knowed a woman, and the husband o' her went away for four-and-twenty year," said the bark-ripper. "and one night he came home when she was sitting by the fire, and thereupon he sat down himself on the other side of the chimney-corner. 'well,' says she, 'have ye got any news?' 'don't know as i have,' says he; 'have you?' 'no,' says she, 'except that my daughter by my second husband was married last month, which was a year after i was made a widow by him.' 'oh! anything else?' he says. 'no,' says she. and there they sat, one on each side of that chimney-corner, and were found by their neighbors sound asleep in their chairs, not having known what to talk about at all." "well, i don't care who the man is," said creedle, "they required a good deal to talk about, and that's true. it won't be the same with these." "no. he is such a projick, you see. and she is a wonderful scholar too!" "what women do know nowadays!" observed the hollow-turner. "you can't deceive 'em as you could in my time." "what they knowed then was not small," said john upjohn. "always a good deal more than the men! why, when i went courting my wife that is now, the skilfulness that she would show in keeping me on her pretty side as she walked was beyond all belief. perhaps you've noticed that she's got a pretty side to her face as well as a plain one?" "i can't say i've noticed it particular much," said the hollow-turner, blandly. "well," continued upjohn, not disconcerted, "she has. all women under the sun be prettier one side than t'other. and, as i was saying, the pains she would take to make me walk on the pretty side were unending! i warrant that whether we were going with the sun or against the sun, uphill or downhill, in wind or in lewth, that wart of hers was always towards the hedge, and that dimple towards me. there was i, too simple to see her wheelings and turnings; and she so artful, though two years younger, that she could lead me with a cotton thread, like a blind ram; for that was in the third climate of our courtship. no; i don't think the women have got cleverer, for they was never otherwise." "how many climates may there be in courtship, mr. upjohn?" inquired a youth--the same who had assisted at winterborne's christmas party. "five--from the coolest to the hottest--leastwise there was five in mine." "can ye give us the chronicle of 'em, mr. upjohn?" "yes--i could. i could certainly. but 'tis quite unnecessary. they'll come to ye by nater, young man, too soon for your good." "at present mrs. fitzpiers can lead the doctor as your mis'ess could lead you," the hollow-turner remarked. "she's got him quite tame. but how long 'twill last i can't say. i happened to be setting a wire on the top of my garden one night when he met her on the other side of the hedge; and the way she queened it, and fenced, and kept that poor feller at a distance, was enough to freeze yer blood. i should never have supposed it of such a girl." melbury now returned to the room, and the men having declared themselves refreshed, they all started on the homeward journey, which was by no means cheerless under the rays of the high moon. having to walk the whole distance they came by a foot-path rather shorter than the highway, though difficult except to those who knew the country well. this brought them by way of great hintock; and passing the church-yard they observed, as they talked, a motionless figure standing by the gate. "i think it was marty south," said the hollow-turner, parenthetically. "i think 'twas; 'a was always a lonely maid," said upjohn. and they passed on homeward, and thought of the matter no more. it was marty, as they had supposed. that evening had been the particular one of the week upon which grace and herself had been accustomed to privately deposit flowers on giles's grave, and this was the first occasion since his death, eight months earlier, on which grace had failed to keep her appointment. marty had waited in the road just outside little hintock, where her fellow-pilgrim had been wont to join her, till she was weary; and at last, thinking that grace had missed her and gone on alone, she followed the way to great hintock, but saw no grace in front of her. it got later, and marty continued her walk till she reached the church-yard gate; but still no grace. yet her sense of comradeship would not allow her to go on to the grave alone, and still thinking the delay had been unavoidable, she stood there with her little basket of flowers in her clasped hands, and her feet chilled by the damp ground, till more than two hours had passed. she then heard the footsteps of melbury's men, who presently passed on their return from the search. in the silence of the night marty could not help hearing fragments of their conversation, from which she acquired a general idea of what had occurred, and where mrs. fitzpiers then was. immediately they had dropped down the hill she entered the church-yard, going to a secluded corner behind the bushes, where rose the unadorned stone that marked the last bed of giles winterborne. as this solitary and silent girl stood there in the moonlight, a straight slim figure, clothed in a plaitless gown, the contours of womanhood so undeveloped as to be scarcely perceptible, the marks of poverty and toil effaced by the misty hour, she touched sublimity at points, and looked almost like a being who had rejected with indifference the attribute of sex for the loftier quality of abstract humanism. she stooped down and cleared away the withered flowers that grace and herself had laid there the previous week, and put her fresh ones in their place. "now, my own, own love," she whispered, "you are mine, and on'y mine; for she has forgot 'ee at last, although for her you died. but i--whenever i get up i'll think of 'ee, and whenever i lie down i'll think of 'ee. whenever i plant the young larches i'll think that none can plant as you planted; and whenever i split a gad, and whenever i turn the cider-wring, i'll say none could do it like you. if ever i forget your name, let me forget home and heaven!--but no, no, my love, i never can forget 'ee; for you was a good man, and did good things!" thomas hardy's dorset _works by the same author_ rudyard kipling: a character study george borrow: lord of the open road war and the weird the amber girl kipling's sussex friendly sussex. (_in the press_) [illustration: birthplace of thomas hardy, upper bockhampton] thomas hardy's dorset by r. thurston hopkins with illustrations by e. harries and from photographs new york d appleton and company first edition copyright printed in great britain by the riverside press limited edinburgh contents chapter page i. dorset folk and dorset ways the dorset rustic a genial fellow--unconscious humour--the jovial blacksmith--cider-making--the poetic tippler--anglo-saxon tongue--enigmatical sayings and proverbs--a dorset rector and his ale--whiplegs--thatch and "cob"--a beautiful tract between seaton and west bay--the devil's own card--thomas hardy's story of witchcraft--conjurer trendle--the piskies--the bibulous farmer and the piskies--the cider mill--happy days at hovey's barn--marc bricks--a game of "hunting"--a dorset vicar on miracles--akermann's _wiltshire glossary_--william barnes--"dorset's good enough for me!"--large farm kitchens ii. barford st martin to tisbury and shaftesbury tisbury--john lockwood kipling--the green dragon at barford st martin--the man who laughed gloriously--points of perfection in a greyhound--the best dog that ever breathed--shaftesbury and its traditions--a curious custom--a story of water-carrying days at shaston--bimport and _jude the obscure_--old grove's place--marnhull--pure drop inn iii. the vale of blackmoor fortune scowls on me--the song of the nightingale--a little round-faced man--the hauntings of woolpit house--the vale of blackmoor--white-hart silver--king's stag inn--the length of life in animals--folk-sayings of blackmoor--the maidens of blackmoor--barnes the poet iv. blandford to dorchester blandford--winterborne whitchurch--turberville the poet--milborne st andrews--"welland house"--hardy's _two on a tower_--puddletown--the story of farmer dribblecombe and the christmas ale--the ancient family of martins--the ape of the martins--the last of the martins--the church of puddletown--a sad love story--"weatherbury upper farm" v. dorchester daniel defoe's description of dorchester--doctor arbuthnot--st peter's church--thomas hardy of melcombe regis--william barnes--judge jeffreys--maumbury rings--mary channing strangled and burnt--thomas hardy and relics of roman occupation--maiden castle--old inns--the grammar school--napper's mite--hangman's cottage--the bull stake--"jopp's cottage"--priory ruins--high place hall--colyton house--the mask with a leer--thomas hardy and the habits of bridge haunters--dorchester ale--"groves" stingo--_the trumpet major_--toby fillpot--a dorchester butt--_far from the madding crowd_--"yellowham wood"--the brown owl--the hedge pig--fordington--church of st george--hardy's "mellstock"--winterborne villages--original manuscript of _mayor of casterbridge_--wolverton house--knightly trenchards--cerne abbas and "the giant" vi. a literary note: thomas hardy and william barnes hardy's grandfather--hardy as a poet--primitive nature worship--prose poem of the cider-maker--william barnes--troublous days--"woak hill"--pathetic touch vii. bere regis and the ancient family of turberville yellowham hill--"the royal oak" at bere regis--my friend the thatcher--the complete guide to thatching--bere regis church--humorous norman carvings--sepulchre of the turbervilles--outline of hardy's _tess_--a turberville tradition--the first of the turbervilles--bryant's puddle--the old turberville manor house--descendants of the illegitimate turbervilles--a flagrant poacher--the tyrant of the tudor inn--hodge the eternally efficient--hardy's tess and wellbridge manor house--tess's ancestors--smoke pence--superstition and shrewdness mingled in the rustic--"old gover"--the story of the turberville coach--bindon abbey--tess--a sinister old wood viii. round and about weymouth weymouth and melcombe regis--rivalry of the old boroughs--george iii.--the sands--uncle benjy and inflated prices--sandsfoot castle--weymouth localities in _the trumpet major_--_the dynasts_--the dorset rustic and boney--the girls of budmouth--the "naples of england"--mr harper on the hardy country--georgian houses--the realest things--interesting relics--preston--sutton poyntz--_the trumpet major_--overcombe mill--to keep dorset fair--a soldier poet--bincombe--racy saxon speech--hardy on wessex words--poxwell--owermoigne--lulworth cove--portisham--admiral hardy--abbotsbury ix. poole poole harbour--the quay--an english buccaneer--brownsea-- lytchett--"to please his wife"--an enjoyable coast ramble x. swanage and corfe castle kingsley's description of swanage--tilly whim--thomas hardy's "knollsea"--the quarry folk--a mediæval trades guild--old dorset family names--marrying the land--high street at swanage--quaint houses and a mill-pond--st mary's church--newton manor--studland--the agglestone--langton matravers-- kingston--enckworth court--corfe--the greyhound hotel--an elizabethan manor-house--corfe church--a brave good chest--curfew--churchwardens and the degrees of inebriation--reward for killing a fox--lonely kingdom of an inn--wareham--wild life on the frome--wareham once a port--the "bloody bank"--peter of pomfret--meaning of the name wareham--bishop cating--st mary's church--"black bear" and "red lion"--chapel of st martin xi. my adventure with a merry rogue my sentimentalism over old inns, old ale and old drinking vessels--morcombe lake--"dorset knobs"--the lonely singer--the leather black jack--sleeping with miss green--lyme regis--the curiosity shop--"the spirit of the artist and the soul of a rogue"--we are all rogues! xii. the devon and dorset borderland stirring events--duke of monmouth--new inn--youth beckons with magic poignancy--smuggling days--buddle river manners--the cobb--granny's teeth--buddle bridge--town hall--henry fielding--church of st michael--broad street--the master smith of lyme--m'neill whistler--old songs--beware of late shooting--axminster--george inn--musbury--colyton--knightly poles--"little choke-bone"--the courtenays--a rare british flower--lambert's castle--charmouth--charles ii. xiii. rambles around bridport toller of the pigs--noble windows--whyford eagle--a curious tympanum--a remarkable oven--rampisham--"the tiger's head"--cross-in-hand--alec d'urberville--batcombe-- conjuring minterne--the conjurer of bygone days--hardy's story, "the withered arm"--minterne's tomb--kipling and a sussex "conjurer"--bridport--charles ii.--hardy's _fellow townsmen_--"greyhound hotel"--a lover of horses--"bucky doo"--"the bull" and thomas hardy--footpath to west bay--the chesil beach--the "anchor inn" at seatown xiv. round about beaminster beaminster--lewson hill and pil'son pen--blue vinny cheese--"trinkrums" on a church--an eerie story-- netherbury--robert morgan and his "feeble hedde" a glossary of west-country provincialisms chosen in part from _notes and queries_; akermann's _wiltshire glossary_; _the peasant speech of devon_, by sarah hewett; crossing's _folk rhymes of devon_; _the saxon-english_, by w. barnes; the works of thomas hardy; and many sources not generally known illustrations birthplace of thomas hardy _frontispiece_ facing page stocks at tollard royal the green dragon at barford st martin the giant, cerne abbas bingham's melcombe hurdle-making at bere regis woolbridge house corfe castle, the famous tillywhim caves, corfe castle, the lonely singer the river buddle, lyme regis the master smith of lyme regis drake memorial at musbury thomas hardy's dorset chapter i dorset folk and dorset ways so to the land our hearts we give till the sure magic strike, and memory, use, and love make live us and our fields alike-- that deeper than our speech and thought beyond our reason's sway, clay of the pit whence we were wrought yearns to its fellow-clay. rudyard kipling. to the traveller who takes an interest in the place he visits, dorset will prove one of the most highly attractive counties in the kingdom. to the book-lover it is a land of grand adventure, for here is the centre of the hardy country, the home of the wessex novels. it is in dorset that ancient superstitions and curious old customs yet linger, and strange beliefs from ages long ago still survive. it is good to find that the kindly hospitality, the shrewd wisdom and dry wit, for which the peasantry in thomas hardy's novels are famous, have not been weakened by foolish folk who seek to be "up to date." old drinks and dishes that represent those of our forefathers, and the mellow sound of the speech that was so dear to raleigh and drake, are things that are now giving way to the new order of life, alas! but they are dying hard, as behoves things which are immemorial and sacramental. the rustics are perhaps not quite so witty as they are in hardy's _the return of the native_ and other novels, but they possess the robust forms and simple manners of a fine old agricultural people, while they show their spirit by the proverb, "i will not want when i have, nor, by gor, when i ha'n't, too!" heavy of gait, stolid of mien, and of indomitable courage, the true wessex man is a staunch friend and a very mild enemy. he is a genial fellow and, like danton, seems to find no use for hate. he knows that all things done in _hate_ have to be done over again. imperturbable to the last ditch, he is rarely shaken into any exclamation of surprise or wrath. when he is, "dang-my-ole-wig!" "dallee!" with a strong accent on the "ee," or "aw! dallybuttons!" are the kind of mild swear-words one hears. but when he gets into the towns he forgets these strange phrases and his dialect becomes less broad. heavy and stolid the dorset rustic may be, though there is no reason to suppose that he is slower than any other rustic, but one is inclined to think that the "stupidity" of the countryman covers a deep, if only half-realised, philosophy. nevertheless we must admit that hodge often wins through in his slow way. there is a good deal of humour in the dorset rustic, but perhaps most of his wit is unconscious. that reminds me of the story of a dorset crier who kept the officials of the town hall waiting for two hours on a certain morning. they were about to open the proceedings without him when a boy rushed in and handed the mayor a message. he read the message and seemed deeply affected. then he announced: "i have just received a message from our crier, saying, 'wife's mother passed away last night. will not be able to cry to-day.'" that story may be a very ancient "chestnut," but here is a true instance of hodge's unconscious humour. the wife of a blacksmith at an isolated forge in dorset had died rather suddenly, and it happened that during one of my rambles i applied to the forge for food and lodging for the night. the old fellow opened the door to me, and i guessed that he was in trouble by the fresh crape band round his soft felt hat, which is weekday mourning of the rustic. however, the old fellow was quite pleased to have me for company, and i stayed at his forge for some days. "her was a clever woman; her kept my things straight," he said to me one night at supper, as he looked wistfully at his old jacket full of simple rents from hedgerow briars. "but it's no manner of use grumbling--i never was a _bull-sowerlugs_ [a morose fellow]. and thank the lord she was took quick. i went off for the doctor four miles away, and when i gets there he was gone off somewhere else; so i turned, and in tramping back along remembered i had a bottle of medicine which he did give me last year, so says i, 'that will do for the ol' woman'; so i gave it to her and she died." the old blacksmith drank his beer and dealt with his ham and bread for ten minutes in silence. then he looked into the amber depths of his ale and said: "_say, mister--wasn't it a good job i didn't take that bottle of physic myself?_" dorset is only one of the several cider-making counties in wessex. the good round cider is a warming and invigorating drink that is in every way equal to a good ale, and sometimes--especially if it has been doctored with a little spirit and kept in a spirit cask--is considerably stronger, and is by no means to be consumed regardless of quantity. and one must be cautious in mixing drinks when taking cider. but the cider which is consumed by the dorset rustic is, to use a local word, rather "ramy" or "ropy" to the palate of a person unaccustomed to it. that is to say that it is sour and often rather thick. of course the rustic knows nothing, and would care nothing, for the so-called cider sold in london which resembles champagne in the way it sparkles. such stuff is only manufactured for folk out of wessex. a dorset rustic, on being reproved by a magistrate for being drunk and disorderly, explained that his sad plight was the result of taking his liquor the wrong way up; for, said he, "cyder upon beer is very good cheer, beer 'pon cyder is a dalled bad rider!" the worthy magistrate, not to be vanquished by the poetic tippler, told him to remember-- "when the cyder's in the can the sense is in the man! when the cyder's in the man the sense is in the can." "i wish," said an old shepherd to me, with regret in his voice, "that you might taste such beer as my mother brewed when i was a boy. bread, cheese and ingyens [onions] with a drop of beer was parfuse [ample] for a meal in those days, 'ess fay! but this beer they sell now is drefful wishee-washee stuff. i'll be dalled if i'll drink it; 'tez water bewitched and malt begridged [begrudged]." in hodge's uncouth speech are found many words and usages of the anglo-saxon tongue, though it is not now relished by fastidious palates. william barnes, the dorset poet, enumerates the chief peculiarities of the dorset dialect in his books on speech lore. he loved the odd phrases of children, and it is easy to see why. for a child, not knowing the correct method of describing a thing and seeking to express its meaning, will often go back to the strong old anglo-saxon definitions. the child can often coin very apt phrases. as, for instance, the dorset child who spoke of honey as "bee-jam." barnes was delighted, too, with the boy "who scrope out the 'p' in 'psalm' 'cose it didn't spell nothen." many of the humours of arcady have been moulded into enigmatical sayings and metaphors which may still be heard on the lips of the dorset rustic: tea with a dash of rum is called "milk from the brown cow"; the dead are "put to bed with a shovel"; a noisy old man is a "blaze wig"; a fat and pompous fellow is a "blow-poke"; the thoughts of the flighty girl go a-"bell-wavering"; the gallows is the "black horse foaled by an acorn." the dorset rustic has devised many names for the dullard: "billy-buttons," "billy-whiffler," "lablolly," "ninnyhammer," and "bluffle-head" are some of them. the very sound of such names suggests folly. "leer" is a curious word still heard in dorset and devon. it is used to express the sense of craving produced by weakness and long fasting. perhaps shakespeare used _lear_ in a metaphorical sense. i remember once hearing a sussex labourer speak of taking his "coager" (cold cheer?), a meal of cold victuals taken at noon, but i am told the mouthful of bread and cheese taken at starting in the morning by the dorset rustic rejoices in the still more delightful name of "dew-bit." "crowder" (a fiddler) is a genuine british word, used up to a few years ago, but i was unable to trace anyone using it in dorset this year. in cornwall the proverb, "if i can't crowdy, they won't dance" (meaning, "they will pass me by when i have no money to feast and entertain my friends"), was commonly quoted fifty years ago. another tale regarding unconscious humour is told of by a dorset rector who was holding a confirmation class. he was one of the old-fashioned parsons and made it his solemn duty to call at the village inn and drink a pint of ale with his flock every evening. one of the candidates for confirmation was the buxom daughter of the innkeeper, and when he came to ask her the usual fixed question, "what is your name?" the girl, holding her head on one side, glanced at him roguishly, and said: "now dawntee tell me you don't know. as if you diddent come into our place every night and say, 'now, rubina, my dear, give me a half-pint of your best ale in a pint pewter!'" the story of village sports and the way in which the rustic was wont to enjoy himself is always interesting. one of the most singular forms of contest once in common practice in the west of england was _whiplegs_. the procedure of this pastime consisted of the men standing a yard or so apart and lashing each other's legs with long cart whips till one cried "holt!" the one who begged for quarter of course paid for the ale. the rude leather gaiters worn by tranters or carters fifty years ago would, of course, take much of the sting out of the whip cuts. thatch survives in nearly every village, and one of the favoured building materials is stone from the dorset quarries. at corfe the houses are built of stone from foundation to roof, and stone slabs of immense size are made to take the place of tiles and slates. we find "cob" cottages here and there, and this perhaps is the most ancient of all materials, being a mixture of clay or mud and chopped straw. it is piled into walls of immense thickness and strength, and then plastered and white-washed. the natives in egypt and palestine construct their village homes with the same materials, and the result is not only wonderfully picturesque, but satisfactory in the more important respect of utility. but now the dorset people seldom build their walls of "cob" as of yore, and yet such work is very enduring. as an old devonshire proverb has it: "good cob, a good hat, and a good heart last for ever." * * * * * the beautiful tract of coast-line between seaton on the west and west bay on the east is a region of great charm; for here will be found all the most pleasing features of the sister counties, dorset and devon. the gracious greenery and combes of devon trespass over the border at lyme regis and so bestow on this nook the wooded charm of the true west country, which is lacking on the chalky grass hills of other parts of dorset. if the coast is followed from lyme regis we soon thread our way into the wild tangles of devon. things have changed somewhat in these days, but still the true son of devon carries his country with him wherever he goes; he does not forget that every little boy and girl born in the west is breathed over by the "piskies." but modern education has just about killed the "piskies," and there are no more ghosts in the old churchyards. there is a reason for the non-appearance of spirits at the present day. they have ceased to come out of their graves, said an old rustic, "ever since there was some alteration made in the burial service." a firm belief in "_the very old 'un_" is still, however, a most distinctive article of the rustic creed. "there was never a good hand at cards if the four of clubs was in it," said a rooted son of the soil to me. "why?" i asked. "because it's an unlucky card; it's the devil's own card." "in what way?" i urged. "it's the _old 'un's_ four-post bedstead," was the reply. another rustic remarked in all seriousness that he did think wizards "ought to be encouraged, for they could tell a man many things he didn't know as would be useful to 'un." the belief in witchcraft is almost dead, but it is not so many years ago that it was firmly held. thomas hardy's tale, _the withered arm_, it will be recalled, is a story of witchcraft. farmer lodge brought home a young wife, gertrude. a woman who worked on lodge's farm, rhoda brook by name, had a son of which the farmer was the father. rhoda naturally resented the marriage, and had a remarkable dream in which gertrude, wrinkled and old, had sat on her chest and mocked her. she seized the apparition by the left arm and hurled it away from her. so life-like was the phantom of her brain that it was difficult for her to believe that she had not actually struggled with gertrude lodge in the flesh. some time afterwards the farmer's wife complained that her left arm pained her, and the doctors were unable to give her any relief. in the end someone suggested that she had been "overlooked," and that it was the result of a witch's evil influence. she was told to ask the advice of a wise man named conjurer trendle who lived on egdon heath. in the days of our forefathers the conjurer was an important character in the village. he was resorted to by despairing lovers; he helped those who were under the evil eye to throw off the curse, and disclosed the whereabouts of stolen goods. his answers, too, were given with a somewhat mystic ambiguity. "own horn eat own corn" would be the kind of reply a person would receive on consulting him about the disappearance of, say, a few little household articles. well, to continue the story, rhoda brook accompanied gertrude to the hut of conjurer trendle, who informed the farmer's wife that rhoda had "overlooked" her. trendle told her that the evil spell might be dissolved and a cure effected by laying the diseased arm on the neck of a newly hanged man. during the absence of her husband she arranged with the casterbridge hangman to try this remedy. on the appointed day she arrived at the gaol, and the hangman placed her hand upon the neck of the body after the execution, and she drew away half fainting with the shock. as she turned she saw her husband and rhoda brook. the dead man was their son, who had been hanged for stealing sheep, and they harshly accused her of coming to gloat over their misfortune. at this the farmer's wife entirely collapsed, and only lived for a week or so after. thomas q. couch, writing in _notes and queries_, th may , gives a pleasant and light-hearted article on the prevailing belief in the existence of the piskies in the west country: "our piskies are little beings standing midway between the purely spiritual, and the material, suffering a few at least of the ills incident to humanity. they have the power of making themselves seen, heard, and felt. they interest themselves in man's affairs, now doing him a good turn, and anon taking offence at a trifle, and leading him into all manner of mischief. the rude gratitude of the husbandman is construed into an insult, and the capricious sprites mislead him on the first opportunity, and laugh heartily at his misadventures. they are great enemies of sluttery, and great encouragers of good husbandry. when not singing and dancing, their chief nightly amusement is in riding the colts, and plaiting their manes, or tangling them with the seed-vessels of the burdock. of a particular field in this neighbourhood it is reported that the farmer never puts his horses in it but he finds them in the morning in a state of great terror, panting, and covered with foam. their form of government is monarchical, as frequent mention is made of the 'king of the piskies.' we have a few stories of pisky changelings, the only proof of whose parentage was that 'they didn't goody' [thrive]. it would seem that fairy children of some growth are occasionally entrusted to human care for a time, and recalled; and that mortals are now and then kidnapped, and carried off to fairyland; such, according to the nursery rhyme, was the end of margery daw: "'see-saw, margery daw sold her bed, and lay upon straw; she sold her straw, and lay upon hay, piskies came and carri'd her away.' "a disposition to laughter is a striking trait in their character. i have been able to gather little about the personalities of these creatures. my old friend before mentioned used to describe them as about the height of a span, clad in green, and having straw hats or little red caps on their heads. two only are known by name, and i have heard them addressed in the following rhyme:-- "'jack o' the lantern! joan the wad! who tickled the maid and made her mad, light me home, the weather's bad.' "but times have greatly changed. the old-world stories in which our forefathers implicitly believed will not stand the light of modern education. the pixies have been banished from the west, and since their departure the wayward farmer can no longer plead being 'pisky-led' on market nights. "'pisky-led!' exclaimed an old devon lady to her bibulous husband, who had returned home very late, pleading he had been led astray by the piskies. 'now, dawntee say nort more about it'--and with a solemn voice and a shake of her bony finger she added: 'pisky-led is whisky-led. that's how it is with you!'" * * * * * may with its wealth of resurrecting life, its birds' songs, its flowers uplifting glad heads, is a beautiful month in dorset; but cider-making time, when the trees put on a blaze of yellow and red and the spirit of serenity and peace broods over everything, is the period that the true son of dorset loves best. cider-makin' time--what a phrase! what memories! why, then, time does indeed blot and blur the golden days of youth! i had almost forgotten the sweet smell of pomace and the cider mill--things which loomed large in the days when i was a boy down devon way. it is middle age, which stevenson likened to the "bear's hug of custom squeezing the life out of a man's soul," that has robbed me of the power to conjure up those happy days from the depths of my consciousness. certainly some virtue within me has departed--what? well, i do not know, but i cannot recapture the delirious joy of the apple harvest in the west. it is only a memory. perhaps it is one of those things which will return unexpectedly, and by which i shall remember the world at the last. well, then, when i was a boy, cider brewing in hovey's barn was one of the joys of life. a steam-engine on four wheels arrived from exeter, and pulleys and beltings were fixed up to work the old-fashioned press. within the barn a rumbling machine crushed the apples (which had been growing mellow in the loft for a fortnight), and the press noisily descended on the racks of pulp and sent the liquid into the tubs with a swish like the fall of tropical rain. outside the still october air was broken only by the chug--chug--chug of the stationary engine and the mellow voices and laughter of the farmers who delivered their apples and received in exchange barrels of cider. the marc from the cider-press was sometimes fed to cattle combined with bran, hay and chaff. but i suppose that was an old-fashioned idea, and farmers to-day would ridicule such a thing. but farmer hovey was a keen-eyed man of business--a man who could farm his acres successfully in the face of any disaster. how i wish that, now grown up, i could re-open those records, the book of his memory! but it has long been closed, laid away in the tree-shaded churchyard in fore street, near a flat stone commemorating john starre: john starre. starre on hie where should a starre be but on hie? tho underneath he now doth lie sleeping in dust yet shall he rise more glorious than the starres in skies. . making "marc bricks" at farmer hovey's was the highest pinnacle of my desire. it was one of those peculiarly "plashy" jobs in which any child would delight. one could get thoroughly coated from head to foot with the apple pulp in about half-an-hour. the "marc" was made into bricks (about a pound in weight) to preserve it. it was first pressed as dry as possible, made into cubes with wooden moulds, and stacked in an airy place to dry. hovey liked these bricks for fuel in the winter months, and i remember they made a wonderfully clear fire. it was while making up the apple pulp into bricks that my brothers and their friends caught the idea of the game of "hunting." the apple pulp was first made up into a score of heavy, wet balls. having drawn lots as to who should be the hunter, the winner would take charge of the ammunition and retire to the barn, which was known as the "hunters' shack," while the other boys would shin up the orchard trees, or conceal themselves behind walls, ricks and bushes. a short start was allowed, and then the hunter sallied forth with unrestricted powers to bombard with shot and shell anyone within sight. the first one who made his way home to the "shack" became the next hunter. many a satisfying flap on the back of the neck have i "got home" with those balls of apple pulp. it was a very primitive game, sometimes a very painful one, and not infrequently it ended in a general hand-to-hand fight. the game was certainly an excellent exercise in the art of encountering the hard knocks of life with a sunny fortitude. in it was my fortune to suffer rather a sharp period of shell-fire in palestine with one of the players of this game. my old playmate turned to me and yelled: "hi, there, bob! look out! these coming over are _not_ made of apple pulp!" then the smell of the cider-press came full and strong on the night air of the desert, and england and the west country came back to me in the foolishness of dreams, as the garden of hesperides or any other valley of bliss my erring feet had trodden in heedless mood. there is a story of a dorset vicar who was explaining to his flock the meaning of miracles. he saw that his hearers were dull and inattentive, and did not seem to grasp what he was saying, so he pointed to an old rascal of a villager who always lived riotously yet never toiled, and said in a loud voice: "i will tell you what a miracle is. look at old jan domeny, he hasn't an apple-tree in his garden, and yet he made a barrelful of cider this october. there's a miracle for you." while cycling out of swanage to corfe--a backbreaking and tortuous succession of hills--i had the misfortune to meet a wasp at full speed and receive a nasty sting. i asked a little girl if her mother lived near, as i wished to get some ammonia for it, and was delighted to hear the child call to her mother through an open window: "lukee, mother, a wapsy 'ath a stinged this maister 'pon 'is feace." which reminded me of a story in akerman's _wiltshire glossary_ of a woman who wished to show off her lubberly boy to some old dames, and accordingly called him to say his alphabet. she pointed to the letter "a" and asked tommy to name it. "dang-my-ole-hat, i dwon't know 'un," said the child, scratching his head. his mother passed this letter by and moved the point of her scissors to the next letter. "what be thuck one, tommy?" "i knows 'un by _zite_, but i can't call 'un by's neame," replied the boy. "what is that thing as goes buzzing about the gearden, tommy?" the boy put his head on one side and considered a moment, then replied, with a sly grin: "wapsy!" william barnes told a good tale of a west country parson who preached in the rudest vernacular. a rich and selfish dairyman of his flock died, and in place of the customary eulogy at the graveside, he said: "here lies old ----. he never did no good to nobody, and nobody spake no good o' he; put him to bed and let's prache to the living." and here is a good story related to me by a west country vicar. a lively old lady in his parish was very ill, and likely, as it seemed, to die. the vicar called on her and talked with professional eloquence of the splendours and joys of heaven. but the bright old creature had no fears for the future, and indeed was not so ill as they supposed. "yes, sir," she said, "what you say may be very true, and heaven may be a bobby-dazzling place; but i never was one to go a-bell-wavering--old dorset's good enough for me!" inside the old dorset farm-houses there is much that belongs to other days than these. many old homes have deep porches, with stone seats on each side, which lead to the large kitchen. it is large because it was built in the days when the farmer had labourers to help in the fields, and the mistress of the house had women servants to help with the spinning and the poultry, and all who lived under the same roof had their meals together in this room. many of the doors are as large and solid as church doors, and one that i saw was studded with nails and secured by a great rough wooden bar drawn right across it into an iron loop on the opposite side at night, and in the day-time thrust back into a hole in the thickness of the wall. but the majority are more homely than this and have only a latch inside raised from outside by a leather thong, or by "tirling at the pin," as in the old ballad. chapter ii barford st martin to tisbury and shaftesbury and she is very small and very green and full of little lanes all dense with flowers that wind along and lose themselves between mossed farms, and parks, and fields of quiet sheep. and in the hamlets, where her stalwarts sleep, low bells chime out from old elm-hidden towers. geoffrey howard. starting from salisbury, the pilgrim of the hardy country, when he has passed through barford st martin and burcome, might think it worth while to take the road to tisbury when he arrives at swallowcliff. the large village of tisbury is situated on the north side of the river nadder, on rising ground, and is about twelve miles west of salisbury. there is much of interest to be seen, and the spacious church, in the flat land at the bottom of the hill and close to the river, is well worth a visit. it contains several monuments to the arundels, and on an iron bracket near the easternmost window is a good sixteenth-century helmet, which has been gilded in places and is ornamented with a small band of scroll-work round the edges; there is an added spike for a crest. it is a real helmet, not a funeral one; the rivets for the lining remain inside. tradition says it belonged to the first lord arundel of wardour, who died in . all the seats are of oak and modern, but against the walls is some good linen-fold panelling of the seventeenth century or very late sixteenth century. in the sacrarium is a fine brass to lawrence hyde of west hatch. he was the great-grandfather of queen mary, , and queen anne, . he is represented standing in a church in front of his six sons, facing his wife and four daughters. the inscription is: "here lyeth lawrence hyde of west hatch esqr. who had issue by anne his wife six sons and four daughters and died in the year of the incarnation of our lord god . beati qui moriuntur in domino." the churchyard is a very large one, and the old causeway which was used in times of flood is most picturesque. two massive black grave slabs at once arrest the eye. in plain, square lead lettering one reads: john lockwood kipling c.i.e. - . alice macdonald wife of john lockwood kipling [illustration: stocks at tollard royal (seven miles south of tisbury)] the village of tisbury existed in the seventh century, the earliest extant spelling of the name being "tissebiri" or "dysseburg," and there was a monastery over which an abbot named wintra ruled about . mr paley baildon, f.s.a., who has devoted considerable time to the investigation of the origin of place names, thinks that without doubt tisbury is derived from tissa's-burgh, tissa or tyssa being a personal name and owner of the estate; hence it came to be known as tissa's-burgh. it was at tisbury that rudyard kipling wrote some of his stories after leaving india, and there can be little doubt that after some years of absence in the east the return to things desperately dear and familiar and intimate exercised a strong effect upon his thoughts and writing, and prepared a way for his delicately fashioned pictures of the old country in _puck of pook's hill_ and _rewards and fairies_. at barford st martin i had the misfortune to burst the back tube and tyre of my motor cycle, and that is the real reason i arrived at tisbury. i wheeled my machine to the green dragon, hoping for a lift to a place where i could get fixed up with a new tyre. a large wagon was standing outside the inn, and as it bore the name, stephen weekes, tisbury, upon it, i penetrated to the bar-parlour, thinking that i might induce the driver to take me with the machine into that village. the owner of the wagon was sitting inside with two large bottles of stout before him. he was a burly fellow in shirt-sleeves and a broad straw hat. i saw he was fifty or thereabouts--not a mere wagoner, but a small farmer who would have answered to the description of farmer oak by thomas hardy in his opening to _far from the madding crowd_. he was of a more jovial type than most dorset men i have met, and after submitting to his fire of questions i asked him gently, in jest, if he would require any assistance with his two bottles. "aye," he answered, quizzing at me with his merry eyes. "i shall require another bottle to assist me, i think." he looked at me a moment with seriousness and then he laughed to the point of holding his sides. he slapped his knees, shouted, roared and almost rolled with merriment. i looked at the farmer, not without a feeling of admiration. it was perhaps a very poor jest, you will say. but how well a simple jest became the fellow; how gloriously he laughed. down in my heart i knew that no man could laugh as he did and at the same time possess a mean mind. he was as broad as the earth, and his laughter was just as limitless. talk of good things: there may be something finer than a hearty laugh--there may be--perhaps.... at this moment he called for two glasses, and explained to the landlord that now he would drink out of a glass, seeing that he was in company. "then tell me," i said, "why do you drink out of the bottle when you are alone?" "why, you don't get no virtue out of the beer 'thout you drink it out of the bottle. no, fay! half of the strength is gone like winky when you pour it into a glass." "i believe you are right," i said, "and i especially commend you for drinking beer. ale is a great and generous creature; it contains all health, induces sleep o' nights, titillates the digestion and imparts freshness to the palate." "'tis the only drink that will go with bread and cheese and pickling cabbage," dashed in the farmer. "'tis a pity," i said, "that so many workers in london take bread and cheese with tea and coffee, for there is no staying power in such a mixture." "it can't be good," he shouted. "it can't be healthy." the farmer's name was mr weekes--the same as it was painted on the wagon outside--and he said that he would be very glad to take me with my machine into tisbury, where there was a motor garage. he made an extraordinarily shrill noise with his mouth and a fine greyhound that had been sleeping beneath the table bounded up. "this long-dog," said mr weekes, "is a wonderfully good dog--the best dog of his kind in the world." mr weekes is never half-hearted about things. his enthusiasm is prodigious. he is like a human hurricane when he launches upon any of his pet subjects. at once he fell to explaining the points and final perfection of a perfect greyhound. i remember a quaint rhyme he quoted, which is perhaps worth repetition here: "the shape of a good greyhound is:-- a head like a snake, a neck like a drake; a back like a beam, a belly like a bream; a foot like a cat, a tail like a rat." the farmer, then, i say, was not the kind of man to qualify any of his remarks, and he reasserted his claim that, in the concrete, in the existent state of things, his dog was the best that breathed. [illustration: the green dragon at barford st martin in this inn is one of the few remaining places in england where the landlord brews his own ale the adjoining barns have been regularly used for brewing since ] this he said for the sixth time, drank up his stout, and after helping me to lift my machine into the wagon, climbed up on to his seat, i by his side. he then flicked his horses gently with his whip and they began to amble along with the wagon. on the way to tisbury the farmer talked with the greatest friendliness, and when we arrived at his farm he insisted on bringing me in to supper. he showed me his orchard, barns and a very fine apple-tree of which he was enormously proud, and pulled me an armful of the finest apples he could find. "take these apples home," he said, watching me with his merry eyes; "they make the best apple pies in the world." an armful of apples of prodigious size is not exactly the kind of thing one welcomes with a broken-down motor cycle two hundred miles from home, but i dared not refuse them, and so i stuffed them into all my pockets. finally my good friend insisted on keeping me under his roof for the night. after my machine had been repaired next morning i went on my way, thinking what a fine, merry, hospitable fellow the dorset yeoman is--if you only approach him with a little caution. * * * * * i left my friend the yeoman farmer with regret, regained the main road and soon came into shaftesbury, or _shaston_, as it is commonly called. this town is very curiously placed, on the narrow ridge of a chalk hill which projects into the lower country, and rises from it with abruptness. hence an extensive landscape is seen through the openings between the houses, and from commanding points the eye ranges over the greater part of dorset and somerset. to add to the beauty of the position, the scarped slope of the hill is curved on its southern side. shaftesbury is one of the oldest towns in the kingdom. its traditions go back to the time of king lud, who, according to holinshed, founded it about b.c. a more moderate writer refers its origin to cassivellaunus. however, it is certain that alfred, in the year , founded here a nunnery, which in aftertimes became the richest in england, and, as the shrine of st edward the martyr--whose body was removed to this town from wareham--the favourite resort of pilgrims. asser, who wrote the _life of alfred_, has described shaftesbury as consisting of one street in his time. in that of edward the confessor it possessed three mints, sure evidence of its importance; and shortly after the conquest it had no less than twelve churches, besides chapels and chantries, and a hospital of st john. the view from the castle hill at the west end of the ridge is very extensive, and from all parts of the town you come unexpectedly upon narrow ravines which go tumbling down to the plain below in the most headlong fashion. the chief trouble in the olden days was the water supply. on this elevated chalk ridge the town was obviously far removed from the sources of spring water, and the supply of this necessary article had been from time out of mind brought on horses' backs from the parish of gillingham. hence arose a curious custom which was annually observed here for a great number of years. on the monday before holy thursday the mayor proceeded to enmore green, near motcombe, with a large, fanciful broom, or _byzant_, as it was called, which he presented as an acknowledgment for the water to the steward of the manor, together with a calf's head, a pair of gloves, a gallon of ale and two penny loaves of wheaten bread. this ceremony being concluded, the byzant--which was usually hung with jewels and other costly ornaments--was returned to the mayor and carried back to the town in procession. about the mayor of shaftesbury refused to carry out the custom, and the people of enmore were so put out by his omission in this respect that they filled up the wells. the shastonians paid twopence for a horse-load of water and a halfpenny for a pail "if fetched upon the head." i heard a rather amusing story of the water-carrying days. a rustic who had been working on the land all day in the rain came "slewching" up gold hill, feeling very unhappy and out of temper. at the summit of the hill he passed by the crumbling church of st peter's, but did _not_ pass the sun and moon inn. here he cheered his drooping spirits with a measure of old-fashioned shaftesbury xxx stingo, and, thus strengthened, he went on his way home, expecting to be welcomed with a warm, savoury supper. but the news of his call at the inn had reached his wife before he arrived home, and being rather an ill-natured person, she decided to punish him for loitering on his way. "oh," she said to him, "as you are so wet already, just you take this steyan [earthenware pot] and fill it with water at toute hill spring, and don't go loafing at the sun and moon again." the rustic took up the pitcher without a word, filled it and returned to his sour housewife; but instead of putting the pitcher down, he hurled the contents over her, saying: "now _you_ are wet too, so you can go to the spring and fetch the water." bimport is a wide and comfortable street which skirts the north crest of castle hill. it is a street of honest stone houses, and readers of _jude the obscure_ will look here for phillotson's school and the "little low drab house in which the wayward sue wrought the wrecking of her life." their house, "old grove's place"--now called "ox house"--is not difficult to find. as you come up from the town hall and market house to the fork of the roads which run to motcombe and east stower, bimport turns off to the left, and a hundred or so yards down is grove's place, with a projecting porch and mullioned windows. it was here that sue in a momentary panic jumped out of the window to avoid phillotson. the name of the house derives from that of a former inhabitant mentioned in an old plan of shaftesbury. poor, highly strung sue bridehead, with her neurotic temperament, could not throw off the oppressiveness of the old house. "we don't live in the school, you know," said she, "but in that ancient dwelling across the way, called old grove's place. it is so antique and dismal that it depresses me dreadfully. such houses are very well to visit, but not to live in. i feel crushed into the earth by the weight of so many previous lives there spent. in a new place like these schools there is only your own life to support." the village of marnhull is situated in the vale of blackmoor, six miles from shaftesbury. it is the "marlott" of hardy's novel _tess_, the village home of the durbeyfield family. it contains little of interest. the pure drop inn, where "there's a very pretty brew in tap," may be the "crown." here john durbeyfield kept up tess's wedding day "as well as he could, and stood treat to everybody in the parish, and john's wife sung songs till past eleven o'clock." there is a pure drop inn at wooten glanville and another at wareham; one of these most probably suggested the name. the fine church is of the eighteenth-century gothic ( ), and it has often been regarded by strangers as being three hundred years earlier. the font bowl, late norman, was unearthed in , also the rood staircase and squint and the piscina. some ancient alabaster effigies, ascribed to the middle of the fifteenth century and representing a man in armour and two female figures, are placed on a cenotaph in the north aisle. some authorities claim that they represent thomas howard, lord bindon, and his wives, and are of a later date. nash court, a little to the north, is a fine elizabethan mansion, formerly the seat of the husseys. chapter iii the vale of blackmoor my motor cycle had carried me without a hitch from london to melbury abbas--then fortune scowled on me. with ridiculous ease i had rolled along the roads all day, and i had been tempted to ride through the warm autumnal darkness till i came to the half moon inn at shaftesbury, where the roads fork away to melbury hill, blandford and salisbury. but a few hundred yards out of melbury abbas, and then fortune's derisive frown. from a deceptive twist in the road i dashed into a gully, and my machine bumped and rattled and groaned like a demon caught in a trap. it performed other antics with which this chronicle has no concern, and then refused to move an inch farther. but the song of a nightingale in a grove of elms near the road made full amends for my ill luck! it is beautiful to hear his sobbing, lulling notes when one is alone on a dark night, and shelley was not far wrong in styling it voluptuous. "i heard the raptured nightingale tell from yon elmy grove his tale of jealousy and love, in thronging notes that seem'd to fall as faultless and as musical as angels' strains above. so sweet, they cast on all things round a spell of melody profound: they charm'd the river in his flowing, they stay'd the night-wind in its blowing." i lit a pipe and made myself comfortable on the green bank of the roadside. it was simply a matter of waiting for a carter to give me a lift. soon i heard footsteps approaching me. "good-evening," said a friendly, quavering voice, and a little, round-faced gentleman in a grey overcoat and straw hat emerged from the shadows. i questioned him as to the distance of the nearest inn or cottage where i could get a shelter for the night, and explained how my machine had failed me. "the nearest inn is two miles away. i'm afraid they do not accommodate travellers," he replied. "is this your home?" i asked. "oh yes! woolpit house is just beyond those elms. i live there. i am not a native of these parts. i have only lived there for the last six months. i am sorry i came here, for the place does not suit me. do you care to leave your motor cycle? you are most welcome to a bed in my house," he added with cheerful simplicity. "i should be greatly indebted to you. but shan't i be a bother to your family at this time of the night?" "i have none." i wheeled my machine through a gate and left it the other side of the hedge, where i hoped it would be safe till morning. we came to the house across a footpath--a small stone-gabled sixteenth-century building. a whisp of mist from a bubbling stream circled the place and gave it an air of isolation. we entered a lit room, which was of solemn aspect, and my friend gave me a deep-seated chair. "are you serious in saying that you do not like dorset?" i questioned. the little man smiled quietly, sadly. "it is not dorset exactly. but since i came to live here i have become a bundle of nerves. it is nothing--i think it's nothing." "what do you mean?" "i only think--i only wonder----" "yes?" "this is such an old house. all sorts of things must have happened here. and from the first moment i came into the place i had a sudden sensation of there being something unseen and unheard near me. there is an essence in this house--an influence which stifles all laughter and joy. i wonder if you will feel it as i do!" "bit creepy," i said, and at the same time i came to the conclusion that the old fellow was a little eccentric, and this idea of the house being on the left side of the sun was merely a foolish weakness. "yes, yes," he said, musing; "queer, isn't it? but you don't know the queerest." he pondered a moment, then suddenly he wagged his crooked fore-finger at me and said: "it is something more than an essence--it is stronger. the other evening when it was getting dusk i got up from my chair to light the candles, and i saw, as i thought, someone about six yards from that window--outside on the flagstones. it was more than a shadowy shape. so without waiting i ran out into the hall and opened the front door, feeling sure i should see a tramp or someone there. but the drive was quite empty--i only looked out into the dusk. but as i looked out something that i could not see slipped through and passed into the house. the same kind of thing has happened a dozen times." the little old man passed his hand over his brow. "here," i said rather brusquely, "you're not well; you're just a bundle of nerves. look here, sir, you want a holiday." "yes," he said, wiping his brow. "i try to tell myself that it is all rot ... all my fancy. but what would _you_ do?" "see a doctor," i replied. "doctors?... bah! i'll tell you," he whispered. "i want a ghost-doctor to rid me of this invisible, pushing thing. it gets stronger every time! at first it just slipped through; just a bit more than a gust of wind. but now it's getting compact. to-night it drove me out of the house: that was how i came to be wandering out on the highroad like a lost soul." "but ... goodness, sir, such a thing outrages reason." "you can say what you will, but _it_ is there, and it is growing tangible. last night i could distinguish his features as he came up close to the window. he smiled at me, but the smile was one of inscrutable evil. he resents me being in this house. i shall have to abandon it." "this little man is either off his head, or worse," i said to myself. in spite of the warmth of the room, i felt myself shiver. at that moment i heard the sound of a stealthy footstep outside the door. the little old man jumped up. "i say," he said in an odd voice, "did you hear?" i pretended i had not heard. "ah, you didn't ... and, of course, you didn't feel anything. it must have been my imagination." a wave of shame ran over me. i knew that i had not the courage to listen to the old fellow's story any longer. i finished my whisky-and-soda and stood up. "it is very kind of you, sir, to offer me a lodging for the night. i am feeling rather weary and would like to go to bed now, if it is convenient to you." "come then, sir," he said, with his old-fashioned politeness, and he walked towards the door. then i saw the _thing_. there wasn't a shadow of doubt about it. i saw the little old man open the door. the next moment he started back. then he thrust forward with his body, and i could see him bearing against something. he swayed, physically, as a man sways when he is wrestling. a second after he was free. "well, you've seen it--what do you think of it?" he said presently, as i followed him into the hall. his face had turned cloudy whitish grey. i laughed, but the full horror of it had soaked into me. i followed my host up a series of stairs. he carried a candlestick, with his arm extended, so as to give me a guiding light. the old house was dim and chilly in its barrenness. he stopped at a door in a long, narrow corridor and set the candlestick down. "this is your room." with a gentle bow and a kindly smile he opened the door for me. "good-night, sir. can you see your way down?" i asked. "i have a candle in my pocket." he lit it at mine. another quiet, friendly smile, and i watched him out of sight along the corridor. i stood perfectly still for a moment just inside. then a curious feeling of something dreadful being close at hand was present in my mind. of course it was all humbug, and my nerves were deceiving me. but i could not shake myself free from the notion that i was _not_ alone. there is an essence in all these old dwellings that comes out to meet one on a first visit. i recognise the truth of that--for how often have i noticed how, under one roof, one breathes a friendly air, and under another queerness runs across the spine like the feet of hurrying mice. in this house there was something sinister and unwholesome. i cursed my luck for driving me into such a place. a night spent under a hedge would have been more desirable. however, i turned into bed and passed rather a broken night, with stretches of dream-haunted sleep interspersed with startled awakenings. the old house seemed to be full of muffled movements, and once (timid fool that i was) i could have sworn that the handle of my door turned. it was with a considerable qualm, i must confess, i lit my candle and opened the door. but the gallery was quite empty. i went back to bed and slept again, and when next i woke the sun was streaming into my room, and the sense of trouble that had been with me ever since entering the house last evening had gone. when i arrived at the breakfast-table the little old man was seated behind the coffee-pot, and his face was quite glowing and wreathed in smiles. morning had brought a flood of hard common sense to him, as clear as the crisp sunshine that filled the room. he had already begun and was consuming a plateful of eggs and bacon with the most prosaic and healthy appetite. "slept well?" he asked. "moderately," i said, feeling ashamed of my timidity in the morning light. "i am afraid i talked rather wildly last night," remarked the little man, in a voice pregnant with reason. "yes--an amazing quantity of nonsense," i consented. "where did you learn hypnotism?" my host's brow clouded slightly. "you see," i continued, "you must have thrown a spell over me, for i really believed in your ghost story, and now i have come to the conclusion that you were joking." "never mind. it doesn't matter." but the little man didn't look up from his plate. he only shook his head. well (to get on), we finished breakfast. after smoking a pipe on the verandah with my host (who might have been a wizard for aught i knew, at least this was my fantastic thought) i went out and looked at my machine, and was fortunate enough after an hour's tinkering to get her going again. the little man insisted that i should take a small glass of some liqueur brandy of which he was very proud. so i took some of the wonderful stuff--strong, sufficient, soul-filling, part of the good rich earth--and went out into the sunlight, and taking a foot-bridge over running water put myself out of the little wizard's power. * * * * * about six months later i was hunting in an old bookseller's shop in salisbury when by something more than a mere coincidence i came across a small booklet called _twenty-five years of village life_, dealing with the district around shaftesbury, and i read: "it is somewhat remarkable that, during the last ten years, two vicars of the parish have died under somewhat mysterious circumstances at woolpit house. it is not necessary to go into details here, but many wild stories about this picturesque old house are told around the countryside. the country people have an odd way of accounting for the ill fortune that has always attended woolpit house. they say that it was built by the order of a dissolute old nobleman who had sold his soul to the devil, and in order to pass bad luck to all his successors who might occupy the mansion he caused grave-stones from ---- churchyard to be rooted up and built into the walls." * * * * * the vale of blackmoor or blackmore, watered by the upper part of the stour, was formerly known as the white hart forest, but is now a strip of pasturage celebrated among farmers as one of the richest of grazing lands. its marshy surface is speckled by herds of lazy cattle, and by busier droves of pigs, of which this vale supplies to london a larger number than either of the counties of somerset and devon. blackmoor is also known for the vigorous growth of its oaks, which thrive on the tenacious soil. loudon says it was originally called _white hart forest_ from henry iii. having here hunted a beautiful white hart and spared its life; and fuller gives the sequel to the tale. he says that thomas de la lynd, a gentleman of fair estate, killed the white hart which henry by express will had reserved for his own chase, and that in consequence the county--as accessory for not opposing him--was mulched for ever in a fine called "white-hart silver." "myself," continues fuller sorrowfully, "hath paid a share for the sauce who never tasted the meat." loudon also informs us that the vale contained _losel's wood_, in which stood the _raven's oak_ mentioned by white in his _natural history of selborne_. the vale of blackmore stretches westward from the melburys north of cattistock (melbury bub, osmund and sampford) to melbury abbas south of shaftesbury. down beyond pulham, seven miles south-west of sturminster newton, on a flat and dismal road, stands at the king's stag bridge across the river lidden an inn called "king's stag," with a signboard representing a stag with a ring round its neck, and the following lines below:-- "when julius cæsar reigned here, i was then but a little deer; when julius cæsar reigned king, upon my neck he placed this ring, that whoso me might overtake should spare my life for cæsar's sake." the belief in the longevity of the stag prevails in most countries. linnæus (_regnum animale_) says of the _cervus elaphus_: "Ætas bovis tantum; fabula est longævitatis cervi." from a formula, as old as the hills, relating to the length of life of animals and trees we learn that-- "three old dogs make one horse; three old horses make one old man; three old men, one old red deer; three old red deer, one old oak; three old oaks, one brent-fir [fir or pine dug out of bogs]." if a dog be supposed to be old at eight years, this will give: horse, ; man, ; deer, ; oak, ; bog fir, or brent fir, years. the proverbs which follow are not folk-sayings, but they are given a place here as being quaint and curious, and not devoid of a certain interest, as they were collected by the author while tramping in the vale of blackmore during the summer of :-- "when the gorse is out of blossom, kissing is out of fashion" (_i.e._ kissing is _never_ out of fashion). "trouble ran off him like water off a duck's back." "if you sing before breakfast, you'll cry before night." "turn your money when you hear the cuckoo, and you'll have money in your purse till the cuckoo comes again." "plenty of lady-birds, plenty of hops." (the _coccinella_ feeds upon the _aphis_ that proves so destructive to the hop-plant.) "march, search; april, try; may will prove if you live or die." "when your salt is damp, you will soon have rain." "it will be a wet month when there are two full moons in it." certainly the maidens of blackmore have a benediction upon them, granted them for their homeliness and kindness. their eyes are quiet and yet fearless, and all the maids have something wifely about them. william barnes, the poet of the dorset valley, praising the blackmoor maidens, says: "why, if a man would wive an' thrive 'ithout a dow'r, then let en look en out a wife in blackmore by the stour." william barnes was not a wild wooer, and he found joy and adventure in a smile and a blush from a blackmore milkmaid after having carried her pail, and he was satisfied to know that she would have bowed when she took it back had it not been too heavy. perhaps--o dizzy fancy!--sweet nan of the vale would not have refused a little kiss! at all events barnes knew womanhood in its perfection when he met with it--the maid who was "good and true and fair" was his preference. chapter iv blandford to dorchester if we return, will england be just england still to you and me? the place where we must earn our bread?-- we who have walked among the dead, and watched the smile of agony, and seen the price of liberty, which we have taken carelessly from other hands. nay, we shall dread, if we return, dread lest we hold blood-guiltily the thing that men have died to free. oh, english fields shall blossom red in all the blood that has been shed, by men whose guardians are we, if we return. f. w. harvey. blandford, or, to give the town its full title, blandford forum, gets its name from the ancient ford of the stour, on a bend of which river it is pleasingly placed in the midst of a bountiful district. it is called "shottsford forum" in hardy's _far from the madding crowd_, and in _the woodlanders_ we are told that "shottsford is shottsford still: you can't victual your carcass there unless you've got money, and you can't buy a cup of genuine there whether or no." the long chief street of the town has a bright, modern aspect, due to the great fire of which destroyed all but forty houses in the place. there is nothing to detain the pilgrim here, but it makes a good centre for any who are exploring the country around it. five miles of rather hilly road brings us to winterborne whitchurch, which has a very interesting church containing a curious old font dated and a fine old pulpit removed from milton. the grandfather of john and charles wesley was vicar here from to . of the poet george turberville, born here about , very little is known. he was one of the "wild" turbervilles, and one would like to learn more about him. anyway, here is a specimen of his verse: "death is not so much to be feared as daylie diseases are. what? ist not follie to dread and stand of death in feare that mother is of quiet rest, and grief away does weare? was never none that twist have felt of cruel death the knife; but other griefes and pining paines doe linger on thro life, and oftentimes one selfsame corse with furious fits molest when death by one dispatch of life doth bring the soul to rest." when we arrive at milborne st andrews we are within eight miles of dorchester. the manor house, up a by-road and past the church of st andrew, is the original of "welland house" in hardy's _two on a tower_. this was once the residence of the mansell-pleydell family, but since it has been used as a farm-house. the village was formerly an important posting-place between blandford and dorchester, and we are reminded of the coaching days by the effigy of a white hart on the cornice of the post office, in time past a busy inn. puddletown is our next halt on the road. it is a considerable village whose church has a chapel full of ancient monuments to the martins of athelhampton. canon carter held the living here in , and when he first arrived the news that he neither shot, hunted nor fished disturbed the rustic flock, and they openly expressed their contempt for him. then he replaced the village church band with a harmonium, and the story gained so much bulk and robustity in travelling, as such stories do in the country, that i have no doubt he seemed a sort of devastating monster. after this he did a most appalling thing: he tampered with a very ancient rectorial gift of a mince-pie, a loaf of bread and a quart of old ale to every individual in the parish, not even excluding the babies in arms, and ventured to assert that the funds would be better employed in forming a clothing club for the poor. carter was a very worthy man, but somehow i cannot forgive him for this. he should have placed himself a little nearer to the full current of natural things. in the essence the ancient gift was "clothing"--solid and straightforward. it was surely in this spirit that bishop john still penned his famous drinking song: "no frost nor snow, no wind, i trow, can hurt me if i would, i am so wrapt and throughly lapt of jolly good ale and old." so at the next tithe-day supper at the rectory a farmer who had in him the dorset heart and blood, a very demi-god amongst the poor of puddletown, arose in his place and asked the good canon carter if he still held to his purpose of converting the christmas ale into nether garments for little boys, and the canon replied to the effect that it was his intention to carry out that reform. then the farmer, full of the west, who had not come to talk balderdash, shouted: "i ban't agwaine tu see the poor folk put upon. i'll be blamed ef i du." his voice was very strong and echoed in the rafters in an alarming way, for he was of the breed that said "good-morning" to a friend three fields away without much effort. at this point certain stuffy people folded their hands, and called out "fie!" and "shame!" for it was their purpose to curry favour with the vicar, they having many small children in need of nether garments. but the farmer cried out over them all (and all the other farmers cheered him on): "i tellee what tez. i don't care a brass button for you, with all your penny-loaf ways. that to ye all!" and with that he snapped his fingers in the face of all the company, walked out, mounted his powerful horse and turned back to his great, spacious farm-house. here he counted out a great bundle of stuckey's bank notes, and calling his bailiff sent them post-haste to the landlord of the king's arms with word to the effect that they were lodged against a quart of christmas ale for every soul who should care to claim it on christmas eve. that is the story of farmer dribblecombe, and may we all come out of a trying position as well as he. but to return to the church. there are the old oak pews of bygone days, a choir gallery with the date , an ancient pulpit and a curious norman font shaped like a drinking-bowl. the most interesting corner of the church is the athelhampton aisle, which is entered through a quaint archway guarded by a tomb on which lies an armed knight carved in alabaster. buried here are the martins of many generations. they once owned the old manor-house, with the great barns behind it and the fertile acres spreading far on every hand. they once went forth swiftly and strongly, on hefty and determined horses, and worked hotly, and came in wearied with long rides and adventures. now they rest together, "mediævally recumbent," and when their ghosts walk they do not inquire who owns the land where they tread. they let the hot world go by, and wait with patience the day when all the old squires of athelhampton shall be mustered once again. a great company indeed! the offspring of one noble family, who, following each other for nearly four hundred years, ruled as lords of their little holding in dorset. the first of the family came to athelhampton in , and the last in . everywhere is to be found carved on their tombs the dark and menacing motto, beneath their monkey crest, "he who looks at martins' ape, martins' ape shall look at him!" the crest is, of course, a play on the word martin, which is an obsolete word for ape. but the menace of the motto has lost its power these three hundred years, and nothing of the might and affluence of the martins remains but their mutilated effigies. i have been wondering to-day how they must look out upon us all with our cinematographs, jazzy-dances, lip-sticks, backless gowns, cigarettes, whisky and pick-me-ups, and our immense concern over the immeasurably trivial. i don't know that i said it aloud--such things need not be said aloud--but as i read a touching epitaph which urged a little prayer for two of the family, i turned almost numbly away, while my whole being seemed to cry out: "god rest your souls, god rest your souls." here, since we are on the subject, is the touching prayer from the lips of one of the ancient house of the martins: "here lyeth the body of xpofer martyn esquyer, sone and heyre unto syr wm: martyn, knight, pray for their souls with harty desyre that both may be sure of eternall lyght; calling to remembrance that evoy wyhgt most nedys dye, and therefore lett us pray as others for us may do another day." the last of the martins was the knight nicholas who was buried here in , and the last passage of his epitaph are the words, "good-night, nicholas!" with these appropriate words they put nicholas to rest, like a child who had grown sleepy before it was dark. after all, we are all children, and when the shadows lengthen and the birds get back to the protecting eaves, we too grow tired--tired of playing with things much too large for us--much too full of meaning. the church of puddletown, or "weatherbury," brings us to the crowning catastrophe of the sad love tale of francis troy and fanny robin, for it is the scene of the sergeant's agony of remorse. having set up a tombstone over the poor girl's grave, troy proceeds to plant the mound beneath with flowers. "there were bundles of snowdrops, hyacinth and crocus bulbs, violets and double daisies, which were to bloom in early spring, and of carnations, pinks, picotees, lilies of the valley, forget-me-not, summer's farewell, meadow saffron, and others, for the later seasons of the year." the author minutely describes the planting of these by troy, with his "impassive face," on that dark night when the rays from his lantern spread into the old yews "with a strange, illuminating power, flickering, as it seemed, up to the black ceiling of cloud above." he works till midnight and sleeps in the church porch; and then comes the storm and the doings of the gargoyle. the stream of water from the church roof spouting through the mouth of this "horrible stone entity" rushes savagely into the new-made grave, turning the mould into a welter of mud and washing away all the flowers so carefully planted by fanny's repentant lover. at the sight of the havoc, we are told, troy "hated himself." he stood and meditated, a miserable human derelict. where should he turn for sanctuary? but the words that burnt and withered his soul could not be banished: "he that is accursed, let him be accursed still." the ill-named river piddle--a rippling, tortoiseshell-coloured stream at times--runs through the streets. an old thatched house is peculiar by reason of the fact that it has broken out into a spacious georgian bow window--a "window worthy of a town hall," as sir frederick treves has remarked. it is supported by pillars, and has a porch-like space beneath devoted to a flower-bed. "weatherbury upper farm," the home of bathsheba, which she inherited from her uncle, is not to be found in puddletown, but if the pilgrim desires to find it he must proceed up the valley of the puddle, in the direction of piddlehinton. before reaching the village he will come to lower walterstone, where a fine jacobean manor-house, bearing the date , will be easily recognised as the original which thomas hardy made to serve as the "upper farm" in _far from the madding crowd_. in the story the author has placed the farm a mile or more from its actual position, and it is vividly portrayed: "a hoary building, of the jacobean stage of classic renaissance as regards its architecture, and of a proportion which told at a glance that, as is so frequently the case, it had once been the manorial hall upon a small estate around it, now altogether effaced as a distinct property, and merged in the vast tract of a non-resident landlord, which comprised several such modest demesnes. fluted pilasters, worked from the solid stone, decorated its front, and above the roof pairs of chimneys were here and there linked by an arch, some gables and other unmanageable features still retaining traces of their gothic extraction. soft brown mosses, like faded velveteen, formed cushions upon the stone tiling, and tufts of the house-leek or sengreen sprouted from the eaves of the low surrounding buildings. a gravel walk leading from the door to the road in front was encrusted at the sides with more moss--here it was a silver-green variety, the nut-brown of the gravel being visible to the width of only a foot or two in the centre. this circumstance, and the generally sleepy air of the whole prospect here, together with the animated and contrasting state of the reverse façade, suggested to the imagination that on the adaptation of the building for farming purposes the vital principle of the house had turned round inside its body to face the other way." chapter v dorchester when i am dead, my body shall go back to the hills between the ridgeway and the sea-- to the earthworks and terracing and ancient bridle-track to the dorset hills my heart has held in fee; my limbs that thrived on them shall be their very own, i shall live again in little wayside flowers; my flesh and bones and sinew shall give life to mighty trees and my spirit shall abide in ancient towers. * * * * * when i am dead, my dust shall mix with clay, and "puddle" some lone dew-pond on the hill, so every dorset lad who drinks upon his way will somehow lead me back to dorset still. anonymous. dorchester deserves to be chosen as the headquarters of the earliest of a series of excursions in dorset, not only by reason of the premier position which it holds in the country, but also on account of the multitude of interesting surroundings which claim the attention of the literary pilgrim, the antiquary and the archæologist. the town is situated on a hill which slopes on the one side to the valley of the frome, and extends on the other in an open country, across which run the roman roads, still used as the highways. the principal thoroughfares divide dorchester pretty equally, the high street intersecting it from east to west, the south street and north market in the opposite direction. on the south-west is the suburb of fordington. the principal street--on the line of the via iceniana--ends abruptly at the fields, and on the south and west is the rampart, planted with rows of sycamore and chestnut trees as a walk. daniel defoe, in his whimsical description of his pilgrimage _from london to land's end_, published in , gives an entertaining survey of the town at that period. he says: "dorchester is indeed a pleasant, agreeable town to live in, and where i thought the people seemed less divided in factions and parties than in other places; for though here are divisions, and the people are not all of one mind, either as to religion or politics, yet they did not seem to separate with so much animosity as in other places. here i saw the church of england clergyman and the dissenting minister or preacher drinking tea together, and conversing with civility and good neighbourhood, like catholic christians and men of a catholic and extensive charity. the town is populous, though not large; the streets broad; but the buildings old and low. however, there is good company, and a good deal of it; and a man that coveted a retreat in this world might as agreeably spend his time, and as well, in dorchester as in any town i know in england.... there are abundance of good families and of very ancient lines in the neighbourhood of this town of dorchester, as the napiers, the courtneys, strangeways, seymours, banks, tregonwells, sydenhams, and many others, some of which have very great estates in the county, and in particular colonel strangeways (ancestor of the present earl of ilchester), napier (ancestor of the present lord arlington) and courtney." as to the healthiness of dorchester, the editors of hutchins's second edition wrote: "the pleasant and healthy situation of this town deserves an encomium. the famous doctor arbuthnot, coming hither in his early days with a view to settle in it, gave as a reason for his departure that 'a physician could neither live nor die in dorchester.'" st peter's church, a venerable edifice, occupies a prominent position at the intersection of the four streets and rises in its tower to a height of ninety feet. it is a well-proportioned building, with norman porch and some monuments, with effigies, to lord holles of ifield and to two unknown crusaders, in coats of mail, with their legs crossed. in the north wall of the chancel is placed an altar-tomb, which is supposed to be that of the founder. a mural tablet on the south wall commemorates thomas hardy, esquire, of melcombe regis, who founded and endowed the free grammar school. there were two brasses, now lost, one on the chancel floor, on grey stone, over the effigy of a woman kneeling, reading: "miserere mei d's s'dum magnum mi'am tuam." the other: "hic jacet johanna de sto. omero, relicta rob'bi more, qui obiit in vigilia ste. trinitatis sc'do die mensis anno d'ni mccccxxxvi. cuj'. a'ie p'piciet' d. amen." tradition says that the church was erected by "geoffrey van, his wife anne and his maid nan." two of the six bells are mediæval. close to the south porch is a bronze statue of william barnes. his learning, his writings and poems in the dorset dialect, his kindliness to his poor and his parish made him universally beloved. the pedestal bears the simple inscription: "william barnes. - ," and the following lines from his poem, _culverdell and the squire_: "zoo now i hope his kindly feace is gone to vind a better pleace, but still we' vo'k a-left behind, he'll always be a-kept in mind." on rd september judge jeffreys opened his bloody assize at dorchester. lord macaulay says: "by order of the chief justice, the court was hung with scarlet, and this innovation seemed to the multitude to indicate a bloody purpose. more than prisoners were to be tried. the work seemed heavy, but jeffreys had a contrivance for making it light. he let it be understood that the only chance of obtaining pardon or respite was to plead guilty. twenty-nine who put themselves on their country, and were convicted, were ordered to be tied up without delay. the remaining prisoners pleaded guilty by the score. two hundred and ninety-two received sentence of death." thirteen were executed here on th september. the formidable judge's chair is preserved in the town hall, and visitors are shown the picturesque timber house in high street west at which, tradition hath it, this brutal judge lodged. dorchester derives its name from the ancient roman name of durnovaria, and thomas hardy has transferred part of this latinity in writing of fordington as "durnover" in his novels. close to the london and south-western railway station, on the weymouth road, is a field, now a municipal pleasure ground, containing what is called maumbury rings--a large, oval, grassy mound, curved like a horseshoe. this great earthen ring, which it is estimated would hold , spectators, is supposed to be the work of prehistoric man, adapted by the romans to the purposes of an amphitheatre. extensive excavations were carried on in the amphitheatre by the british archæological association and the dorset field club during five summers-- , , , and --and among many interesting finds by the archæologists' spade must be mentioned the oblong cave at the east end, probably for the confinement of beasts, prehistoric shafts in which picks of red-deer antlers, worked flints, etc., were found, sundry human skeletons interred, and a well of the civil war period, during which the symmetrical terraces were apparently added to the original ancient banks. a crowd of , people is said to have been gathered upon it at the execution of mary channing, the wife of a grocer at dorchester, who was strangled and burnt in the arena for poisoning her husband in . the via iceniana or icknield street came out of wiltshire by blandford to dorchester and strikes on towards the west by eggerdun hill, about ten miles from the town, where it is clearly marked. a roman road went from dorchester to ilchester, by bradford and stratton, so called as the stret-tun, the village on the roman stratum or road. "it is impossible," writes mr hardy, "to dig more than a foot or two deep about the town, fields and gardens without coming upon some tall soldier or other of the empire, who had lain there in his silent, unobtrusive rest for one thousand five hundred years. he was mostly found lying on his side, in an oval scoop in the chalk, like a chicken in its shell, his knees drawn up to his chest, sometimes with the remains of his spear against his arm, a fibula or brooch of bronze on his breast or forehead, an urn at his knees, a jar at his throat, a bottle at his mouth, and mystified conjecture poring down upon him from the eyes of boys and men who had turned to gaze at the familiar spectacle as they passed on." in the excavations made when mr hardy's house at max gate was commenced graves were discovered, of which mr hardy wrote: "in two of them, and i believe in a third, a body lay on its right side, the knees being drawn up to the chest and the arm extended downwards, so that the hand rested against the ankles. each body was fitted with, one may almost say, perfect accuracy into the oval hole, the crown of the head touching the maiden chalk at one end and the toes at the other, the tight-fitting situation being strongly suggestive of the chicken in the egg-shell." maiden castle, the _mai dun_ or "hill of strength," one of the finest old camps in england, is situated most conspicuously to the right of a roman road (now the weymouth highway). it may astonish the traveller by the scale of its three earthen ramparts, the innermost being sixty feet in height and a mile or more in circumference. it is about two and a quarter miles south-west from the centre of the town, and may be reached by continuing on through cornhill, crossing the bridge over the great western railway and turning to the right just beyond it. here, where the road reaches the open, the left-hand track must be followed. on climbing to the camp the pilgrim will find that these ramparts are as steep as they are lofty, and that they are pierced by intricate entrances formed by the overlapping ends of the valla and additionally strengthened by outworks. the view is commanding, but not remarkable for beauty, the principal features being the roman roads diverging from dorchester and the innumerable barrows which dot the hills near the sea. opinions differ as to the origin of this remarkable hill fortress, but the weight of authority is in favour of its construction by the britons and its subsequent occupation as a summer camp by the roman troops stationed at dorchester. the visitor will be interested in the old inns of dorchester. in high street east stands, just as described in _the mayor of casterbridge_, that fine and most comfortable of country hotels--the king's arms. from a doorway on the opposite side of the street susan and elizabeth-jane, amid the crowd, witnessed the dinner given to the mayor. through the archway of this inn boldwood carried bathsheba, fainting at the news of her husband's death. from the diary of a landowner of the neighbourhood (mr richards, of warmwell), written more than a hundred and fifty years ago, we find that the king's arms and antelope were dorchester inns in his days, as he writes that on saturday, th october , he "agreed wth captn sidenham, at the antelope in dorchestr, for great bushells of his choice oats, at s. d. pr sack," and at other times dined and transacted other business there; and at the king's arms bought "choice early pease for seed at s. d. per bushell." at the antelope hotel, which is in south street, lucetta, passing through the town on her way to budmouth (weymouth), appoints to meet henchard, but is not on the coach she mentioned. the white hart tavern stands at the east entrance to the town, close to the bridge. here troy lay in hiding, planning his surprise return to bathsheba; we also encounter this inn again in _the withered arm_. gertrude lodge came here on her fatal visit to casterbridge gaol. on the opposite side of the road to the king's arms the pilgrim may still take his ale at the phoenix, the scene of janny's last dance in _wessex poems_. in _the mayor of casterbridge_ hardy mentions a low inn in mixen lane (mill lane, dorchester) frequented by all sorts of bad characters. in early editions it is called "st peter's finger," and it would seem that the author borrowed this curious name from a genuine inn sign at lychett minster. the real inn was called the king's head, which has now been pulled down. _the grammar school_ is in south street, an elizabethan foundation, built in , endowed with a small farm at frome vauchurch, and some houses in the town, by thomas hardy, esq., of melcombe regis. additions were made to it in , on ground given by sir robert napper. close to the school are napier's almshouses, called napper's mite, founded in by sir robert napier for ten poor men, who have a weekly dole and a small section of garden ground. the front, which opens into a small cloister, bears a clock, on a large stone ogee-corbelled bracket, a model of one that bears the sign of the old george, or pilgrim's, inn at glastonbury. the hangman's cottage, mentioned in the story of _the withered arm_, is still extant. it is a small grey cottage in the meadows by the frome, opposite the gaol. it is one of a cluster of cottages built of flint and chalk, faced with red brick and strengthened with iron ties. the bull stake and the gaol, both of which figure in the novels, are in north square, near st peter's and the corn exchange. approaching the frome, we pass close to the friary mill (the old mill of the suppressed franciscan priory), near which was jopp's cottage, to which henchard retired after his bankruptcy. "trees, which seemed old enough to have been planted by the friars, still stood around, and the back hatch of the original mill yet formed a cascade which had raised its terrific roar for centuries. the cottage itself was built of old stones from the long dismantled priory, scraps of tracery, moulded window-jambs and arch-labels being mixed in with the rubble of the walls." the remains of the priory ruins were used up as building material and no trace is left. the prison was largely built from its remains, while in its turn it is said to have been erected from the ruins of a castle built by the chidiocks. in south street we shall find the high place hall, which was lucetta's house. it stands at the corner of durngate street, but the façade has been modernised and the lower portion has been converted into business premises. the depressing mask which formed the keystone of the back door was taken from colyton house, in another part of the town. if we go to the bottom of south street and take the turning to the left we quickly come to a quiet byway on the right near the shire hall, called glydepath road. on the left of this narrow thoroughfare is the early eighteenth-century mansion called colyton house. here will be found the long filled-in archway, with the mask as its keystone: "originally the mask had exhibited a comic leer, as could still be discerned; but generations of casterbridge boys had thrown stones at the mask, aiming at its open mouth, and the blows thereat had chipped off the lips and jaw as if they had been eaten away by disease." the building to which the archway belongs was formerly the county town residence of the churchills. this is lucetta's house as to character, though not as to situation. just beyond the white hart we come to the first of the two bridges (the second, grey's bridge, being only a few hundred yards farther along) which have their parts in _the mayor of casterbridge_. thomas hardy has quaintly described these bridges and has discoursed upon the habits of their frequenters: "two bridges stood near the lower part of casterbridge (dorchester) town. the first, of weather-stained brick, was immediately at the end of high street, where a diverging branch from that thoroughfare ran round to the low-lying durnover lanes, so that the precincts of the bridge formed the merging-point of respectability and indigence. the second bridge, of stone, was farther out on the highway--in fact, fairly in the meadows, though still within the town boundary.... every projection in each was worn down to obtuseness, partly by weather, more by friction from generations of loungers, whose toes and heels had from year to year made restless movements against these parapets, as they had stood there meditating on the aspect of affairs. "to this pair of bridges gravitated all the failures of the town.... there was a marked difference of quality between the personages who haunted the near bridge of brick and the personages who haunted the far one of stone. those of lowest character preferred the former, adjoining the town; they did not mind the glare of the public eye.... the miserables who would pause on the remoter bridge were of a politer stamp." dorchester has now lost its fame for brewing beer. but about the ale of this town acquired a very great name. in byron's manuscript journal (since printed by the chetham society) the following entry appears:-- "may , . i found the effect of last night drinking that foolish dorset, which was pleasant enough, but did not at all agree with me, for it made me stupid all day." a mighty local reputation had "dorchester ale," and it still commands a local influence, for this summer i was advised by the waiter of the phoenix hotel to try a bottle of "grove's stingo" made in the town. it is a potent beverage--and needs to be treated with respect, to be drunk slowly and in judicious moderation. thomas hardy thus describes this wonderful stuff, the "pale-hued dorchester" in his novel, _the trumpet major_: "in the liquor line loveday laid in an ample barrel of dorchester strong beer.... it was of the most beautiful colour that the eye of an artist in beer could desire; full in body, yet brisk as a volcano; piquant, yet without a twang; luminous as an autumn sunset; free from streakiness of taste; but, finally, rather heady." francis fawkes, in his song of the brown jug ( - ), mentions the "dorchester butt," and perhaps the dorset reader, with, it may be, some tender memories of his own, will fancifully identify "sweet nan of the vale" with another maid down blackmore vale way. "dear tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale (in which i will drink to sweet nan of the vale), was once toby fillpot, a thirsty old soul as e'er drank a bottle or fathom'd a bowl; in boosing about 'twas his praise to excel, and among jolly topers he bore off the bell. it chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease in his flow'r-woven arbour as gay as you please, with a friend and a pipe puffing sorrows away, and with honest old stingo was soaking his clay, his breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, and he died full as big as a dorchester butt. his body, when long in the ground it had lain, and time into clay had resolved it again, a potter found out in its covert so snug, and with part of fat toby he form'd this brown jug: now sacred to friendship and mirth and mild ale,-- so here's to my lovely sweet nan of the vale!" _far from the madding crowd_ is a novel concerned with dorchester and the immediate neighbourhood, most of the incidents happening in "weatherbury" (puddletown) and "casterbridge" (dorchester). on market day at dorchester one still meets prosperous farmers, stiffly dressed children, lean, tanned, rough-necked labourers caged in their sunday clothes and stout horse-dealers in grey gaiters and black hats, and it is not difficult to conjure up a picture of the hiring fair mentioned by hardy, where gabriel oak appeared in search of a situation as bailiff. it will be recalled that bathsheba was in the habit of attending the casterbridge market to sell her corn, and here she met william boldwood, who attracted her attention on account of his indifference to her. bathsheba comes vividly before us with her "debut in the forum" in the place of her uncle. we can picture her with her beautiful black hair and soft, misty eyes attracting considerable attention as she displayed her sample bags, "adopting the professional pour into the hand, holding up the grains in her narrow palm for inspection in perfect casterbridge manner." there was "an elasticity in her firmness that removed it from obstinacy," and "a _naïveté_ in her cheapening which saved it from meanness." in a "casterbridge shop bathsheba bought the valentine which she sent anonymously to boldwood to tease him. it was this fatal valentine that drew his attention to bathsheba, and caused him to fall strongly in love with her, and in the end to shoot sergeant troy dead. after this deed boldwood travelled over mellstock hill and durnover moor (fordington moor) into casterbridge, and turning into "bull-stake square," halted before an archway of heavy stonework which was closed by an iron-studded pair of doors," and gave himself up for murder. the white hart tavern at "casterbridge" serves to call to the reader's mind the reappearance of sergeant troy, _in propria persona_, after playing the part of turpin in a circus at greenhill fair. yellowham wood, "yallam" wood locally, and the "yalbury wood" of _far from the madding crowd_, is about three miles from dorchester on the road to puddletown. in a keeper's cottage here dwelt sweet fancy day, and here it was, as told in another novel, that joseph poorgrass had the experience the recounting of which used to put that most bashful of men to the blush. "once he had been working late at yalbury bottom, and had had a drop of drink, and lost his way as he was coming home along through yalbury wood.... and as he was coming along in the middle of the night, much afeared, and not able to find his way out of the trees nohow, a' cried out, 'man-a-lost! man-a-lost!' an owl in a tree happened to be crying 'whoo-whoo whoo!' as owls do, you know, shepherd, and joseph, all in a tremble, said, 'joseph poorgrass, of weatherbury, sir!' 'no, no, now, that's too much,' said the timid man.... 'i didn't say _sir_.... i never said _sir_ to the bird, knowing very well that no man of a gentleman's rank would be hollerin' there at that time o' night. "joseph poorgrass, of weatherbury," that's every word i said, and i shouldn't ha' said that if't hadn't been for keeper day's metheglin.'" here, as in many other passages, hardy shows his minute knowledge of nature. he appears to know every sight and sound of animal and bird life, at all seasons of the year. some readers have perhaps, as they walked in the woods just before the thrushes and blackbirds have finished their evensong, heard the note of the brown owl--a long and somewhat tremulous "whoo-oo." it is a very musical note, and it does not at all resemble shakespeare's "to-whit, tu-whoo," which so many other writers have copied. long may the brown owl live to chant his dim song in "yallam" wood--and long may he escape the gun and trap of the gamekeeper! for, of all the cursed and vile things in this world, there is nothing that is worse than the trap that snares some beautiful wild thing and keeps it prisoner for long hours in patient suffering, unrelieved of any hope but of being torn from the cruel teeth and dashed to death against a wall. yet thousands of owls have been destroyed for the sake of a few pheasants in the coverts, and after all the mischief done by hawks and owls has been greatly exaggerated--it is part of the hereditary ignorance of the rustic. perhaps if we are in ferny glades of yellowham woods "when light on dark is growing" we may hear that curious sound which has been compared to the quacking of a duck with a sore throat, and after it a sniffing sound not unlike a dog might make while scratching at a rat-hole. this is a hedgehog taking his constitutional. the witch in macbeth says, "thrice the hedgepig whines," but as my acquaintance with "hedgepigs" goes, their conversation is limited to a "quack" and a "snuff." fordington is a large suburb adjoining dorchester. the church of st george is a fine old edifice, with a tall battlemented tower which is a landmark for those approaching the town by road. within is a stone pulpit dated " , e.r." over the top of a doorway of the south porch there is a carving of great antiquity representing a vision of st george at the battle of antioch. the saint, mounted, has thrust his spear into the mouth of a saracen soldier with great force and unerring aim. he looks very bored and might be saying: "this is very tame sport to one who is accustomed to slaying dragons." no doubt the semi-prone saracen, who is trying to pull the spear out of his mouth, feels very _bored_ too! away to the east of fordington is the little village of stinsford, which is reached by leaving dorchester by the road leading east to puddletown and bearing to the right soon after leaving the town. this is the "mellstock" of the idyllic tale, _under the greenwood tree_. in the churchyard of the ivy-covered church there are tombstones of members of the hardy family, and on the face of the tower there is a bas-relief of st michael. the parish school is one in which fancy day is introduced as the new teacher at mellstock in _under the greenwood tree_. "the fiddler of the reels," mop ollamore, whose diabolical skill with the fiddle produced a "moving effect" on people's souls, lived in one of the thatched cottages of this village. to the south of dorchester are the winterborne villages, all places of rural content, in the shallow valley of a stream which only becomes visible in the winter. the church of winterborne steepleton possesses an ancient stone steeple. in the porch--a cool grey place on the hottest day--there are stone seats and flagstones of hoary antiquity, and on the outer wall is an angel carved in stone which is said to date from before the conquest. the most interesting of the winterbornes is came. barnes, the dorset poet, was rector here for the last twenty-five years of his life. the church is a thirteenth-century building, hidden in a hollow among flowers, winding paths, outbuildings and cottages of an unattractive mansion. barnes is buried beneath a simple cross in the churchyard. herringtone adjoins came, and its chief feature is the old manor-house, the seat of the herring family, and, since james i.'s reign, of the williamses. winterborne monkton and winterborne st martin are both contiguous to maiden castle. the old church of the former has been much restored; that of the latter contains a norman font and some old stone shafts near the altar. the pilgrim who shall elect to reach abbotsbury will find a road, which forks by a picturesque old pond, about half-an-hour's walk towards winterborne abbas. it will be noticed in some of hardy's novels that the name of a village or town will often crop up in the name of a character, as, for instance, jude fawley living in marygreen, which may be identified with the village of fawley magna, in berkshire; and the name of the schoolmaster of leddenton, really the village of gillingham, near shaftesbury, is gillingham. it was at fawley magna church that phillotson and sue were married after she had parted from jude: "a tall new building of german gothic design, unfamiliar to english eyes, had been erected on a new piece of ground by a certain obliterator of historic records who had run down from london and back in a day. the site whereon so long had stood the ancient temple to the christian divinities was not even recorded on the green and level grass-plot that had immemorially been the churchyard, the obliterated graves being commemorated by ninepenny cast-iron crosses warranted to last five years." the unusual way in which the town of dorchester met in one line with the open country is picturesquely described by hardy: "the farmer's boy could sit under the barley mow and pitch a stone into the office window of the town clerk ... the red-robed judge, when he condemned a sheep-stealer, pronounced sentence to the tune of baa, that floated in from the remainder of the flock browsing hard by; and at executions the waiting crowd stood in a meadow immediately before the drop out of which the cows had been temporarily driven to give the spectators room." the intermixture of town and country life is again touched upon in a sketch of fordington: "here wheat ricks overhung the old roman street, and thrust their eaves against the church tower; great thatched barns with doorways as high as the gates of solomon's temple opened directly upon the main thoroughfare. barns, indeed, were so numerous as to alternate with every half-dozen houses along the way. here lived burgesses who daily walked the fallow--shepherds in an intramural squeeze." the original manuscript of _the mayor of casterbridge_, which is described in the dorchester _guide_ by harry pouncy (published by longman, cornhill press, dorchester), as "an example of rare beauty of penmanship and of absorbing interest, especially in regard to the alterations" is now in the dorset county museum. the leaves of the manuscript have been bound in book form, and captain acland, the curator, informs me the binding has resulted in the edges of the paper being cut, and the top edges being gilt. let us hope that the marginal notes have not been maimed by the binder's guillotine--that is, if any marginal notes were added. however, the "absorbingly interesting alterations" are not yet for the public gaze, and captain acland was immovable before my entreaties to be allowed to make notes on them. a most interesting jaunt from dorchester is along the sherborne road northward for eight miles to cerne abbas. the road from dorchester bears to the left not far from the great western railway and follows the river frome. a mile along the road on the right, lying back and surrounded by trees, is wolverton house, which figures in hardy's _group of noble dames_. this was formerly the seat of the knightly trenchards, and is an interesting fifteenth-century house which has obtained a niche in history thus: "in this house john russel, esq., of berwick, laid the foundation of the honours and fortunes of the illustrious family of the duke of bedford. having resided some years in spain, he was sent for by his relation, sir thomas trenchard, to attend and entertain the arch-duke of austria, king of castile, who recommended him to the notice of king henry vii., who took him into favour, and appointed him one of the gentlemen of his privy chamber; and afterwards recommended him to his son henry viii." (hutchins). the russels were seated at kingston russel, where their old manor-house still remains. wolverton was in later days the scene of a dread omen recorded by credulous aubrey. the chief feature of the hall was a screen carven with the effigies of the kings of england; and "on the third of nov., , the day the long parliament began to sit, the sceptre fell from the figure of king charles the first, while the family and a large company were at dinner in the parlour." no wonder, when the trenchard of that day proved a sturdy rebel, and did yeoman service for the parliament in the county. [illustration: the giant, cerne abbas] lady penelope, in hardy's _a group of noble dames_, was not an imaginary character, but a noble dame in real life. she was a daughter of lord darcy and in turn married george trenchard, sir john gale and sir william hervey. she is described in hardy's story as "a lady of noble family and extraordinary beauty. she was of the purest descent.... she possessed no great wealth ... but was sufficiently endowed. her beauty was so perfect, and her manner so entrancing, that suitors seemed to spring out of the ground wherever she went." the three suitors mentioned above would not be repulsed, and she jestingly promised to marry all three in turn. in the end fate determined that her jest should fall true. first penelope married sir george trenchard, who in the course of a few months died. a little while after she became the wife of sir john gale, who treated her rather badly. two or three years after he died and sir william hervy came forward. in a short time she became hervy's wife, and thus her promise, which was made so lightly, became an established fact. but the canker-worm of rumour attributed the death of sir john gale to poison given him by his wife, and sir william, believing it, went abroad and remained there. penelope divined the cause of his departure, and she grieved so much that at last nothing--not even sir william's return--availed to save her, and she died broken-hearted. sir william afterwards was assured by the doctor who had examined gale's body that there was no ground for the cruel suspicions, and that his death resulted from natural causes. the road continues through charminster, a large and scattered village, and steadily ascends to godmanston, five miles from dorchester. a mile beyond, the road still rising, is nether cerne, with a tiny church, prettily situated. steadily climbing another two miles, we reach cerne abbas, an exceedingly interesting little place, surrounded by chalk hills, on the river cerne. it derives its distinguishing name from an _abbey_, which was founded in memory of edmund the martyr, king of east anglia, who met his death at the hands of the danes a.d. . it was erected about a hundred years later and was a place of some importance. canute plundered the church. here margaret of anjou sought refuge on the day following her landing at weymouth, when she received tidings of the defeat of her cause at the battle of barnet, . the remains consist of a gate-house, bearing the escutcheon of the abbey, and those of the earl of cornwall, fitz-james and beauford; the _abbey-barn_, a long, buttressed building, and some traces of the park and gardens. the church, dedicated to st mary, is of perpendicular style and supposed to have been built by the abbots. immediately above the town rises a lofty eminence, popularly called the _giant's hill_, from an uncouth colossal figure cut on its chalky surface. it represents a man, feet in height, holding in his right hand a club and stretching forth the other. "vulgar tradition," says britton, "makes this figure commemorate the destruction of a giant, who, having feasted on some sheep in blackmoor, and laid himself to sleep on this hill, was pinioned down, like another gulliver, and killed by the enraged peasants, who immediately traced his dimensions for the information of posterity." on the summit of the hill is an entrenchment called _trendle_ (_i.e._ a circle, saxon). the cerne giant is believed by some authorities to be of phoenician origin and to represent baal, but no one really knows much about him, and, it must be also added, the dorset rustic cares very little about the matter. chapter vi a literary note: thomas hardy and william barnes thomas hardy is a dorset man both by birth and residence. he was born on nd june , in a pretty, thatched cottage in the hamlet of higher bockhampton. if one takes the london road out of dorchester, a walk of a mile and a turn to the right will lead to the village of stinsford; passing this hamlet and keeping to the road which crosses kingston park, a turn to the left breaks on to higher bockhampton. the house stands on the edge of thorncombe wood, skirting bockhampton heath, but hardy has told us that within the last fifty years the wood enclosed the house on every side. come into this old-world dwelling itself. the living-room is grey and white and dim. ivy peers in at the open windows set deep in the thick walls. the floor is grey and shining, stone-flagged; the ceiling cross-beamed with rich old oak; the fireplace wide and deep, and the whole building covered with a fine roof of thatch. here the earlier years of the novelist were spent, here the aroma of the earth and woods invaded his heart when it was young. the environment helped to feed the long, long thoughts of the boy and gave him the image of the beginning of man living in the woods in the darkness, outwitting the wolves. it was here in the cradle of nature that hardy first gained his minute knowledge of nature, and learnt how life and the meaning of life must be linked with place and the meaning of place. as in old greek drama the chorus was directed to the audience at certain stages, so does hardy turn the place spirit upon the progress of the story at certain moments with a vital bearing upon the action. he sees, as only the artist can see, how all the world is interwoven, and how the human spirit cannot be divorced from the plain course of nature without pity and disaster. to hardy's delicate subtlety of mind in perceiving the right values of character and environment we owe the tremendous effect of certain great scenes: the selection of woolbridge house, the antique and dismal old home of the turbervilles, for the scene of tess's confession; the thunderstorm during which oak saved his beloved bathsheba's ricks; the mist that rolled wickedly over the cart conveying fanny robin's body from the workhouse, and produced the horrible drip-drip-drip on the coffin while the drivers caroused in an inn; the strange scene where wildeve, "the rousseau of egdon," and the travelling ruddleman dice for mrs yeobright's money by the light of glow-worms. the delineation of norcombe hill at the commencement of _far from the madding crowd_ sets the key to which the theme of the story must always return after many delightful changes, and the vivid account of the lonely monarchy of the shepherd's night with his sheep, and the opulent silence when "the roll of the world eastward is almost a palpable movement" show the power and relentless grip of hardy's work. incidentally, also, with what fascinating detail does he introduce bathsheba everdene to the reader, so that we at once perceive what a curious blend of joyfulness, pride, astuteness and irresponsibility she would gradually develop as the years pass on--witness the little incident at the toll-gate, where, seated on the top of the loaded wagon, she refused to concede his rightful pence to the aggrieved turnpike-keeper. [illustration: bingham's melcombe (_ten miles north-east of dorchester_) a lovely dorset manor-house] the name of hardy is very frequently encountered in dorset, but the novelist's family is commonly said to be of the same blood as nelson's hardy. that hardy's family possessed the sprightliness and resource of the dorset people there can be little doubt, and this fact is accentuated by an anecdote concerning hardy's grandfather, told by mr alfred pope, a member of the dorset field club, at a meeting of the society. about a century ago mr hardy's grandfather was crossing a lonely heath one midnight in june when he discovered he was being followed by two footpads. he rolled a furze faggot on to the path, sat down on it, took off his hat, stuck two fern fronds behind his ears to represent horns, and then pretended to read a letter, which he took from his pocket, by the light of the glow-worms he had picked up and placed round the brim of his hat. the men took fright and bolted on seeing him, and a rumour soon got abroad in the neighbourhood that the devil had been seen at midnight near greenhill pond. at the age of seventeen hardy was articled to an ecclesiastical architect of dorchester named hicks, and it was in pursuance of this calling that he enjoyed many opportunities of studying not only architecture, but also the country folk, whose types he has been so successful in delineating. architecture has deeply coloured all his work, from _desperate remedies_ to _jude the obscure_. the former of these stories (in which, as it will be remembered, three of the characters are architects practising the miscellaneous vocations of stewards, land surveyors and the like, familiar to architects in country towns) appeared in , signed only with initials. it was followed in the next year by _under the greenwood tree_, and at this date hardy departed from architecture (in which he had distinguished himself so far as to be a prize-winner at a royal society's competition). in _a pair of blue eyes_ appeared, and in _far from the madding crowd_ ran through the _cornhill_. it was the first of his books to be published in yellow-backed form, which was then a sign that the novel had reached the highest point of popularity. his first novel, _the poor man and the lady_, was never published, and probably never will be, having been suppressed at hardy's own request, although accepted for publication on the advice of george meredith. but it was not long before he had finished a second story, _desperate remedies_, which first saw the light through the agency of tinsley brothers in . his first published article appeared without signature in _chambers's journal_, on th march , entitled, "how i built myself a house," and was of a semi-humorous character. but previous to this hardy had written a considerable amount of verse, all of which, with the exception of one poem, _the fire at tranter sweatley's_, was unfortunately destroyed. this wessex ballad appeared, bowdlerised, in _the gentleman's magazine_ in november . the ballad was first reproduced in its original form at the end of mr lane's bibliography, together with the novelist's biographical note on his friend and neighbour, the rev. william barnes, the dorset poet, contributed to _the athenæum_ in october . of mr hardy's remaining contributions to periodical literature in other directions than fiction i need, perhaps, only mention his paper on "the dorset labourer," published in _longmans'_ in july . _the trumpet major_ was published in , and the next novel was _a laodicean_, which appeared originally in _harper's magazine_. "the writing of this tale," says mr hardy in the new preface to the book, "was rendered memorable, to two persons at least, by a tedious illness of five months that laid hold of the author soon after the story was begun in a well-known magazine, during which period the narrative had to be strenuously continued by dictation to a predetermined cheerful ending. as some of these novels of wessex life address themselves more especially to readers into whose soul the iron has entered, and whose years have less pleasure in them now than heretofore, so _a laodicean_ may perhaps help to wile away an idle afternoon of the comfortable ones whose lines have fallen to them in pleasant places; above all, of that large and happy section of the reading public which has not yet reached ripeness of years; those to whom marriage is the pilgrim's eternal city, and not a milestone on the way." hardy's next novel, _two on a tower_, was published in three volumes in . four years elapsed before mr hardy's tenth novel, _the mayor of casterbridge_, made its appearance, though his story of _the romantic adventures of a milkmaid_, which came out in _the graphic_ summer number in , was reprinted in book form in america in . _the woodlanders_ came next, this time through messrs macmillan, who published it in in three volumes. _wessex tales_, in two volumes, appeared in , though the stories had been making their appearance in various periodicals since . in came _tess of the d'urbervilles_, which took the reading and criticising world by surprise. hardy became explicit and charged the collective judgment of society with being shallow and contrary to the laws of nature. he dashed aside the conventions and proclaimed a "ruined" girl a "pure woman," and made definite charges against the code of society, which, in the belief that it was contending against immorality, was all the while destroying some of nature's finest and most sensitive material. hardy does not preach, but there is more than a dramatic situation in angel clare's confession to tess on the night of their wedding, for he shows the hopelessness of any justice coming to the "fallen" girl. even if tess had been faultless, all her faith, devotion, love and essential sweetness would have been given to an unjust and sinful man. the whole situation is summed up in the conversation which follows angel clare's confession of an "eight-and-forty hours'" dissipation. hardy shows (and endorses) that it was quite right that tess, with her natural, unsophisticated intelligence, should look upon her loss of virginity out of wedlock as a thing to be regretted and also a thing to be forgiven--just as the same event in angel clare's life: "perhaps, although you smile, it is as serious as yours or more so." "it can hardly be more serious, dearest." "it cannot--oh no, it cannot." she jumped up joyfully at the hope. "no, it cannot be more serious, certainly," she cried, "because 'tis just the same!" for life and light and movement it would be hard to surpass chapter xxviii. of _far from the madding crowd_, where sergeant troy's skilful and dazzling exhibition with a sword bewilders bathsheba and ends in that unpropitious, fugitive kiss. it is a curious fact that, although hardy's novels are such a true living influence, there are many people who feel that as a poet he has somehow just failed to hit the mark. but he himself regards his verse as the most important part of his work, and a section of his readers look upon it as the most distinctive english poetry of the past twenty years. in some quarters his poems are received with that curiosity which is awarded to a man of genius who breaks out freakishly with some strange hobby. people might look upon rudyard kipling with just such curiosity if he invited his friends to inspect his latest experiments in fretwork. however, to those of us who have followed his lyric poems and his supreme achievement, _the dynasts_, it seems a well-nigh inexplicable phenomenon that much of his poetry should have passed into the limbo of forgotten things. is there something wrong with his poems, or unusual about them? there is certainly a puzzling quality in his work. when his _wessex poems_ were published in the reviewers, in a chorus, decided that it was "want of form" which weakened his verse, and it is interesting to read how _literature_ summed up his position as a poet: "here is no example of that positive inability to write well in verse which has marked several great prose writers, such as in carlyle and hume; nor of that still more curious ability to write once or twice well, and never to regain the careless rapture, as in berkeley and chateaubriand. the phenomenon is a strongly marked and appropriate accent of his own, composing (so to speak) professionally in verse, able to amuse and move us along lines strictly parallel with his prose, and yet lacking something. this is not a case like george eliot's, where the essence of the writer's style evaporates in the restraint of verse. never was mr hardy more intensely and exclusively himself than in 'my cicely.' yet is this a complete success? much as we admire it, we cannot say that it is. "'and by weatherbury castle, and therence through casterbridge bore i to tomb her whose light, in my deeming, extinguished had he,' is not quite satisfactory. why? simply and solely because the form is grotesque. here is the colour of poetry but not its sound, its essence but not its shape. "it might seem only right that in the face of a volume of verse so violent and rugged as _wessex poems_ we should protest that this is not the more excellent way of writing poetry. at the same time, every man must preserve his individuality, if he has one to preserve, as mr hardy assuredly has; and we have no reason to suppose that it is the desire of the author of 'the peasant's confession' to found a school or issue a propaganda. on the contrary, it is far more likely that he has put forth his wessex verses with extreme simplicity and modesty, not asking himself in what relation they stand to other people's poetry. as a matter of fact, the _wessex poems_ will probably enjoy a double fate. they will supply to lovers of emotional narrative verse several poetic tales which they will lay up in memory among their treasures; and in time to come professors of literary history, when observing the retrogression of an imaginative period, and when speaking of lydgate, of donne, of the spasmodists here, of the symbolists in france, will mention mr hardy also as a signal example of the temporary success of a violent protest against the cultivation of form in verse." but critics of discrimination are now beginning to discover that thomas hardy's poems do not lack the qualities which give poetic form a true balance. he fails to achieve popularity as a poet, they argue, because the "concentrated and unpalatable expression of his philosophy proves too disagreeable to those who seek relief from life in literature," and because the first shock of the grinding harshness of his peculiar style "is a barrier against the recognition of his merits." certainly he makes no direct appeal to the ear of the reader. but on reading his lyric poems a second time--some of which, it must be admitted, must assuredly offend those who have unbounded faith in the human soul, whether from the standpoint of the church or otherwise--the first grotesqueness of effect wears off, leaving at times a clear-cut and bitter touch that it would seem impossible to improve upon. it is true we find among the youthful poems some of great gloom and sadness, but it is well to bear in mind when making an estimate of hardy's work and personality that certain natures express their thoughts in unusual ways. it is all the time wrong to assume that hardy does not perceive anything else in life but a bitter and hopeless procession, just because his eloquence is always keener upon perceiving tragedy. it is true, he himself has confessed, that he shares with sophocles the conviction that "not to be born is best"; but at the same time the spirit which moves always under the surface of his poetry tells us that man, being born, must make the best of life, and _especially_ do what he can to ease the burdens of his fellow-men. after his moments of depression he finds his own consolations. he takes a great pleasure in the trivial little objects and customs of rustic life--those simple things that are best of all, and his poem _afterwards_ is a good example both of his measured and harmonious style, and of his "dark, unconscious instinct of primitive nature-worship": "if i pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm, when the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn, one may say, 'he strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm, but he could do little for them; and now he is gone.' if, when hearing that i have been stilled at last, they stand at the door, watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees, will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more, 'he was one who had an eye for such mysteries'?" the reader instinctively pictures hardy as a morose, grim, cynical man--but he is really anything but that. from all accounts hardy is mirrored in the whimsical and deep mirth that is so intermixed in the rustic characters in his novels. "it is too often assumed," says the capricious and tiresome ethelberta--april-natured hardy would call her--"that a person's fancy is a person's real mind.... some of the lightest of rhymes were composed between the deepest fits of dismals i have known." some years ago _the english illustrated magazine_ printed an account of a visit paid by a cyclist to hardy at his dorchester home. authentic pictures of hardy are so scarce that i venture to draw on this interview: "the picture he presented was, for the moment at least, all-satisfying; there was more than nervousness in the strangely harassed-looking face, with the most sensitive features that i had ever seen. the deep-set eyes were troubled, but there was no mistaking their fearless courage. i knew that i was looking at a man whose soul was more ravaged than ever his careworn features were with the riddle of life and the tragedy of it, and yet a soul utterly self-reliant, for all the shyness of the outward man. "i attempted no compliments, and asked him instead why he was so pessimistic a writer, why he wrote at once the most beautiful and the most dreadful of stories, and why he had not shown us far more often than he has done a picture of requited love, or of requited love that was not victimised at once by some pitiless act of fate. "mr hardy had not sat down himself, but had stood by the fireplace, with his white hands holding the lapels of his old-fashioned tweed coat. "we were on better terms in a moment, as mr hardy replied, his voice curiously halting, but not as if he was in any doubt of his sentiments. it seemed a mixture of irony and diffidence. "'you are a young man,' he said. 'the cruelty of fate becomes apparent to people as they grow older. at first one may perhaps escape contact with it, but if one lives long enough one realises that happiness is very ephemeral.' "'but is not optimism a useful and sane philosophy?' i asked him. "there's too much sham optimism, humbugging and even cruel optimism,' mr hardy retorted. 'sham optimism is really a more heartless doctrine to preach than even an exaggerated pessimism--the latter leaves one at least on the safe side. there is too much sentiment in most fiction. it is necessary for somebody to write a little mercilessly, although, of course, it's painful to have to do it.'" that is what we must do if we wish to move on the higher ideal of philosophical speculation as hardy explains it. he points out that there is something in a novel that should transcend pessimism, meliorism or optimism, and that is the search for truth: "so that to say one view is worse than other views without proving it erroneous implies the possibility of a false view being better or more expedient than a true view; and no pragmatic proppings can make that _idolum specus_ stand on its feet, for it postulates a prescience denied to humanity." charges of pessimism hardy dismisses as the product of the chubble-headed people who only desire to pair all the couples off at the end of a novel and leave them with a plentiful supply of "simply exquisite" babies, hard cash and supreme contentment. as i have hinted before, the face and the wealth of the earth are a constant joy to hardy, and he has great admiration for the dorset rustics--those sprack-witted, earthy philosophers who have won support for his novels even in circles where his ideals of life are not in favour. he enthusiastically follows the ways and works of nature in which man co-operates. one instantly calls to mind winterborne, the travelling cider-maker in _the woodlanders_, as an instance of this: "he looked and smelt like autumn's very brother, his face being sunburnt to wheat colour, his eyes blue as cornflowers, his sleeves and leggings dyed with fruit stains, his hands clammy with the sweet juice of apples, his hat sprinkled with pips, and everywhere about him that atmosphere of cider which at its first return each season has such an indescribable fascination for those who have been born and bred among the orchards." the above is a prose-poem which is worthy to stand beside keats' _ode to autumn_. * * * * * william barnes was born at rushay, near pentridge, a village about four miles from cranborne, in the north-east of the county, on the wiltshire border, and in the heart of the vale of blackmore, the beauties of which he was never tired of extolling in his gentle poems enriched with his native dialect. his mother was a woman of good education and refined tastes, and he attended an endowed school at struminster, where the classes were composed of boys and girls and conducted in the american way. on leaving school he entered a solicitor's office in the same town, but at the age of eighteen he removed to dorchester. in he went to mere, in somerset, where he worked as a schoolmaster for four years in loneliness. at this time he married miss julia miles, and after an additional eight years at mere he returned to dorchester, where teaching was still his profession. one might almost say that dorchester was his spiritual birthplace, for here his genius began to attract more than local attention, and here he grew into the hearts of the people so deeply that when he passed away all wished to preserve his memory in the form of a public statue. barnes was one of the secretaries of the dorset field club. his most earnest wish was to enter the church, and from st john's college, cambridge, he was ordained by the bishop of salisbury in , and became pastor of whitcombe. he fell on troublous days and passed through a labyrinth of trials--sickness, death and sordid money embarrassments. only once did he allow his pent-up humours of discouragement to break loose. one day he came in to his family with a sheaf of correspondence in which letters from duns were accompanied by others containing warm eulogy of the poet. "what a mockery is life!" he exclaimed; "they praise me and take away my bread! they might be putting up a statue to me some day when i am dead, while all i want now is leave to live. i asked for bread and they gave me a stone," he added bitterly. at about this time he was awarded a civil list pension of seventy pounds a year, while the gift of the living of came relieved him of the anxiety over money matters. the happiest days of his life were spent at came, and here he followed with great diligence his one hobby--the anglicising of the latinised english words in our vocabulary, which he called speech-lore. he wrote two books on this subject, called _redecraft_ and _speechcraft_. in his preface to _speechcraft_ he announced it as "a small trial towards the upholding of our own strong old anglo-saxon speech and the ready teaching of it to purely english minds by their own tongue." it was his fancy to replace all foreign and derived words with words based on saxon roots. the following are selected from his glossary of latinised words, with their saxon equivalents facing them:-- accelerate to on-quicken. accent word-strain. acoustics sound-lore. aeronaut air-farer. alienate to un-friend. ancestor fore-elder. aphorisms thought-cullings. botany wort-lore. democracy folkdom. deteriorate worsen. equilibrium weight-evenness. equivalent worth-evenness. foliate to leafen. initial word-head. thomas hardy's note on the genius of his dead friend is a generous estimate: "unlike burns, béranger, and other poets of the people, barnes never assumed the high conventional style, and he entirely leaves alone ambition, pride, despair, defiance, and other of the grander passions which move mankind, great and small. his rustics are as a rule happy people, and very seldom feel the sting of the rest of modern mankind--the disproportion between the desire for serenity and the power of obtaining it. one naturally thinks of crabbe in this connection, but though they touch at points, crabbe goes much further than barnes in questioning the justice of circumstance. their pathos, after all, is the attribute upon which the poems must depend for their endurance; and the incidents which embody it are those of everyday cottage life, tinged throughout with that 'light that never was,' which the emotional art of the lyrist can project upon the commonest things. it is impossible to prophesy, but surely much english literature will be forgotten when _woak hill_ is still read for its intense pathos, _blackmore maidens_ for its blitheness, and _in the spring_ for its arcadian ecstasy." in he published a copy of _early english and the saxon english_. in this he traces both angles and saxons. it was his idea that the ancient dykes which cut up so much of our land were delved by them to mark their settlements rather than to use in the case of warfare. he also sturdily asserted that the britons were accomplished road-makers before the romans came, and that the romans merely improved roads already existing. the poem of _woak hill_ is based on a persian form of metre called _the pearl_, because the rhymes are supposed to represent a series of beads upon a rosary. the pearl, or sequence of assonance, is shown in the second word in the last line of each stanza: "when sycamore-trees were a-spreading green-ruddy in hedges beside the red dust of the ridges a-dried at woak hill, i packed up my goods all a-shining with long years of handling on dusty red wheels of a waggon to ride at woak hill. the brown thatchen roof of the dwelling i then were a-leaving had sheltered the sleek head of mary my bride at woak hill. but now for some years her light footfall 's a-lost from the flooring. too soon for my joy and my children she died at woak hill. but still i do think that in soul she do hover about us to ho' for her motherless children, her pride at woak hill. so lest she should tell me hereafter i stole off 'ithout her and left her uncalled at house-ridden to bide at woak hill, i call'd her so fondly, with lippens all soundless to others, and took her with air-reaching hand to my side at woak hill. on the road i did look round, a-talking to light at my shoulder, and then led her in at the doorway, miles wide from woak hill. and that's why folk thought, for a season, my mind were a-wand'ring with sorrow, when i were so sorely a-tried at woak hill. but no; that my mary mid never behold herself slighted i wanted to think that i guided my guide from woak hill." barnes saw the pathos in the joy of utter physical weariness of a labourer, and one of his finest poems depicts a cottage under a swaying poplar: "an' hands a-tired by day, were still, wi' moonlight on the door." he always has that deep, quiet craving for the hearth, the fire, the protecting thatch of a cottage, which gives his work a pathetic touch. i think sometimes that barnes must have been nearer to being cold, homeless and tired at times than is generally understood. chapter vii bere regis and the ancient family of turberville we who have passed into the upper air thence behold earth, and know how she is fair. more than her sister stars sweet earth doth love us: she holds our hearts: the stars are high above us. o mother earth! stars are too far and rare! bere regis, that "blinking little place" with a history extending back to saxon times (identified by doctor stukeley with the roman ibernium), is a typical little dorset town about seven miles to the north-west of wareham. it makes a capital walk or ride from dorchester, and it was this way i travelled. i left dorchester by high street east, ascending yellowham hill, the "yalbury hill" of troy's affecting meeting with fanny robin, leaving troy town to pass through puddletown and tolpuddle. evening had fallen when i arrived at bere regis, and the rising wind and flying wrack of clouds above seemed to presage a wild night. i was just wondering whether, although it looked so threatening, i dared ride on to wareham, when my eyes rested on the royal oak inn, with its elizabethan barns, mossed and mouldering red tiles and axe-hewn timbers. "it is at such houses," i thought, "that men may stretch out weary legs and taste home-cured bacon (i heard the squeak of a pig in the outhouse), and such places are the homes of adventure. i will go in and call for ale and a bed." so i walked straight into the courtyard, which backs upon the church, and found there a large man with considerable girth, a square, honest face and kindly eyes. he was wearing a cap, and wearing it in a fine rakish way too. his appearance gave me the impression that his wife had tossed the cap at him and failed to drop it on his head squarely, but had landed it in a lopsided manner, and then our friend had walked off without thinking anything more about it. he was singing a song to himself and staring at a pile of bundles of straw. he looked up and nodded good-humouredly. "looks like rain!" said i. "aw 'es, tu be sure, now you come to mention it. i dawnt think rain's far off." "can you tell me," said i, "if i can get a meal and a bed at this inn?" "what you like," returned the man, with a quick tilt of his head, which drew my eyes with a kind of fascination to his ill-balanced cap, "but as i've nothing to do with the place i should ask the landlord avore me." "ah, to be sure," said i. "sorry to trouble you. i thought you might be the landlord." the man stopped singing his song to stare at me wide-eyed. "well, i beant; but it's a fine thing to be a landlord, with barrels o' beer down 'ouze and money in the bank." "then may i ask what trade you follow," said i, "and why you study that straw so intently?" "young fellow," said he, staring, "i follow a main-zorry trade in these days. i be a thatcher, and thatching to-the-truth-of-music is about done for. if you look at these thatched cottages about dorset they will tell their own story. why, the reed is just thrown on the roof hugger-mugger. they can't thatch no more down this part, i can tellee; they lay it on all of a heap." "and is this the straw for thatching?" i inquired. "yes," said he, smiling; "they call them bundles of reed in dorset--but in my country, which is devon, they call 'em 'nitches o' reed.'" "then you are not contented with your trade?" "not quite," answered the thatcher, his face falling. "it has always been my wish to have a little inn--and barrels o' beer down 'ouze and money...." "far better be a thatcher," said i. "i'll be dalled ef i can see why." "it's an out-of-doors life in the first place," said i. the thatcher nodded, and his cap looked about as perilous as the leaning tower of pisa. "it is a happier life, too, i should say." "aw! i an't ayerd nort about that," he returned. "and who ever heard of a starving thatcher?" "young fellow," he sighed, "there soon will be no thatchers to starve. tez a lost art is thatching. i am the last of my family to follow the trade, and we can go back three hundred years." "then thatch is dying out?" "yes, chiefly on the score of it being hard to 'dout' in case of fire." "'dout' is a strange old word. it means extinguish, i take it," said i. "to be sure--extinguished. maybe you've heard the story about the devon gal who went to london as a maid and when she told the mistress she had 'douted' the kitchen fire she was told to say 'extinguished' in future, and not use such ill-sounding words. 'ess, mum,' she said, 'and shall i _sting-guish_ the old cat before i go to bed?'" the thatcher laughed in his deep chest. "but thatch suits us devon folk middlin' well," he continued. "it's warm in winter and cool in summer, and will stand more buffeting by the wind and rain than all your cheap tiles and slates." "and thatch is cheap too, perhaps?" i ventured. "on the contrary," he answered. "lukee, those nitches of reed cost four shillings each, and you want three hundred bundles for a good-sized roof. then there is the best tar twine (which comes from ireland), the spars and the labour to be counted in. it takes three weeks on the average house, but if the thatch is well laid it will last for thirty years, and if i set my heart on a job and finish it off with a layer of heath atop, well, then, it will last for ever. ess, fay!" "and what is the way you proceed to thatch a roof?" i asked. [illustration: hurdle-making at bere regis] "well," he answered, "it's not easy to explain. 'lanes' of reed--wheat straw, you would say--are first tied on the eave beams and gable beams; these are called eave locks and gable locks. a 'lane of reed' is about as long as a walking-stick and a bit thicker than a man's wrist, and a thatched roof is composed of these 'lanes' tied on the roof beams, in ridge fashion. then when the reeds are all tied on, overlapping each other, they are trimmed with a 'paring hook.' the reed has to be wet when put up; that is why thatchers wear leather knee-knaps. the best thatching reed comes from clay soil out exeter and crediton way." "and where do you think," i asked, "can be seen the most perfect examples of thatching in england?" "i lay you won't see any better than the cottages around lyme regis and axminster. but soon merry england will be done with thatch, for the boys of the village are too proud to learn how to cut a spar or use a thatcher's hook. bless my soul! they all want to be clerks or school teachers." my friend the thatcher had a profound contempt for "school larning" and he waxed triumphantly eloquent when he touched upon council school teachers. "what poor, mimpsy-pimsy craychers they be, them teachers," he remarked. "fancy them trying to larn others, and ha'n't got the brains to larn themselves!" * * * * * bere regis church is the most beautiful little building of its size in dorset. it is the captain and chief of all the village churches, and has just managed to touch perfection in all the things that a wayside shrine should achieve. there is an atmosphere about the old place that is soothing and above the pleasure of physical experience. the qualities of bere regis can only be fully appreciated with that sixth sense that transcends gross sight and touch. upon entering the building one is captivated by the remarkable roof and the number of effigies, half life-size, in the dress of the period, which are carved on the hammer-beams. this magnificent carved and painted timber roof is said to have been the gift of cardinal morton, born at milborne stileman, in this parish. the roof effigies are supposed to represent the twelve apostles, but they are not easily identified. the canopied skerne tomb possesses a special interest for its brasses and verse: "i skerne doe show that all our earthlie trust all earthlie favours and goods and sweets are dust look on the worlds inside and look on me her outside is but painted vanity." in the south porch will be found an interesting relic in the shape of some old iron grappling-hooks used for pulling the thatch off a cottage in the event of fire. an ancient altar-slab on which, perchance, sacrifices have been offered has been preserved, and there is also a fine old priest's chair, the upper arms of which have supported the leaning bodies of a great company of dorset vicars, for it must be remembered that the priest was not allowed to _sit_ on the chair--but "leaning" was permitted. the norman pillars in the south arcade are striking to the eye, and the humorous carvings on their capitals are objects of great interest. one of them gives a very good picture of a victim in the throes of toothache; apparently the sufferer has just arrived at that stage in which the pain is mounting to a crescendo of agony, for he has inserted his eight fingers in his mouth in an attempt to battle with his tormentors. the other figure displays some poor fellow who is a martyr to headache--perhaps a gentle reproof and warning to those who were inclined to tarry overlong in the taverns. but the main object of interest is the turberville window in the south aisle, beneath which is the ledger-stone covering the last resting-place of this wild, land-snatching family, which is lettered as follows:-- "ostium sepulchri antiquae famillae turberville junij ." ("the door of the sepulchre of the ancient family of the turbervilles.") it was at this vault stone that tess bent down and said: "why am i on the wrong side of this door!" perhaps it is as well to recite the outline of hardy's story of _tess_ at this stage of our pilgrimage. tess durbeyfield, the daughter of poor and feeble-minded parents and descendant of a noble but somewhat wild old family, was forcibly seduced by a wealthy young loafer whose father had taken, with no right to it, tess's proper name of "d'urberville." a child was born, but died. some years after tess became betrothed to a clergyman's son, angel clare. on their wedding night tess confessed to him her past relations with alec d'urberville, and thereupon clare, a man who was not without sin himself, left her. in the end fate conspired to force tess back into the protection of alec. clare, who cannot be looked upon as anything but half-baked and insincere, returns repentant from canada and finds her living with d'urberville. in order to be free to return to clare, tess stabbed alec to the heart, for which she was arrested, tried and hanged. in this romance bere regis figures as "kingsbere," and the church is the subject of many references. it was on one of the "canopied, altar-shaped" turberville tombs that poor tess noticed, with a sudden qualm of blank fear, that the effigy moved. "as soon as she drew close to it she discovered all in a moment that the figure was a living person; and the shock to her sense of not having been alone was so violent that she almost fainted, not, however, till she had recognised alec d'urberville in the form." here alec d'urberville stamped with his heel heavily above the stones of the ancient family vault, whereupon there arose a hollow echo from below, and remarked airily to tess: "a family gathering is it not, with these old fellows under us here?" in the south wall a doorway which has been long filled in can still be traced. there is nothing of special note in this alteration, but a legend has been handed down which is worth recording here. it is said that one of the turberville family quarrelled with the vicar of bere regis and ended a stormy meeting by declaring that he would never again pass through the old door of the church. as time went on the lure of the turberville dead in the ancient shrine obsessed him and he grew to regret the haste in which he had cut himself off from the ancient possessors of his land. after some years fate arranged a chance meeting between the vicar and turberville at a village feast, and under the influence of the general good-fellowship and merry-making they buried the hatchet and fell to discussing old times and friends. when time came for the breaking up of the entertainment it was only turberville's dogged determination to keep his vow which prevented a return to the old happy conditions before the breach of friendship. "there is one thing i would ask you to do, vicar," said turberville as he parted. "when you attend vespers to-morrow just tell the old turberville squires to sleep soundly in their vault. although i have vowed never to pass through the church door while i am alive, i cannot stop 'em _carrying_ me through when i am dead--so i shall sleep with them in the end." however, the worthy vicar went to the town stone-mason next morning and arranged to cut a new doorway in the south wall, and thus it came to pass that the independent and stubborn turberville once again was able to worship with the shades of his fathers and yet keep to his promise never to pass through the _old_ door again. the first of the family of turberville was sir payne de turberville (de turba villa), who came over with william the norman. from sir payne down to the last descendants of the family who form the theme of thomas hardy's romance, _tess of the d'urbervilles_, the turbervilles were a strange, wild company. it is excusable, too, in a way, for it appears that the first of the line, after the battle of hastings, was one of the twelve knights who helped robert fitzhamon, lord of estremaville, in his evil work and returned to england when his commander was created earl of gloucester. in an ancient document of the time of henry iii. we come across a striking illustration of the unscrupulous ways of this family, for it is recorded that john de turberville was then paying an annual fine on some land near bere regis, which his people before him had filched from the estate of the earl of hereford. the turbervilles were established in the neighbourhood in . bryants puddle, a very rude little hamlet situated on the river piddle a little to the south-west of bere, receives its title from brian de turberville, who was lord of the manor in the reign of edward iii. the village was anciently called "piddle turberville," but this name has been replaced by bryants puddle. at a later period the turbervilles came into the possession of the manor of bere regis at the breaking up of tarent abbey, and at this time the good fortune of the family was at its zenith. but with the spoils of the church came a gradual and general downfall of the old family, and with the increased riches, we may conjecture, the turbervilles went roaring on their way more riotously than ever. there is an entry in the parish registers of bere, under the year , of the interment of thomas turberville, the last of the ancient race. an intermediate stage of the house is represented by d'albigny turberville, the oculist mentioned by pepys, who died in and was buried in salisbury cathedral. after the year the old manor-house of the turbervilles, standing near the church, was strangely silent. their time was over and gone, the wine had been drunk, the singers had departed. but the stories of their carousals and great deeds were still a matter for dispute and discussion at the village inn, and the eerie old house was especially regarded with feelings of awe and few cared to go near it after dark. it was not what they had seen, but what they might see, that caused them to shun the old place. i can picture the dorset rustic of that time (and the distance between hodge the "goodman" of and hodge the driver of the motor tractor is almost nothing at all) shaking his head on being asked his reasons for avoiding the house, and saying, with a grin, as how he "shouldn't like to go poking about such a divered [dead] old hole." the ancient manor-house was allowed to lapse into ruin, and now nothing at all remains but a few crumbling stones: "through broken walls and grey the winds blow bleak and shrill; they are all gone away. nor is there one to-day to speak them good or ill; there is nothing more to say." there is reason to believe that the rustics in wilts and dorset who bear different forms of the name turberville, altered into tellafield and troublefield, are in truth the descendants of illegitimate branches of the family. one ancient dorset rustic with the name of tollafield, who aroused my interest, said to me in all seriousness that he would not care to go rummaging into the history of the old turberville people. "you depend upon it, they were a bad lot--the parson told me so. there is no telling what them folks' speerits might not be up to, if so be the old devil had got ahold on 'em." this rustic, though an old man, had an eye as keen as a hawk's, was a man of immensely powerful frame, and would sleep under a hedge any night and feel little the worse for it. when i looked at his clear, hard blue eyes and straight, haughty nose he gave me the feeling that the turberville blood had really survived in him. then i learned that he was a flagrant poacher and, like the old earth-stopper in masefield's poem, "his snares made many a rabbit die. on moony nights he found it pleasant to stare the woods for roosting pheasants up near the tree-trunk on the bough. he never trod behind a plough. he and his two sons got their food from wild things in the field and wood." it was my fortune to run into the old fellow coming out of the royal oak one night with his friends. he was very exuberant and arrogant. i heard him offering to fight three men, "knock one down, t'other come on" style. then it came over me with a sudden sense of largeness and quietude that the game old ruffian had his place in the order of things. this tyrant of the low tudor tap-room was perhaps a turberville, one of the rightful, immemorial owners of the land. if he has not the right to a pheasant for his sunday dinner, then tell me who has. perhaps when we, with our picture palaces and styles and jazzy-dances, have passed away our hoary friend the poacher will abide, his feet among his clods, rooted deep in his native soil. and if all this thin veneer of civilisation was suddenly ripped away from us, how should we emerge? hodge would still go on poaching, sleeping under hedges, outwitting the wild things in the woods and drinking home-brewed ale. he would not even feel any temporary inconvenience. how old-fashioned and out-of-date we with all our new things would feel if we were suddenly brought into line with the eternally efficient hodge! [illustration: woolbridge house] from bere regis to wool is a pleasant ride of five or six miles. close to wool station is the manor-house, now a farm, which was once the residence of a younger branch of the turberville family, and readers will remember it is the place where tess and angel clare came to spend their gloomy and tragic honeymoon. in hardy's _tess_ the house is called wellbridge manor house, in remembrance of the days when wool was called welle, on account of the springs which are so plentiful in this district. of course the house is named from the five-arched elizabethan bridge which spans the reed-fringed river frome at this point. each arch of the bridge is divided by triangular buttresses, which at the road-level form recesses where foot-passengers may take refuge from passing motors or carts. the manor-house is of about the time of henry viii., and has been much renovated. over the doorway a date stone proclaims that the building was raised in (or ), but it has been suggested that this is the date of a restoration or addition to the building. the two pictures of tess's ancestors mentioned in the novel actually exist, and are to be seen on the wall of the staircase: "two life-sized portraits on panels built into the wall. as all visitors are aware, these paintings represent women of middle age, of a date some two hundred years ago, whose lineaments once seen can never be forgotten. the long pointed features, narrow eye, and smirk of the one, so suggestive of merciless treachery; the bill-hook nose, large teeth, and bold eye of the other, suggesting arrogance to the point of ferocity, haunt the beholder afterwards in his dreams." old records show that in ancient times a curious custom was observed on annual court day at wool. it was known as collecting smoke-pence. it appears that the head of every house was called upon to pay a penny for each of his chimneys as a token that the property belonged to the manor. the money was collected by the constable, who was obliged to bring twenty pence into court, or make up the money himself. the most characteristic and altogether unique feature of this nook of earth around bere regis is that superstition has not ceased to exist among the old people of the land. it is difficult to believe that there is a little district in england where superstition is still a part--a very obscure part, it is true--of the life of the people. but here i have noticed the shadow of witchcraft and magic thrown across the commonplace things of rustic life again and again while talking with old cronies over their beer, or along the winding hill roads. but it must be understood that the dorset man does not talk to any chance wayfarer on such matters: the subject of the "borderland" and "spiritual creatures" is strictly set apart for the log fire and chimney corner on winter evenings. it is when the wooden shutters are up to the windows, and the tranquillising clay pipes are sending up their incense to the oak cross-beams, that we may cautiously turn the conversation on to such matters. on one such occasion as i watched the keen, wrinkled faces, on which common sense, shrewdness and long experience had set their marks, i wondered if two local farmers had made such sinners of their memories as to credit their own fancy. but no, i would not believe they were in earnest. it was only their quaint humour asserting itself. they were surely "piling it on" in order to deceive me! however, that was not the solution, for when the time came, somewhere about midnight, for one of the farmers to return home he stolidly refused to face the dark trackway back to his farm, and preferred to spend the night in the arm-chair before the fire. but let one of the dwellers on bere heath tell of his own superstitions. here is old gover coming over the great elizabethan bridge which spans the rushy river frome at wool. one glance at his cheerful, weather-beaten face will tell you better than a whole chapter of a book that he is no "lablolly" (fool), but a man of sound judgment, easy notions and general good character, like hardy's gabriel oak. leaning on the ancient stonework of the bridge, and smacking his vamplets (rough gaiters used by thatchers to defend the legs from wet) with a hazel stick, he stops to talk. a motor lorry filled with churns of milk passes on its way to drop its consignment at wool railway siding. "tellee what 'tis," said gover to me, pointing to the lorry: "'twill be a poor-come-a-long-o'-'t now them motors are taking the place o' horses everywhere. can't get no manure from them things, and the land is no good without manure. mr davis the farmer at five mile bottom hev got five ford cars now where ten horses used to feed. he sez to me that he don't want any horse manure--chemical manures is good enough for him. but he dunnow nort 't-all-'bout-et! he'll eat the heart out of his soil with his chemicals, and his farm will be barren in a year or so. ess, by gor! you bant agwain to do justice to the soil without real manure, and them as thinks they can dawnt know a from a 'oss's 'ead." then i asked gover about the turberville ghost which we are told haunts this lane, and which is the subject of an allusion in hardy's _tess of the d'urbervilles_. his keen old face became serious at once. no ghosts or goblins had troubled him, he said, but john rawles and another chap saw as plain as could be a funeral going along from woolbridge house to bere regis, and they heard the priest singing in front of the coffin, but they could not understand what he did say. there was a cattle gate across the road in those days and rawles ran to open it, but before he could get there the coffin had passed through the gate and it had all vanished! he had often heard tell of people who had seen ghosts, and he would not be put about if he did see one himself. "so you have not seen the blood-stained family coach of the turbervilles?" i inquired. "no, i never see that," said gover, shaking his head, "nor never heard of it." "then, as it is a tale that every child should know," i said, "i will tell you now, and you shall believe it or no, precisely as you choose. once upon a time there was a turberville who deserves to be remembered and to be called, so to speak, the limb of the 'old 'un' himself, for he spent all his days in wickedness, and went roaring to the devil as fast as all his vices could send him. i have heard it said that he snapped his fingers in the face of a good parson who came to see him on his death-bed, saying he did not wish to talk balderdash, or to hear it, and bade him clear out and send up his servant with fighting-cocks and a bottle of brandy. gradually all the drinking and vice, which had besieged his soul for so long, swept him into a state of temporary madness and he murdered a friend while they were riding to woolbridge house in the family coach. the friend he struck down had turberville blood in his veins too, so you may be certain the blame was not all on one side. ever since the evil night the coach with the demon horses dragging it sways and rocks along the road between wool and bere, and the murderer rushes after it, moaning and wringing his hands, but never having the fortune to catch it up. the spectacle of the haunted coach cannot be seen by the ordinary wayfarer; it is only to be seen by persons in which the blood of the turbervilles is mixed." "ah!" nodded old gover, "i don't hold with that story. if so be as that 'ere turberville who murdered t'other hev a-gone up above, 'tain't likely as how he'll be wishful to go rowstering after that ripping great coach on a dalled bad road like this." and then he shook his bony finger in my face and added: "and if the dowl have a-got hold on 'im he won't be able to go gallyvanting about--he'll be kept there!" wool has another attraction in the ruins of bindon abbey, lying in the thick wood seen from the station, a few minutes to the south of the line towards wareham. the ruins are very scanty. a few slabs and coffins are still preserved, and one stone bears the inscription in lombardic characters: abbas ricardus de maners hic tumulatur appoenas tardus deus hunc salvans tueatur the abbey is in a wood by the river--a gloomy, fearsome, dark place. this is the wellbridge abbey of hardy's _tess_, and we read that "against the north wall of the ruined choir was the empty stone coffin of an abbot, in which every tourist with a turn for grim humour was accustomed to stretch himself." this is, of course, the lidless coffin in which angel clare, walking in his sleep, laid tess. woolbridge house is not so near to this spot as thomas hardy gives one to understand in the novel. near the ruin is the old mill of bindon abbey, situated on the frome, where angel clare proposed to learn milling. it is called "wellbridge mill" in _tess_. the old abbey wood is full of shadows and is the kind of place that one would write down as immemorially old, barren and sinister. the singular impressiveness of its ivy-grown walls, shadowed by heavy masses of foliage, depresses one dreadfully. the straight footpaths beneath the trees have been worn into deep tracks by the attrition of feet for many centuries. under the trees are the fish-ponds which played such an important part in provisioning the monks' larder. they are so concealed from the daylight that they take on a shining jet-black surface. a book might be written about the place--a book of terrible and fateful ghost tales. chapter viii round and about weymouth i walk in the world's great highways, in the dusty glare and riot, but my heart is in the byways that thread across the quiet; by the wild flowers in the coppice, there the track like a sleep goes past, and paven with peace and poppies, comes down to the sea at last. e. g. buckeridge. modern weymouth is made up of two distinct townships, weymouth and melcombe regis, which were formerly separate boroughs, with their own parliamentary representatives. of the two weymouth is probably the older, but melcombe can be traced well-nigh back to the conquest; and now, although it is the name of weymouth that has obtained the prominence, it is to melcombe that it is commonly applied. many visitors to weymouth never really enter the real, ancient weymouth, now chiefly concerned in the brewing of dorset ale. the pier, town, railway station and residences are all in melcombe regis. the local conditions are something more than peculiar. the little river wey has an estuary altogether out of proportion to its tiny stream, called the blackwater. the true original weymouth stands on the right bank of the estuary at its entrance into weymouth bay. across the mouth of the estuary, leaving a narrow channel only open, stretches a narrow spit of land, on which stands melcombe. the blackwater has thus a lake-like character, and its continuation to the sea, the harbour, may be likened to a canal. the local annals of the kingdom can hardly furnish such another instance of jealous rivalry as the strife between the two boroughs. barely a stone's-throw apart, they were the most quarrelsome of neighbours, and for centuries lived the most persistent "cat and dog" life. whatever was advanced by one community was certain to be opposed by the other, and not even german and english hated each other with a more perfect hatred than did the burgesses of weymouth and melcombe regis. as they would not live happy single, it was resolved to try what married life would do, and so in the two corporations were rolled into one, the only vestige of the old days retained being the power of electing four members to parliament from the joint municipality--a right which was exercised until . not until the union was the old-fashioned ferry over the wey supplemented by a bridge, the predecessor of that which now joins the two divisions of the dual town. the union proved to be a success, and in this way weymouth saved both itself and its name from becoming merely a shadow and a memory. it is to george iii. that weymouth must be eternally grateful, for just in the same way as george iv. turned brighthelmstone into brighton, it was george iii. who _made_ weymouth. of course there was a weymouth long before his day, but whatever importance it once possessed had long disappeared when he took it up. for many years the king spent long summer holidays at gloucester lodge, a mansion facing the sea, and now the sedate gloucester hotel. considering its undoubted age, weymouth is remarkably barren in traces of the past, and a few elizabethan houses, for the most part modernised, well-nigh exhaust its antiquities. weymouth, which figures as "budmouth" in hardy's romances, is the subject of many references. uncle bengy, in _the trumpet major_, found budmouth a plaguy expensive place, for "if you only eat one egg, or even a poor windfall of an apple, you've got to pay; and a bunch of radishes is a halfpenny, and a quart o' cider tuppence three-farthings at lowest reckoning. nothing without paying!" when george iii. and the sun of prosperity shone upon the tradesfolk of weymouth the spirit of pecuniary gain soon became rampant. the inflated prices which so roused poor old uncle bengy even staggered queen charlotte, and "peter pindar" (dr john wolcot) criticised her household thriftiness in bringing stores and provisions from windsor: "bread, cheese, salt, catchup, vinegar and mustard, small beer and bacon, apple pie and custard; all, all from windsor, greets his frugal grace, for weymouth is a d----d expensive place." sandsfoot castle, built by henry viii., on the southern shore of the spit of land called the nothe, weymouth bay, is now a mere pile of corroded stone. it was built as a fort when england feared an invasion prompted by the pope. the old pile plays a prominent part in hardy's _the well-beloved_. the statue of king george, which is such an object of ridicule to the writers of guide-books, was the meeting-place of fancy day and dick dewy in _under the greenwood tree_. the "budmouth" localities mentioned in _the trumpet major_ are: the quay; theatre royal; barracks; gloucester lodge; and the old rooms inn in love row, once a highly fashionable resort which was used for dances and other entertainments by the ladies and gentlemen who formed the court of george iii. it was also the spot where the battle of trafalgar was discussed in _the dynasts_. however, the old assembly rooms and the theatre have now vanished. mention of hardy's tremendous drama reminds me that it is rarely quoted in topographical works on dorset, and yet it is full of the spirit and atmosphere of wessex. thus in a few words he tells us what "boney" seemed like to the rustics of dorset: "woman (_in undertones_). i can tell you a word or two on't. it is about his victuals. they say that he lives upon human flesh, and has rashers o' baby every morning for breakfast--for all the world like the cernel giant in old ancient times! "second old man. i only believe half. and i only own--such is my challengeful character--that perhaps he do eat pagan infants when he's in the desert. but not christian ones at home. oh no--'tis too much! "woman. whether or no, i sometimes--god forgi'e me!--laugh wi' horror at the queerness o't, till i am that weak i can hardly go round house. he should have the washing of 'em a few times; i warrent 'a wouldn't want to eat babies any more!" there are a hundred clean-cut, bright things in _the dynasts_, and some of the songs are so cunningly fashioned that we know the author must surely have overheard them so often that they have become part of his life. does the reader remember this from the first volume?-- "in the wild october night-time, when the wind raved round the land, and the back-sea met the front-sea, and our doors were blocked with sand, and we heard the drub of dead-man's bay, where bones of thousands are, we knew not what the day had done for us at trafalgar. (_all_) had done, had done for us at trafalgar!" or the other ballad sung by a peninsular sergeant-- "when we lay where budmouth beach is, oh, the girls were fresh as peaches, with their tall and tossing figures and their eyes of blue and brown! and our hearts would ache with longing as we passed from our sing-songing, with a smart _clink! clink!_ up the esplanade and down." the principal attraction of weymouth is its magnificent bay, which has caused the town to be depicted on the railway posters as the "naples of england"; but mr harper, in his charming book, _the hardy country_, cruelly remarks that no one has yet found naples returning the compliment and calling itself the "weymouth of italy." but there is no need for weymouth to powder and paint herself with fanciful attractions, for her old-world glamour is full of enchantment. the pure georgian houses on the esplanade, with their fine bow windows and red-tiled roofs, are very warm and homely, and remind one of the glories of the coaching days. they are guiltless of taste or elaboration, it is true, but they have an honest savour about them which is redolent of william cobbett, pig-skin saddles, real ale and baked apples. and those are some of the realest things in the world. there is a distinct "atmosphere" about the shops near the harbour too. they shrink back from the footpath in a most timid way, and each year they seem to settle down an inch or so below the street-level, with the result that they are often entered by awkward steps. near the church of st mary is the market, which on fridays and tuesdays presents a scene of colour and activity. in the guildhall are several interesting relics, the old stocks and whipping-posts, a chest captured from the spanish armada and a chair from the old house of the dominican friars which was long ago demolished. preston, three miles north-east of weymouth, is a prettily situated village on the main road to wareham, with interesting old thatched cottages and a fifteenth-century church containing an ancient font, a norman door, holy-water stoups and squint. at the foot of the hill a little one-arched bridge over the stream was once regarded as roman masonry, but the experts now think it is early norman work. adjoining preston is the still prettier village of sutton poyntz, hemmed in by the downs, on the side of which, in a conspicuous position, is the famous figure, cut in the turf, of king george iii. on horseback. he looks very impressive, with his cocked hat and marshal's baton. sutton poyntz is the principal locale of hardy's story of _the trumpet major_. the tale is of a sweet girl, anne garland, and two brothers loveday, who loved her; the "gally-bagger" sailor, robert, who won her, and john, the easy-going, gentle soldier, who lost her. _the trumpet major_ is a mellow, loamy novel, and the essence of a century of sunshine has found its way into the pages. even the pensiveness of the story--the sadness of love unsatisfied--is mellow. the village to-day, with its tree-shaded stream, crooked old barns and stone cottages, recalls the spirit of the novel with overcombe mill as a central theme. how vividly the pilgrim can recall the mill, with its pleasant rooms, old-world garden, and the stream where the cavalry soldiers came down to water their horses! it was a dearly loved corner of england for john loveday, and if to keep those meadows safe and fair a life was required, he was perfectly willing to pay the price--nay, more, he was proud and glad to do so. in the end john was killed in one of the battles of the peninsular war, and his spirit is echoed by a soldier poet who went to his death in : "mayhap i shall not walk again down dorset way, down devon way. nor pick a posy in a lane down somerset and sussex way. but though my bones, unshriven, rot in some far-distant alien spot, what soul i have shall rest from care to know that meadows still are fair down dorset way, down devon way." the mill is not the one sketched in the tale, but it still grinds corn, and one can still see "the smooth mill-pond, over-full, and intruding into the hedge and into the road." the real mill is actually at upwey. bincombe, two miles north-east of upwey, is one of the "outstep placen," where the remnants of dialect spoken in the days of wessex kings is not quite dead, and as we go in and out among the old cottages we come upon many a word which has now been classed by annotators as "obsolete." "i'd as lief be wooed of a snail," says rosalind in _as you like it_ of the tardy orlando, and "i'd as lief" or "i'd liefer" is still heard here in bincombe. there is a large survival of pure saxon in the wessex speech, and thomas hardy has made a brave attempt to preserve the old local words in his novels. he has always deplored the fact that schools were driving out the racy saxon words of the west country, and once remarked to a friend: "i have no sympathy with the criticism which would treat english as a dead language--a thing crystallised at an arbitrarily selected stage of its existence, and bidden to forget that it has a past and deny that it has a future. purism, whether in grammar or vocabulary, almost always means ignorance. language was made before grammar, not grammar before language. and as for the people who make it their business to insist on the utmost possible impoverishment of our english vocabulary, they seem to me to ignore the lessons of history, science, and common sense. "it has often seemed to me a pity, from many points of view--and from the point of view of language among the rest--that winchester did not remain, as it once was, the royal, political, and social capital of england, leaving london to be the commercial capital. the relation between them might have been something like that between paris and marseilles or havre; and perhaps, in that case, neither of them would have been so monstrously overgrown as london is to-day. we should then have had a metropolis free from the fogs of the thames valley; situated, not on clammy clay, but on chalk hills, the best soil in the world for habitation; and we might have preserved in our literary language a larger proportion of the racy saxon of the west country. don't you think there is something in this?" returning from bincombe and passing through sutton to preston we come in a mile to osmington. a short distance beyond the village a narrow road leads off seawards to osmington mills. crossing the hills, this narrower road descends to the coast and the picnic inn--a small hostelry noted for "lobster lunches" and "prawn teas." if we strike inland from osmington we come to poxwell, the old manor-house of the hennings, a curiously walled-in building with a very interesting gate-house. this is the oxwell manor of _the trumpet major_ and the house of benjamin derriman--"a wizened old gentleman, in a coat the colour of his farmyard, breeches of the same hue, unbuttoned at the knees, revealing a bit of leg above his stocking and a dazzlingly white shirt-frill to compensate for this untidiness below. the edge of his skull round his eye-sockets was visible through the skin, and he walked with great apparent difficulty." pressing onward from this village, we arrive, after a two-mile walk, at "warm'ell cross," three miles south-west of moreton station. the left road leads to dorchester, the right one to wareham, and the centre one across the immemorially ancient and changeless "egdon heath." here we turn to the right and owermoigne, the "nether mynton" in which the events of _the distracted preacher_ take place. here indeed is a nook which seems to be a survival from another century; a patch of england of a hundred years ago set down in the england of to-day. the church where lizzie newberry and her smugglers stored "the stuff" is hidden from those who pass on the highroad and is reached by a little rutty, crooked lane. the body of the church has been rebuilt, but the tower where the smugglers looked down upon the coastguard officers searching for their casks of brandy remains the same. the highway leads for two miles along the verge of egdon heath, and then we come to a right-hand turning taking us past winfrith newburgh and over the crest of the chalk downs steeply down to west lulworth. lulworth cove is justly considered one of the most delightful and picturesque retreats on the coast. it is a circular little basin enclosed by towering cliffs of chalk and sand and entered by a narrow opening between two bluffs of portland stone. it exhibits a section of all the beds between the chalk and oolite, and owes its peculiar form to the unequal resistance of these strata to the action of the sea. the perpetually moving water, having once pierced the cliff of stone, soon worked its way deeply into the softer sand and chalk. lulworth is the "lullstead cove" of the hardy novels. here sergeant troy was supposed to have been drowned; it is one of the landing-places chosen by the distracted preacher's parishioners during their smuggling exploits, and in _desperate remedies_ it is the first meeting-place of cynthera graye and edward springrove. the cove is most conveniently reached from swanage by steamer. by rail the journey is made to wool and thence by bus for five miles southward. by road the short way is by church knowle, steeple, tyneham and east lulworth--but the hills are rather teasing; however, the views are wonderful. it is nine miles if one takes the wareham road from corfe as far as stoborough, there turning to the left for east holme, west holme and east lulworth. the entrance to the cove from the channel is a narrow opening in the cliff, which here rises straight from the sea. mounted on a summit on the eastern side of the breach is a coastguard's look-out, while in a hollow on the other side are the remains of little bindon abbey. the cove is an almost perfect circle, and in summer the tide, as it flows in, fills the white cove with a shimmering sheet of light blue water. each wave breaks the surface into a huge circle, and the effect from the heights is a succession of wonderful sparkling rings vanishing into the yellow sands. to the east rise the ridges of bindon hill and the grey heights of portland stone that terminate seaward in the _mupe rocks_, then the towering mass of _ring's hill_, crowned by the large oblong entrenchment known as flower's barrow, which has probably been both a british and a roman camp. in the summer steamers call daily at the cove. the landing is effected by means of boats or long gangways. after having climbed the hill roads into lulworth, the pilgrim will not, i am certain, look with any delight upon a return to them, and will welcome an alternative trip to swanage, weymouth or bournemouth by an excursion steamer. [illustration: corfe castle from a photograph taken in the old-time shepherd stands in the foreground with his dog--a shaggy ruffian of a now fast-disappearing breed] portisham, under the bold, furzy hills that rise to the commanding height of blackdown, appears in _the trumpet major_ as the village to which bob loveday (who was spasmodically in love with anne garland) comes to attach himself to admiral hardy for service in the royal navy. notwithstanding the fact that robert loveday is merely an imaginary character, the admiral was a renowned hero in real life, and no less a personage than admiral sir thomas hardy. he lived here, in a picturesque old house just outside the village, and the chimney-like tower on black down was erected to his memory. in a garden on the opposite side of the road to hardy's house is a sundial, inscribed: joseph hardy, esq. kingston russell, lat. ° ' fugio fuge admiral hardy was born at kingston russell, and his old home at portisham is still in the possession of a descendant on the female side. from portisham a walk of four miles leads to abbotsbury, situated at the verge of the vale of wadden and the chesil beach. the railway station is about ten minutes' walk from the ancient village, which consists of a few houses picturesquely dotted around the church and scattered ruins of the abbey of st peter. the abbey was originally founded in king knut's reign by arius, the "house-carl," or steward, to the king, about , in the reign of edward the confessor. the building at the south-east corner of the church is part of the old abbey. it is now used as a carpenter's shop, but an old stoup can be seen in the corner. at the farther end of this building is a cell in which the last abbot is said to have been starved to death. a gate-house porch and a buttressed granary of fourteenth-century architecture, still used as a barn, and a pond, with a tree-covered island, the ancient fish-pond of the monks, are all that remain to remind us of the historic past of this spot. chapter ix poole the wide expanse of poole harbour is a well-known haunt of sportsmen, for in the winter it is the home of innumerable wild-fowl, and for those who are fond of yachting and pottering about with boats it is large enough to test their skill and patience in controlling a craft in the wind and wave. here we get a double tide, the second rising rather higher than the first, and when the tide is in the view is not unlike a dutch landscape. but the ebb lays bare acres of mud-banks, which mar the prospect. however, the marine emanations from the mud-banks are said to be very salubrious. this harbour is the only haven between southampton and weymouth for yachting men. inland from poole the country is pleasantly varied by hills and heaths, through which, on the west side of the harbour, the verge of bournemouth is reached, and an hour's walk will take the pilgrim over the hampshire boundary. poole quay, where we smell the smell of tar, piled-up teak and reeking pine, is an interesting place for lovers of the picturesque. here we find an old postern gate of richard iii.'s day, and the town cellar or wool house. the last recalls the days when poole was part of the manor of canford. the lords of canford sometimes received toll in kind, and the goods handed over were stored in this "town cellar." it is particularly interesting for the way its walls are formed, of flint and large, squared pieces of stone. the smuggling for which poole was long notorious is handed down to posterity by the following doggerel:-- "if poole was a fish-pool, and the men of poole fish, there'd be a pool for the devil, and fish for his dish." one of the most daring and successful of english buccaneers was _harry page_ of poole, or, as he was more commonly called, _arripay_. his enterprises were principally directed against the coasts of france and spain, where he committed such havoc that a formidable expedition was fitted out in those countries to destroy him. it sailed along our southern shores, destroying as opportunity offered, until it reached poole. here it landed, and a battle ensued, in which the inhabitants were driven from the town and the brother of arripay killed. the island of _brownsea_ or _branksea_ (it has a score of other variations) is the most prominent feature in poole harbour. it is ovoid in shape, about one and a half miles long by one mile broad, and lies just within the narrow harbour entrance, the main channel sweeping round its eastern side. this made the island of considerable importance in the defence of the port, and led to the erection of _brownsea castle_ towards the end of the reign of henry viii. prior to this brownsea had been part of the possessions of the abbey of cerne. the castle was almost wholly destroyed by fire in , and in the following year rebuilt. from poole the pilgrim can cross by the toll-bridge to hamworth and visit lytchett minster, which is two miles north-west of the lonely railway junction. part of the action of _the hand of ethelberta_ takes place in this neighbourhood. the sign of one of the village inns, "st peter's finger," is one of the most interesting features of lytchett minster. the sign shows st peter holding up a hand with two extended fingers, and is a curious instance of the way in which old terms and traditions are exposed to corruption. sir b. windle explains the matter tersely and clearly: "august the st, lammas day, known in the calendar of the catholic church as st peter ad vincula, was one of the days on which prædial service had to be done for the lord of certain manors, as a condition of tenure by the occupants. such lands were called st peter-ad-vincula lands, a term which easily got corrupted into st peter's finger." a brief description of poole--under the wessex name of "havenpool"--is given in hardy's "to please his wife," one of the short stories of _life's little ironies_. it is the story of captain shadrack jolliff, who gave up the sea and settled down in his native town as a grocer, marrying joanna phippard. they had two sons, but the captain did not make much progress in business and his wife persuaded him to go to sea again, as they were in need of money. he bought a small vessel and went into the newfoundland trade, returning home with his makings, which were deemed insufficient by his wife. accordingly he resolved to make another voyage, and take his sons with him so that his profits might be more considerable. from this voyage they never returned, and joanna was left penniless. she spent the rest of her life expecting the return of her husband and sons. it is evident that hardy chose the name of jolliff from his counterpart in real life, an honest, deep-hearted son of poole, peter jolliff by name, master of the _sea adventurer_. off swanage, in , with only the aid of a small boy, he captured a french privateer and made its crew prisoners of war. he secured royal recognition for this bold act and received a gold chain and medal from the hands of the king. to the pilgrim who seeks things of antique beauty and interest on foot, with staff and wallet, in the old way, i cannot recommend a more enjoyable route than along the coast from poole to lyme, which may be covered in a week. but to do the thing comfortably ten days would be more advisable. here is the itinerary if a week is taken. first day, borders of poole harbour by studland to swanage; second day, swanage to west lulworth; the third, lulworth by osmington to weymouth; the fourth, weymouth and portland; the fifth, weymouth by abbotsbury to bridport; and the sixth, bridport to lyme. should the walker allow himself a few extra days he might give an extra day to purbeck, to visit corfe castle, pay a visit to dorchester, and to give himself two days between weymouth and bridport, halting midway at abbotsbury. chapter x swanage and corfe castle swanage is a well-known seaside resort, rapidly growing in favour. it nestles in the farther corner of a lovely little bay, and though in the rapid extension of rows of newly arisen houses, consequent upon the development of its fame as a watering-place, much of its old-time, half-sleepy, half-commercial aspect has passed away, kingsley's still remains the best description of this spot--"well worth seeing, and when once seen not easily to be forgotten. a little semicircular bay, its northern horn formed by high cliffs of white chalk (_ballard head_), ending in white, isolated stacks and peaks (_the pinnacles_, _old harry and his wife_, etc.), round whose feet the blue sea ripples for ever. in the centre of the bay the softer wealden beds have been worn away, forming an amphitheatre of low sand and clay cliffs. the southern horn (_peveril point_) is formed by the dark limestone beds of the purbeck marble. a quaint, old-world village slopes down to the water over green downs, quarried, like some gigantic rabbit-burrow, with the stone workings of seven hundred years. land-locked from every breeze, huge elms flourish on the dry sea beach, and the gayest and tenderest garden flowers bask under the hot stone walls." tilly whim is one of the attractions here. a short walk by peveril point, durlston bay and durlston head leads to tilly whim, which is on the eastern side of oddly named _anvil cove_, and is the first of a series of cliff quarries opened in the portland-purbeck beds along the coast. the cliff has been tunnelled into a series of gigantic chambers, supported by huge pillars of the living rock and opening on a platform in the face of the precipice, beneath which the waters roar and rage almost unceasingly. the boldness of the headland, the sombre greys of the rocks, the rude, massive columns which support the roof of the huge cavity, the restless sea--all are elements that heighten the scenic effect of a spot almost unique of its kind. tilly whim has been compared to a "huge rock temple"--like those of india. thomas hardy has left us another interesting description of the swanage of bygone days: "knollsea was a seaside village, lying snugly within two headlands, as between a finger and thumb. everybody in the parish who was not a boatman was a quarrier, unless he were the gentleman who owned half the property and had been a quarryman, or the other gentleman who owned the other half and had been to sea." at the time this was written the steamers were moored to a "row of rotten piles," but these have long passed away and their place has been taken by a substantial pier. but, let there be what changes there may, there will always be quarries in the town; it is one of those primeval vocations which remain unchanged and unchangeable in the midst of our changing civilisation. the quarry folk were an exceptionally reserved and isolated people, and the way their occupation has worked in the creation of a peculiar race is, while not at all surprising, yet very remarkable. the quarries have afforded a singular and most interesting instance of the survival, in full working order, of a mediæval trades guild of a somewhat primitive type, and even in these days no stranger is permitted to share in their rights and privileges. [illustration: the famous tillywhim caves the mine-like entrance, from a photograph taken in ] the right to become a quarryman is inherited from one family to another, and the admission into the guild is an important ceremony: "the quarries and merchants have from time immemorial formed a sort of guild or company, whose rules are still enforced, affecting not only the prices of work, but determining the whole social position and character of the people. the society calls itself 'the company of the marblers and stone-cutters of the isle of purbeck,' and its meetings are held annually on shrove tuesday in the townhall of corfe castle. here they choose wardens and stewards, settle bye-laws and other business, and determine any difference between members in relation to the trade, or punish any infractions of their regulations. at these meetings the apprentices, who can only be sons of quarrymen, are, when they have attained the age of twenty-one, made free members of this community, on presenting themselves in 'court' with a fee of six shillings and eightpence, a penny loaf in one hand and a pot of beer in the other. another portion of the business consists in a visit to the old wharf at owre, and there renewing their ancient custom of presenting a pound of pepper to the landlord of the little inn there, receiving a cake from him, and having a game of foot-ball, which, in connection with this commemoration of the ancient acknowledgment for rent or use of wharfage, is called the 'pepper ball.' seven years after taking up their freedom freemen may take apprentices. the widow of a freeman may take up her freedom on payment of one shilling, and then employ apprentices and carry on business. at the annual meeting the sons of freemen are registered, and are not allowed to work at any department of the business unless duly registered." the great majority of the old quarry-owners were members of a dozen families only, there being just a score of bowers; collinses, harrises, haysomes, normans, phippards and tomeses averaging half-a-dozen each; with coopers, corbens, landers, stricklands and bonfields not far behind. new-comers were much disliked by the quarrymen, and the custom of "marrying the land" was observed in former days and, for aught i know, may be observed now. however, we do know that "foreigners" were not allowed to hold land in the isle of portland a hundred years ago, and the inhabitants, who claimed to be true descendants of the phoenicians who traded with cornwall and devonshire for tin, kept themselves a distinct people. in "marrying the land" the contracting parties met at church, and joining hands the one who handed over the property simply said: "i, uncle tom" (the surname was never used by the quarry folk), "give to thee, cousin antony, such-and-such land." the clergyman then placed his hands over the others, and the contract was concluded. as i have said, the old-world village of swanage has altered much, and has become a town, and since the opening of the branch railway from wareham in the latter end of the eighties of the nineteenth century the ancient customs and characters of those unhurried, simpler, happier days have been swept away. the calming quietude of the quaint old stone houses is now disturbed by ugly, modern erections of red brick. but the quaint cottages, solid in great stone slabs and stone tiles, still breathe the true artlessness of the quarry folk. they are an instance of provident care and sound workmanship defying the neglect of a hundred successive tenants. the high street of old swanage, which rises uphill from the ship hotel towards the church, traversing the centre of the town from east to west, seems saturated with human influence and has a flavour all its own. half-way up the street on the right is the town hall, with an ornate façade which once formed part of the mercers' hall in london, designed by sir christopher wren. a few yards down the side-turning by the hall can be seen, on the left, an even greater curiosity, the old lock-up, of stone, "erected," as an inscription records, "for the prevention of wickedness and vice by friends of religion and good order, a.d. ." on the left is purbeck house, a low, private residence, built by a "local mæcenas," the late mr burt, the contractor, in . the fish vane, of burnished copper, formerly adorned billingsgate market, and the wall fronting the street is faced with granite chips from the albert memorial, hyde park. when we reach the highest point of the main street the hill pitches down to the right, and we look upon a prospect of the town with a character of its own, not unworthy of observation, in which the sturdy, square-towered church is a striking feature. to the left is a mill-pond, which begins to wear the airs of history and reflects in the unruffled lustre of its waters the inverted images of some very quaint houses built of grey stone and almost entirely overspread with fungi and moss. the lower walls of stone are black and polished with the leaning of innumerable shoulders, and the steps of the external stone stairways are worn into gullies by the tread of generations. the extraordinary "yards" and byways are also worthy of attention. a few downward steps will bring the pilgrim to st mary's church, which was rebuilt in . the parish registers date back to , and the tower is thought to be saxon. at this church ethelberta petherwin, in _the hand of ethelberta_, is secretly married to lord mountclere, and her father and brother arrive too late to interfere with the ceremony. a walk along the herston road brings us to newton manor, one of the old dorset manor-houses. the only relics of the ancient building are an elizabethan stone fireplace in the kitchen and the barn of the old homestead, with an open timber roof, which has been converted into a dining-hall. in the latter is a fine carved stone chimneypiece brought from a florentine palace. a favourite excursion from swanage is a trip to studland. any native will direct the pilgrim to the footpath way to the "rest and be thankful" seat at the top of ballard down, where one can take a well-beaten track to the entrance of the village. at the remains of an old cross bear to the right and follow a picturesque "water lane" to the shore. studland is one of the most charming villages in england, and the church is one of the most notable in dorset. it is an admirable example of intact norman work, and its chief details are perfect--including a quaint corbel table in the nave, font, and moulded arches with carved capitals. the celebrated agglestone is about a mile away on studland common. it is a huge fragment of the iron-cemented sandstone of the locality, raised on a mound above the heath. it has been regarded as a druidical memorial, but though that idea may now be considered exploded, associations still attach to it, since we are told "the name agglestone (saxon, _halig-stan_=holy stone) certainly seems to show that it was erected for some superstitious purpose." the country people call it the _devil's nightcap_, and there is a tradition that his satanic majesty threw it from the isle of wight, with an intent to demolish corfe castle, but that it dropped short here! how it comes to be poised here has puzzled the archæologist, but it has been explained as being simply a block that has been insulated by process of nature, the result of its protecting from the rigours of wind and rain the little eminence which it caps. corfe is six miles by road from swanage by way of langton matravers, a village of sombre stone houses, which is occupied by workers in the neighbouring stone quarries. the place-name "matravers" is identified with the family of maltravers, one of whom was the unworthy instrument employed by mortimer and queen isabella in the murder of edward ii. this member of the family having turned out to be such a particularly "bad travers," his descendants sought to hide their evil reputation by dropping the "l" out of their name. [illustration: corfe castle from a photograph taken in , showing the old greyhound inn, with projecting porch and a capacious room poised above it. the picturesqueness and solid comfort of this inn, built three hundred years ago, remains unimpaired to this day] the "old malt house," which is now a school, is a fine specimen of the old-time stone building, and one can still trace bricked-in windows, where the sacks were hoisted in to the malt floors. passing gallow's gore cottages we come to kingston, which is two miles from corfe castle, and is pleasantly situated on an eminence which commands a good view of the surrounding country. encombe, the seat of the eldons, is about two miles to the south-west and is the enckworth court (lychworth court in early editions) of _the hand of ethelberta_. the house lies deep down in the beautiful valley of encombe, which opens out to the sea, with fine views in almost every direction. this valley is known as the golden bowl, by reason of the fertility of the soil. a short distance from kingston may be seen the remains of the old manor-house of scowles. * * * * * on the morrow, when i stepped out under the famous porch chamber of the greyhound hotel, corfe wore her bright morning smile. the air was soft, warm and redolent with the scent of good blue wood smoke. corfe is one of the pleasantest villages in dorset and has a wonderfully soothing effect upon the visitor. i should recommend this old-world retreat for those who are weary of the traffic and frenzy of the city market-place. the prevailing colour of the old houses makes the place ever cool-looking and lends the village an air of extreme restfulness. from the humblest cottage to the town house opposite the village cross the buildings are of weather-beaten stone, and are a delicate symphony in the colour grey, the proportions also being exactly satisfying to the eye. stone slabs of immense size form the roofs themselves. look at the roof of the greyhound inn! when these roof stones were put down the builder did not put them there for his own day, selfishly, but for posterity. this, as hilaire belloc would say, is a benediction of a roof, a roof that physically shelters and spiritually sustains, a roof majestic, a roof eternal. a walk through the town will reveal tudor windows, quaint doorways and several eighteenth-century porches, of which that at the greyhound is the best example. the market-place, with the bankes arms hotel at one end, the greyhound backing on to the castle and the castle and hills peering over the roof tops of the town, gives one a mingled pleasure of reminiscence and discovery. standing back a little from the swanage road is the small elizabethan manor-house of dackhams or dacombs, now called morton house, and one of the best manor-houses in the country. the ground plan forms the letter e, and it has a perfect little paved courtyard full of flowers. corfe church was rebuilt in , but it preserves some historic continuity in its tower, which dates from the end of the fourteenth century. the churchwardens' chest in the porch was made in the year , and hy paulett, who made it, was paid the magnificent sum of eight shillings. and did hy paulett go often to the greyhound and allay his thirst in the making of it? a man would require good ale to make such a "brave good" chest as this. and can they make such chests in these days? lord knows!... anyhow, there is something in such a piece of work which appeals to me--something which seems to satisfy the memories in my blood. the clock dates from . curfew is tolled in corfe daily, from october to march, at a.m. and p.m. hutchins, writing at the end of the eighteenth century, tells us that the people of corfe were of an indolent disposition, and goes on to say that "the appearance of misery in the town is only too striking." perhaps they "mumped" around and watched hy paulett work laboriously on the church chest and became downcast when he only received eight shillings for it. however, the morality of corfe should have been high, for the churchwardens appear to have been very exacting in the matter of sabbath observance. in the quaint old church records, which date from , are many interesting references to the offenders in this respect: " . we do present william smith for suffering two small boys to have drink upon the sabbath day during divine service. _item._ we do present john rawles for being drunk on the sabbath day during the time of divine service. _item._ we present the miller of west mill for grinding on the sabbath day. _item._ we do present john pushman anthony vye and james turner for playing in the churchyard upon the sabbath day. . we do present william rawles for sending his man to drive upon the sabbath day. _item._ we do present james turner and george gover for being drinky on the sabbath day during the time of divine service." the reader will note that the churchwardens at corfe were blessed with a very keen sense of moral acumen and split hairs over the degrees of inebriation. they found it intolerable to write a man down as intoxicated who had "half-a-pint otherwhile," so they merely entered him in their records as "drinky"; while, on the other hand, the man who was vulgarly concerned in liquor was described as a plain "drunk." according to an old rhyme the man who killed a fox was a great benefactor and was considered as rendering a service a hundred and sixty times more important than the man who killed a rook. "a half-penny for a rook, a penny for a jay; a noble for a fox, and twelve pence for a grey." but a noble has not always been the reward of the wily rustic who could entrap reynard, and the churchwardens of corfe were certainly a little niggardly in their disbursements: s. d. " paid richard turner for a pole-cat paid for three fox heads, s. each margaret white, son, for a hedge-hog head paid for one dozen sparrow heads june nd-- it was then agreed by the parishioners of corfe castle met in the parish church that no money be paid for the heads of any vermin by the church wardens unless the said heads be brought into the church yard within one week after they are killed and exposed to public view." by the last entry it will be seen that the parishioners of corfe were determined to get their money's worth, and the old churchyard must at times have contained quite a large collection of fur and feather. speaking of rewards for the extermination of the fox, i am reminded of an entry in the holne churchwardens' accounts for which has a tinge of sly humour about it. four shillings and two pence is paid for "running a fox to okehampton." we can imagine the good churchwardens of holne rubbing their hands and congratulating themselves on having got rid of reynard, or speculating over future raids on domestic fowls in the okehampton district. but the churchwardens were not too hopeful; they were a little doubtful. as "dead men rise up never," so a dead fox would not come prowling home again. so they talked the matter over and decided that half the customary noble would be a fitting remuneration to the hunter away of the fox. i cannot leave corfe without saying a few words in praise of the greyhound inn. here the beams of the roof are black oak and squared enormously, like the timbers of a mighty ship, and some of the odd, low doorways remind one of the hatchways in a vessel. visitors have so often knocked their heads against the low doors that it has been necessary to paint in large letters above several of them, "mind your head." in the little smoke-room at the back one might fancy himself on board a ship in strange seas--especially does one experience this sensation in the evening before the candles are carried in. if it is wintertime the impression is more intense--the wind howls and worries at the window and the sky is swept clean in one broad, even stretch; then one may call for a pint of romsey ale, fill the pipe and enjoy the lonely kingdom of the man at the helm of a great vessel. when morning comes this same little room is bright and cheerful. the window looks out on a narrow courtyard paved with mighty stones, and corfe castle, which thrusts itself into every view of the town, fills the background. in the winter the rustics sit about the board in this room, but they do not come there in summer, being shy of visitors. the labourers seldom wear the smocks, made of russian duck, which their fore-elders were so inclined to favour. these smocks were much more stout than people would imagine, and the texture was so closely woven and waterproof that no rain could run through it. * * * * * four miles of a good, comfortable road running through a breezy heathland brings the pilgrim from corfe to wareham. on these heaths large quantities of white clay are dug up and run in truckloads to fill vessels in poole harbour. this clay is used for making pipes and in the manufacture of china. the clay pits are a very ancient and uninterrupted industry, and they have been worked continuously since the romans discovered them. the spade of the dorsetshire labourer still occasionally turns up fragments of roman pottery made from this identical clay. when stoborough, now a mere village, once an antique borough, is reached we come within sight of wareham, which is entered across a long causeway over the frome marshes. more life can be seen in an hour here by the frome than in a whole long day upon the hills. i have noticed how the birds that fly inland, high above me, will follow the river as a blind man feels his way, by natural impulse. over the water-meadows the peewits are twisting in eccentric circles, and everywhere in the reeds the little grey-brown, bright-eyed sedge-warblers are flitting about. it seems almost incredible that such a small bird as the sedge-warbler can produce such a torrent of sound. for a right merry, swaggering song, which, without being very musical, is indeed exhilarating, commend me to the sedge-warbler. he sings all the day long, and often far into the night, and even if he wakes up for a few seconds when he has once settled down to sleep he always obliges with a few lively chirrups. the ancient town of wareham has been alluded to somewhat contemptuously by several writers as "slumberous" and dull. perhaps it is, although it is brighter in appearance than some towns near london that i know. at all events its stormy youth--in the days when london itself was but a "blinking little town"--has entitled it to a peaceful old age. all the scourges against which we pray--plague, pestilence, famine, battle, murder and sudden death--have been endured with great strength of mind and calmness by the people of the town. sir frederick treves tells us that its history is one long, lurid account of disaster, so that it would need a jeremiah to tell of all its lamentations. however, an indomitable temper and a readiness to believe that to-morrow will be brighter than to-day is the prevailing spirit of her people, and the town has an incredible hold upon life and the grassy ramparts which almost encircle it. the ramparts, or town walls, are ten centuries old, and form three sides of an irregular square, and enclose, together with the frome, an area of a hundred acres. before the silting up of poole harbour the sea came nearer to its walls than it does now and the river was much wider. we learn from ancient records that a great swamp stretched seawards from the foot of the ridge. that wareham was a port of a kind is probable enough, for it furnished edward iii. with three ships and fifty-nine men at the siege of calais. as far back as one can follow the ancient records of the town a good number of ships called here, and when one comes out on the ample quay it is clearly seen that this place has once been a lively and animated wharf, resounding to the clatter of sea-boots and the songs of the chanty men. the waterside taverns and huge storehouses on the boat-station speak of the brave days gone by, and i cannot imagine a more pleasant spot to linger in on a sunny day. the seats and tables outside the rising sun and new inn are very inviting, and when i passed this way it gave me peculiar pleasure to spend an hour here, looking broadly about me. as i looked across the quay to the grey bridge, meadows and beautiful fertile valley the odours and sounds of the country cropped up around me. the sun, laying a broad hand on the river, had smoothed all the eddies out and was sending it between the banks, not bubbling loud, but murmuring softly. yes, the river was very sleepy that day. however, the frome has its share of living interests. here one can see the heron as he stands upon the shallows waiting till an eel shall move in the mud. a melancholy-looking fellow he looks, too, as he stands, gaunt and still, brooding some new spell. anon a small bubble rising in the shallows, followed by a slight turbidness of the water around it, attracts the watcher. a swift step or so, a lightning flash of his sharp beak and he has secured his eel. one watches him rising with labouring wings in a direct upward flight, the eel writhing in fruitless efforts to escape. the summit of the town wall is used as a promenade, and one part of the west rampart, looking across the heath to the purbeck hills, is called the "bloody bank." here were executed, by order of judge jeffreys, some of monmouth's unfortunate adherents. their bodies were cut up and placed on the bridge, and their heads were nailed to a wooden tower in the town on the completion of the execution. here, too, peter of pomfret was hanged. he was a queer, cranky fellow and it appears that he was given to drawing horoscopes and meddling with secret and hidden things. he would have been quite free from any trouble had he not ventured to read in the scheme of the twelve houses of the zodiac the fortune of king john. he read, "under a position of heaven," that the king's reign would end on ascension day, rd may , and this prophecy reached the ears of the king, who had little faith in the sayings of peter. however, the king made up his mind that peter's reign should end on this date, and he passed the unfortunate prophet on to corfe castle, where, we may be certain, he was carefully looked after. the rd of may passed the same way as other long-lost may-days and pay-days have passed, but king john was still very lively and active, and to convince peter of pomfret that he was a poor soothsayer he ordered the fellow to be whipped at the back of a dung-cart from corfe to wareham, where a gallows had been erected to welcome him. at wareham peter was driven through the streets, followed by a crowd of yelling, bloodthirsty people, and then hanged from the bloody bank, with the heather-covered moor before his eyes and the sky full of birds twittering and flying above his head. the name wareham is saxon. wareham=wearth-ham--"the dwelling on the 'land between two waters'" (one of the meanings of _wearth_ or _worth_), a name descriptive in the fullest sense of the position of the town betwixt the frome and piddle. certainly the history and importance of wareham dates back to saxon days. however, on the strength of a stone built into the north aisle of st mary's church, which bears the inscription: "catug c ... (fi) lius gideo," this foundation has been presumed to be of the british period, a bishop bearing the name of cating having been sent from brittany in or about . it is concluded that this stone is the record of a consecration performed by him. beohrtric, king of wessex, is said to have been buried at wareham, and here for a time lay the body of edward the martyr. wareham was a favourite landing-place of the danes, and despite its vicissitudes was important enough to sustain two sieges in the wars of stephen and maud, to be twice taken and once burnt. wareham was once the chief port of poole harbour; but while poole flourished wareham decayed. unlike other dorset towns it stood by the cavaliers, but as the inhabitants were lacking in martial skill and a sufficient body of troops, the town was made a kind of shuttlecock by the contending parties. the last misfortune of the town was its almost total destruction by fire in . all things considered, it is little wonder, therefore, that in spite of its age wareham has so few antiquities. the castle has left but a name, the priory little more; but reconstruction has spared the most interesting feature of st mary's church--the chapel of st edward--which is said to indicate the temporary burial-place of edward the martyr, whose marble coffin is now to be seen near the font. if we follow the road from where the town is entered across the picturesque old bridge we pass the black bear, a spacious old inn, with an excellent effigy of bruin himself sitting grimly on the roof. the red lion is the inn mentioned by hardy in _the hand of ethelberta_. the queer ivy-covered little chapel of st martin, on the left side of the main street, at the top of the rise from the puddle, is visited by antiquaries from all the counties of england. it is one hundred and seventy years since regular services were held here. the roof beams are very ancient and still hold their own without any other aid. the interior is vault-like and eerie, and about the old place there hangs an atmosphere which has no affinity with the everyday world, but which reeks up from long-neglected tombs--a mystic vapour, sluggish and faintly discernible. an inscription on the north wall is to the memory of a surgeon, his wife and four children. the surgeon died in , at the age of eighty-one, from an "apoplectic fit." it is rather a puzzle why the doctor was buried in this church, for in no parson had officiated here for fifty years or more. the pilgrim will be interested in the _devil's door_, by the altar, a memory of early christian superstition. it was the custom to open this door when the church bells were rung, to allow the devil to flee. chapter xi my adventure with a merry rogue here with my beer i sit, while golden moments flit. alas! they pass unheeded by; and, as they fly, i, being dry, sit idly sipping here my beer. oh, finer far than fame or riches are the graceful smoke-wreaths of this cigar! why should i weep, wail, or sigh? what if luck has passed me by? what if my hopes are dead, my pleasures fled? have i not still my fill of right good cheer,-- cigars and beer? i like inns, and i like old ale, and all the old curious glasses, mugs and pewters which were so dear to our forefathers, and i begin this chapter in this way to forestall any possible charges of heresy that my narrative may call forth. i would almost go further, and say that my affection for such things is wholly a private matter concerning only myself, or, at least, no more than a few very intimate friends. that, i think, is how sentimentalism should be conducted. when it is managed otherwise, when it becomes a public thing, it becomes a public nuisance, besides being contemptible. but, as i have gone so far, i might as well go the length of admitting that i am addicted to the habit of collecting old drinking vessels, and i have allowed the disease to get the upper hand. i cannot pass a curio shop in which willow-pattern mugs, tapering glasses and "leather bottels" are displayed without a burning longing to possess them. i like to have these things about me, not merely as ornaments or to drink from, but for---- well, when i come to think of it, i cannot quite say; there is not sufficient reason. that is enough to brand me an incurable curio-hunter. curios and ancient drinking vessels are to me what the sea is to a sailor. it is a passion which has become interwoven with my blood and fibre, and i can never again wholly break loose from it. but all this is by the way; the point is, why do i commence this chapter by talking about such things? for the reason that in this chapter i am going to tell of a singular adventure in which a "black jack" loomed very solidly. it happened at morcombe lake. i will not write of this place. you must get it out of a guide-book, for the village is not a thing for fine words; it stirred me in no way. but it shall not be said that morcombe lake has not a small share of fame, for in this village is produced the famous dorset knob biscuit, without which no dorset table is really complete. mr moores, who "magics" butter, milk and sugar in his small bake-house and brings forth these golden-brown "knobs," informs me that his family has been busy sending them out in tins for over a hundred years. i had walked from bridport, passing through chideock, with its venerable-looking church beside the castle inn, and coming to morcombe, where there is a deep-eaved, comfortable, ramshackle, go-as-you-please kind of a little inn, i could hear somebody singing inside. it was a clear, mellow voice, and i listened to the cadences of the song with a thrill of pleasure. it was a humorous trio, and the lonely singer changed his voice for each verse with a largeness and confidence in his vocal powers that quite carried me away. indeed, it was a song which we all should know, which runs: "a little farm well tilled, a little barn well filled, a little wife well willed-- give me, give me. a larger farm well tilled, a bigger house well filled, a taller wife well willed-- give me, give me. i like the farm well tilled, and i like the house well filled, but no wife at all-- give me, give me." entering, i saw one of the kind of men god loves. he was of middle age, very honest and simple in the face, good-humoured and cheerful. he was sitting before a tall, leather black jack--one of the finest specimens of the old-fashioned leather jugs i have ever seen--quaffing his morning ale from it. he paused from his song and lifted his wide straw hat in a grandiloquent way. [illustration: the lonely singer] "good marning, sir! fine marning's marning! tez mortel 'ot ta-day," he said, in a mellow voice, and he looked up at me with large, china-blue eyes. i passed the time of day with him, but the fine leathern flagon had already claimed all my attention; i had no eyes for anything else at the moment. i dealt hotly with speculations over the ownership of the flagon. did it belong to the rustic or the innkeeper? did they know its value? this and a hundred other thoughts flashed through my mind. as i stood there i dwelt avariciously upon thought of possession. i said to myself: "i must have that flagon. i will buy. beg it. steal it, if necessary." the desire to possess it consumed my soul. "wantee plaize to take a seat? the cider here be a prime sort, i shuree!" said the rustic, breaking in upon my thoughts. he spoke very slowly and, as i have said, had a nice mellow voice, and he did what only honest men do--looked straight at me when he spoke. "surely," i said, and sat down beside him. "pray excuse me," i continued, waving my hand towards the leather jack, "but that is a remarkable old drinking vessel." "thickee there is the ownly wan i ever see like it," said he, holding it up and looking at it with admiration. "yes, sir, it be a brave good mug, and i have taken my cider and ale out of he for twenty year. it's just a fancy of mine to bring it along with me when i drink. i tellee that mug has been with my folk for two hundred years. parson says it is just a 'miracle' of an old thing." "aha!" said i to myself, "the parson is after it too." "they tell me," he said, "that it may be worth a pound or two. well, well! it is an old friend, and i should be loath to part with the cheel, but----" "but," i repeated eagerly. "but," he continued, "things have been cruel bad with me o' late, and i have thought, whatever is the good o' keeping it when like 'nuff we can sell it for a pound or so and buy the chillern a few clothes against the winter." "true, true!" i said, trying to keep my excitement undermost. "but you would only get a few shillings for it, i am afraid. such things have no market value." "no market value?" he answered. "well, i suppose i dunnow much 't-al-'bout-et!" he mused for a few moments. i narrowly watched him out of half-closed eyes--"oh, yes; i was playing the old grey wolf, sure enough"--and said, very carelessly: "i should hate drinking my ale out of a 'leather bottel.' they may look picturesque, but i am certain the beer would taste vile. i have no sympathy with the enthusiast who sang: "'and i wish in heaven his soul may dwell that first devised the leather bottel.' however, i would not mind giving you a few shillings for it." i happened to glance up as i said this. he sat there looking at me with a troubled expression in his blue eyes. he then said a number of things in broad dorset, and the "tellees" and "thickees" and "dallees" became unintelligible, but he meant that i could but be joking when i said "a few shillings." "well, i won't disturb your peace of mind any more," i said. "we will let the matter drop." then he stepped up close to me, put the black jack in my hand, and said, with an appealing note in his voice: "two hundred years in my family, maister. just say what you've a-mind to give me; only let it be a fair price. i would not be so anxious to sell it, but my rent is a bit behind, and i shall have to sleep with miss green----" "sleep with miss green?" i gasped, somewhat shocked. "sleep under the hedge, then," he continued, making the expression clear to me. "now, you see the fix i'm in, maister." then i was ashamed. deep shame covered me, and i had a great revulsion of feeling. how could i be so niggardly as to beat down this poor fellow's price? perhaps, after all, it was his only possession of any value at all. i turned the jack over in my hands. it was strong and black and very highly polished with age--and the curves and proportions of it were exactly satisfying to the eye that looked upon it. it was a benediction of a flagon.... i held it up, and said, "how much?" "aw! dally-buttons! take it for two pounds," he said, "you nidden begridge me that." and he added, in passing, that two pounds made it a kind of gift to me--just a token to signify it had changed hands: it was an act of pure charity on his part. "then," i said, "thirty shillings," and he waved his hand about genially, and remarked that it "twidden" be worth his while to stretch out his hand for such a paltry sum. so then i pulled out thirty shillings, and he pushed the flagon over to me and took the money. thus the bargain was struck. so this being settled, and i eager for a drink of ale, called the innkeeper, who was in another room. beer was brought and my friend insisted on paying for it. i asked him about his wife and children. but i could get very little from him, and that little in a low voice. i felt sorry for him, for i understood that parting with his flagon had rather upset him. he seemed as different as one could imagine from the singer i had seen when i entered. he told me that his was a very old family in this place, and his name was ralph copplestone. he also quoted the following adage to strengthen his statement:-- "crocker, cruwys and copplestone, when the conqueror came were all at home." before he left me, however, he had recovered his cheerfulness. he set off down the road, and as he passed he began singing: "dorset gives us butter and cheese, devonshire gives us cream, zummerzet zyder's zure to please and set your hearts a-dream; cornwall, from her inmost soul, brings tin for the use of man, and the four of 'em breed the prettiest girls-- so _damme_, beat that if you can!" finally his voice, still singing, died away in the distance. i sat before the flagon with a feeling of wonder, not unmixed with sadness. the fresh breeze dropped, and it seemed as if the little inn parlour grew dark and grey. he was a strange fellow! it was not till the next day, in the late afternoon, when the air was already full of the golden dust that comes before the fall of the evening, that i came down broad street into lyme regis. in passing, i was attracted by a little curiosity shop. the dusty window was full of all sorts of things--red-heeled slippers, old bits of brass, quaint, twisted candlesticks, blue enamel snuffboxes, jewellery--value and rubbish being mixed in confusion together. and there right in the fore-front was an exact counterpart of my black jack! it was truly an amazing coincidence! i looked into the doorway, and saw the owner of the shop, a very old gentleman. his face was a network of wrinkles, which time so pleasantly writes on some old faces that they possess a sweetness which even youth lacks. i made up my mind to seek information from him about the flagon. he was examining a piece of china with a magnifying-glass when i entered. "good evening--good evening!" he said, putting down the glass, and looking up at me with a smile. "what can i show you, sir?" the old man drew in his wrinkled lips expectingly. "the odd black jack in your window," i said boldly. the old man went to a corner of the window, and after much fumbling produced the black jack, which he set upon the counter. as i examined it he watched me in silence from beneath his penthouse brows. it was, indeed, a facsimile of the one i had purchased from the rustic. [illustration: the river buddle, lyme regis] "it is not really antique. it is a very clever imitation, not more than a few months old," came the old man's voice. he paused, the smile still lighting his face. "a genuine specimen like this one is not to be found anywhere--outside the museums." he lifted his arm with a peculiar gesture that seemed to take in the whole world. outwardly i remained calm, swinging my foot nonchalantly against the wooden panel of his counter. if i had burst out laughing that moment i cannot think what the old curio-dealer would have thought, but it was with difficulty that i restrained myself from doing so. little did he know that i had just picked up a genuine black jack for a mere song! then i told him, with gusto, my adventure with the rustic at the inn. suddenly he broke out: "what was his name?" "copplestone--ralph copplestone," i replied. "why, he's the very rogue that sold me this one," said the old man, shaking his simple head. "is that possible?" i said, and i jumped down from the counter where i had perched myself. the strangest sensation came over me. i thought of the honest, open face and the innocent blue eyes of my friend the tavern-haunter. the curio-dealer smiled quietly, sadly. "yes, he imposed upon me, too. he is a very clever rogue. a harness-maker by trade, and all his people before him for three hundred years have been of the same calling. so you see the secret of making a black jack has been handed down from father to son. it is one of the traditions of his family; a knowledge which is mingled with his blood and fibre, so to speak. such skill is older than five thousand years. he has the spirit of the artist--but the soul of the rogue." "why," i said, "then if he is a rogue, then i'm a rogue too, for i knew i was paying him a paltry sum for an article i thought to be worth ten pounds--perhaps twenty." so i laughed, and i've been laughing gloriously ever since--at myself, at the merry rogue in the inn, at the silly old hypocritical world. as i passed out of the dim old shop and walked down to the sea it came over me, with a sudden feeling of satisfaction in my soul, that the sun shone on ralph copplestone just as joyfully as it did on me, that the good god had endowed him with strong arms and a mighty voice for songs. "after all," i said to myself, "we are all rogues if we are only scratched deep enough." chapter xii the devon and dorset borderland "how far is it to babylon?" ah, far enough, my dear, far, far enough from here-- yet you have farther gone! "can i get there by candlelight?" so goes the old refrain. i do not know--perchance you might-- but only, children, hear it right, ah, never to return again! the eternal dawn, beyond a doubt, shall break on hill and plain, and put all stars and candles out, ere we be young again. "r. l. s." the irregular and old-fashioned little town of lyme regis--"so crooked's a ram's horn," as the native would say--is situated in a most romantic position at the foot of the hills, being built in the hollow and on the slopes of a deep combe, through which flows the small stream of the _lym_ to the sea. it is seated on a grand coast, which rises to the east in the blackest precipices and west in broken crags thickly mantled with wood. as a port it is most ancient, having furnished ships to edward iii. during his siege of calais. lyme, in its day, has seen a good many stirring events. in the reigns of henry iv. and v. it was twice plundered and burned by the french; and in that of richard ii. nearly swept from the earth by a violent gale. during the rebellion it successfully withstood a siege which was one of the most important of the time. in prince maurice invested it, established his headquarters at old colway and hay house, and his troops along the neighbouring hill. day after day the assault continued, more than once by storming parties; but the gallant governor, colonel ceeley, assisted by blake, afterwards so famous as an admiral, most courageously repulsed every attack, and after a siege of nearly seven weeks was relieved by the approach of the earl of essex. in the town was again enlivened by the bustle of arms, when, in the month of june, the duke of monmouth here landed, with about eighty companions, after running the gauntlet through a storm and a fleet of english cruisers in his passage from amsterdam. as he reached the sandy shore he fell upon his knees and uttered a thanksgiving for his preservation. he remained here four days, at the george inn, when, having collected about two thousand horse and foot, he set forward on his disastrous expedition. there can be no doubt that lyme regis has failed to prove itself anything like a popular watering-place; yet it has very good bathing, with neither currents nor hollows, and has the most picturesque front in dorset. the fine scenery should tempt the holiday-maker to suffer the somewhat enclosed situation, which makes the place very close during the hot summer days. it is in winter that lyme should be popular, for then it can boast a remarkably genial climate. the quaint old stone pier, called the cobb, is the real lion of lyme, and is the source of much satisfaction to the stout hearts of the town. the cobb, "the oldest arnshuntest bit o' stone-work in the land, a thousand years old--and good for another thousand, i tellee," as described to the present writer by a rustic, was probably first constructed in the reign of edward i. it has been frequently washed away, and restored at a great price, and was finally renewed and strengthened in - . it is a semicircular structure, of great strength, the thick outer wall rising high above the roadway, so as to protect it from the wind and sea. at lyme an inn received me: a room full of fishermen and agricultural workers, a smell of supper preparing, and much drinking of cider. it was the new inn, and i was told that this room was only the tap-room and not usually used by visitors. i found that one wing of the old building had been specially fitted for travellers, and i will gladly name it to all my readers who are satisfied with an old-fashioned comfort, a good bed and good fare. after supper i bought a packet of sailor's shag, and went out smoking into the chief street. a few steps took me to the cobb, and i leaned over the low wall and contemplated the glorious green sea, tumbling and gurgling below me. i always think that the union of mighty stone slabs and the sea is most satisfying to look upon--there is something endlessly good and noble about such a thing. i think a building of hewn stone when it dips into the water should act as a sedative to the mind, should teach one to become calm, slow and strong; to deal generously in rectitudes and essentials. it was late in august, and the mellow chimes of the parish church had just boomed eight o'clock. the great orange moon hung over the bay, and the night came creeping over the rich yellow sand which crowns the golden cap. then the cliffs merged into a fainter confusion. bats came out and flitted about the old houses by the buddle river, and the night became the natural haunt of restless spirits. a candle flickering behind a leaded casement brought back suddenly the memory of a home long passed away and whatever blessings belong to my childhood. and all of a sudden that inexplicable heart-hunger for the place of my birth gripped me, and youth (whatever youth may be), with its sights, its undefinable, insistent spell, came back to me in one flash--youth came to me from the old houses on the sea-wall, borne with the misty saltness of the sea air. go away; travel the length and breadth of the land, visit a hundred cities, encounter a hundred new experiences, and form a hundred conflicting impressions of stranger scenes and places; go where you will, and do what you will; one day you will have seen and done enough, and you will find your thoughts turned again to the haunts of youth. at the sight of those ruffianly looking old dwellings by the riverside my memory was carried back to another small seaport town where, long enough ago, i played at smuggling. are we not all haunted by certain landscapes which come back unbidden, not as topographical facts, but as vestures of the soul? their enchantment is in our blood, and their meaning uncommunicable. here, where one can smell the smell of venerable wooden fishing boats and tar, there is a suggestion of the good old smuggling days. there is a hint of rum, brass-bound sea-chests, trap-doors and deep mouldy cellars about the buddle river houses, and the people who inhabit them are of very settled habits, and the inconveniences to which they have been accustomed seem to them preferable to conveniences with which they are unfamiliar. to this day, therefore, they empty slops out of the windows, burn candles, wind up their pot-bellied watches with large keys, and attain ripe old age. this curious quarter of lyme regis was once a smugglers' retreat and a favourite spot for their operations. a stranger visiting the banks of the buddle could not fail to be struck with the curiously formed streets, alleys, and passages thereabouts, and if he secured the good offices of a native to pilot him through the mazes he would be still further astonished at their intricacy. the houses are connected in the most mysterious manner, whether from design or accident, or whether to meet the exigencies of the smuggling trade, and for the more readily disposing of the kegs of spirits, and bales of other excisable goods, it is impossible to say. the most reasonable conclusion to arrive at is that the latter was the case. the curious name of cobb has given rise to much discussion. murray's _handbook to dorset_ ( ) puts forward the theory that it is of british origin, and calls attention to a barrow-crowned knoll above warminster called _cop_head, and a long embankment on the race-course at chester, which protects it from the river dee, which has been known from time immemorial as the _cop_. the length of the cobb is feet, and height above the sea-level feet. it combines in one stone causeway the duties of breakwater, double promenade and quay. the projecting stone steps, which form one of the oldest parts of the wall, are known as granny's teeth, and are described by jane austen in _persuasion_. the beach to the west of the cobb is known as monmouth's beach. the duke landed about a hundred yards west of the wall. a local tradition states that when the late lord tennyson visited the town one of his friends was anxious to point out the spot where monmouth landed, but the great man impatiently exclaimed: "don't talk to me of monmouth, but show me the place where louisa musgrove fell!" the bridge arch in bridge street is considered to be of an age second only to that of the parish church, and is well worthy of inspection. the buddle bridge consists of one arch of large span, thought to have been built in the fourteenth century, when the bed of the _lym_, or _buddle_, was excavated to an extra depth of eight feet. an ancient pointed arch with dog-tooth moulding has recently been unearthed in the basement of a house abutting on the bridge. the arch is below the level of the roadway, and it no doubt formed part of a bridge of several arches built in the twelfth century. it rises from about two feet below the ground-floor cellar of this house. the arch has been seen by the rev. c. w. dicker, of the dorset field club, who sent to the editor of _the lyme regis mirror_ the following letter:-- dear sir,--i have just received a copy of last week's _mirror_, containing an account of the very interesting archway under bridge street, which i was kindly invited to inspect. as far as i can judge from the result of my one opportunity of examining it, the evidence points to the assumption that bridge street formerly crossed the buddle upon a bridge of several arches, constructed in the twelfth century, and that the archway in question was probably the third from west to east. the street at this point is (or was) obviously supported upon a masonry substructure, upon which the houses abut. the masonry of the newly found arch is typical of the middle of the twelfth century, at which time the manor was chiefly in the hands of roger of caen, bishop of sarum and abbot of sherborne, a great builder, much of whose work is still to be found in dorset. the archway clearly was built to support the roadway; and as its alignment is exactly that of the larger archway (apparently of the fourteenth century), under which the river now runs, there seems little room for doubt as to its origin. yours faithfully, c. w. h. dicker, _vice-president and hon. editor dorset field club_. pydeltrenthide vicarage, dorchester. the town hall, at the farther end of bridge street, was rebuilt on the site of the old guildhall. the iron-cased door, that once led to the men's "lock-up," and the grating of the women's prison, have been fixed against the north front wall. this wall is pierced by two arches, with a doorway to the old market, over the gateway of which is a carved projecting window. here are the ancient parish stocks, removed from the church. at the farther end, facing church street, a wide gable stands out, lighted by an old but plainer window. in the lower part is the passage through to the gun cliff, with a flight of steps in the wall, leading down to the beach. from church street there is an easy approach to the drill hall, which was opened in . on the opposite side of the street, and directly facing long entry, there is "tudor house," a large old house possessing much fine oak panelling and carving. the interest of tudor house is twofold, for it is associated with the "father of english literature," henry fielding, author of _tom jones_. here lived sarah andrew, a rich heiress, when fielding became wildly enamoured of her. this love affair was opposed by andrew tucker, who was sarah's guardian, but fielding persisted in his suit with such energy that tucker had to appeal to the mayor of lyme to be protected from the violence of fielding and his men. this is recorded in the town journals. fielding lost the rich heiress, but immortalised her memory in the supremely beautiful character of sophia, in _tom jones_. the parish church, dedicated to st michael, contains some interesting relics. a prominent feature is the carved jacobean pulpit and sounding-board, bearing in capitals the inscription: "to god's glory richard harvey mercer and merchant adventurer this anno, ." it was removed from a column near the south door and entrance to the vestry during the renovation of the church by dr hodges, in . the building dates from the fifteenth century, though it is clear from town records that a church stood near or on the spot in , and there are remains of a norman arch and pillar in the west porch. note the two parish chests, one of jacobean workmanship. the following interesting inscriptions are from six of the bells which were set up in :-- . "o fair britannia hail." t.b. f., . . "harmony in sound and sentiment." t.b. . . "o be joyful in the lord all ye lands." t.b. f., . . re-cast in . thomas mears, founder, london. fredk. parry hodges, vicar. robert hillman, mayor. john church and george roberts, churchwardens. . "o sea spare me." this peal of bells was erected partly by rate and part by subscription in the year . . "_pro religione, pro patria, pro libertate._" . mr tuff and mr tucker, c. w. thomas bilbie, _fecit_. the curfew is still rung at eight o'clock at lyme regis. fuller details of the history of the church and town will be found in a very comprehensive little _history of lyme regis_, by cameron, which is published by mr dunster at "the library" in broad street. broad street, leading downwards from the station to the sea, is the main thoroughfare, and the principal business part of the town. half-way up the street on the eastern side is a small passage leading to an ancient forge. it is scarcely to be noticed unless one is expressly seeking for it, but once up the narrow court there it is, with its open doorway all red inside like a wizard's cave, with the hammers ringing on the anvil, and the sparks showering out of the big flue. here vulcan has toiled, moiled and, let us hope, aled for five hundred years without a break, and here, in spite of cheap machinery, mr govier, the master smith of lyme regis, still seems to enjoy a regular and ready custom. the forge has been in mr govier's family for three hundred years, and it has a great weather-beaten wooden-and-tile roof, which is all but on the verge of collapse. a long sweep of old oak wood controls the bellows, and as you look in you will see the hand of govier himself is on the bellows handle. he draws it down and lets it up again with the peculiar rhythmic motion of long experience, heaping up his fire with a cunning little iron rake, singing a most doleful song to himself all about "shooting his true love at the setting of the sun." but you must not think the master smith is a gloomy man, for this song (and other still more pathetic ones) is just a tune of acquiescence to his labours--a song in sympathy with the roar of the bellows and the ascending sparks of his fire. [illustration: the master smith of lyme regis] "come in, come in," he said, when i told him i had come to pay my respects to him. he turned from his forge, set his hands on his hips and looked at me a moment. then i realised why mcneill whistler spent so much of his time in this forge making sketches of the smith. he looked like vulcan's very brother, his face sunburnt and forge-burnt to wheat-colour, his eyes blue as cornflowers, and his hair black and crisp, and everywhere about him the atmosphere of the blacksmith. there are all kinds of interesting things in the old forge, from roman horseshoes to plates for race-horses, and a pair of old beam-scales dated . these scales have been hanging up as far back as govier and his father before him could remember. besides having the knowledge of a craftsman, govier is a singer of old songs. "that song you were singing when i came in?" i asked. "i know it as well as anyone, but somehow it has escaped me." "ah!" said the master smith. "well, well! it is years ago now that i first heard it, when the ships came inside our walls with coal and took away stone. we rarely see a ship in our walls now, but when i was a boy my father and i frequently went down to the quay to repair ironwork aboard the old sailing boats. those old devon sailors were the fellows for songs. upon my soul, i believe sailors no longer sing as they once did. i find a great difference between the old-fashioned chanty man and the modern seaman who never sings at his work. the man who sings loudly and clearly is in good health, prompt, and swift to the point, and his heart is as big as parson's barn. the silent sullen fellow may have these qualities--he may have 'em, i say; but then the chap who sings is the happier man." "but there are some miserable fellows who reckon to be very happy," i said. at this govier gave a shrug of his ox-like shoulders, and waved away all such sorry triflers. "there are such people," said he; "but they are not entertaining. however, you want to get the hang of that song, and though i cannot remember the exact words i have the rhythm of it in my head right enough, and i think it runs like this: "'come all you young fellows that carry a gun, beware of late shooting when daylight is done; for 'tis little you reckon what hazards you run, i shot my true love at the setting of the sun. in a shower of rain, as my darling did hie all under the bushes to keep herself dry, with her head in her apron, i thought her a swan, and i shot my true love at the setting of the sun. in the night the fair maid as a white swan appears: she says, o my true love, quick, dry up your tears, i freely forgive you, i have paradise won; i was shot by my true love at the setting of the sun.' "you should have heard that song as i heard it on board an old-time schooner, when the ship's company all banged and roared heartily, and shouted in enormous voices. when they came to 'i was shot by my true love' the company would all join together in a great moan, and wag their heads in a most melancholy way. but there are no songs like that now. all this complicated machinery in ships has darkened men's minds and shut out the old songs." a good many very interesting places may be cleared up by just trespassing a few miles into devon when we leave lyme regis, and taking the main road to axminster, a parish and market town on the river axe. st mary's church is of ancient origin, and contains some objects of antiquarian interest. the other churches are modern. south of the town are the ruins of newenham abbey; its history is interesting. seven miles north, ford abbey affords another attraction. membury castle (one mile south) and weycroft are ancient roman or british fortifications. it is believed that the battle of brunanburgh, a.d. , was fought near here. the george inn at axminster, standing in a plot formed by george street, victoria place and lyme street, is a noble old place with a spacious courtyard. the barn above the archway at the back of the inn is very picturesque, with mouldering red and purplish tiles and hand-wrought iron cleats. three miles south of axminster we come to musbury--it was to see a thatcher at this village that i was tempted to make a short expedition into devon. the ancient church of st michael has been largely rebuilt. it contains many interesting old monuments, chiefly to members of the family of the drakes, of ashe. musbury castle is a british or roman camp. ashe house, the former seat of the drake family, is now a farm-house. the new inn is an odd little place, with a grey and shining stone floor, and windows set deep in thick walls. [illustration: drake memorial at musbury] colyton is five miles south-west of axminster in the picturesque valley of the river coly, and three miles from the sea. the parish church of st andrew contains much of great interest. the porch of the old vicarage house should be seen, with the inscription peditatio totum; meditatio totum, a.d. , over the window. there is an ancient market-house here. the "great house" is another old and interesting building. it was once the home of the yonge family, and was built in the seventeenth century by john yonge, a merchant adventurer who settled at colyton, but it has been partly rebuilt, although the portion of the house which remains suggests something of the old building and contains some interesting carving. the duke of monmouth stayed here in . there are interesting effigies of the pole family in their chapel in the church of st andrew, which is fenced off with a stone screen erected by the vicar of colyton, - . the vicar was also canon of exeter, and his rebus figures prominently on the screen. the great tomb of sir john pole, buried in , and elizabeth his wife displays elaborate effigies, while the altar-tomb is that of william pole, buried in . near by is a mural monument to his wife, katherine, and another to mary, wife of sir william, the historian, and daughter of sir w. periham of fulford. both these ladies have their children kneeling round them. the author of the well-known _description of devon_ is buried in the aisle, but there is no monument. when i was staying with the headmaster of colyton grammar school (an ancient building bearing the date ) some twenty years ago there were representatives of the knightly family of poles among his pupils. in the north aisle is the mausoleum of the yonge family. another interesting monument is an elaborate altar-tomb in the chancel with a recumbent female figure popularly known as "little choke-bone," referring to margaret courtenay, daughter of william earl of devon, and katherine, his wife, sixth daughter of edward iv. she is said to have been choked by a fish-bone at colcombe castle in . the courtenays, earls of devon, once held all the land in this neighbourhood, and their seat was at colcombe castle, hard by, for three hundred years, but henry viii. quarrelled with henry courtenay, marquess of exeter, and deprived him of his estates in . it is a curious fact that the parish charities of colyton are still mostly derived from these forfeited estates. the ruins of colcombe castle lie about half-a-mile from the town, and are now used as a farm-house. near here grows _lobelia úrens_, the "flower of the axe," a rare british flower, in appearance very like the garden lobelia. kilmington is said to bear, in the first syllable of its name, the trace of the great battle fought in the axe valley in saxon times. another interesting excursion from lyme might be taken to lambert's castle and ford abbey. ford can be reached by rail to card junction. the abbey is about a mile east of the station. the first long climb out of lyme by the axminster road to hunter's lodge inn is not encouraging. from this inn the road runs straight ahead along the road to marshwood, passing monkton wyld cross, and gradually ascending to lambert's castle, which is eight hundred and forty-two feet above the sea-level. the castle is an important british and roman camp. a fair and horse-races are still held here twice a year, and a magnificent view over the char valley is obtained from this point. pilsdon pen can be reached by the beaminster road, which can be picked up two miles north-east from lambert's castle. at birdsmoor gate, two miles beyond, is the rose and crown inn and a crossing of the ways. the road to ford abbey and chard swings round to the left, but if the pilgrim wishes to view the home of wordsworth and his sister, he must change his route and proceed along the crewkerne road for half-a-mile until racedown farm is reached. dorothy wordsworth described it as "the place dearest to my recollections upon the whole surface of the island; the first home i had"; and she wrote with great feeling about the charm and beauty of the neighbourhood. charmouth is a pleasant walk of two miles from lyme regis, but the road goes over a very steep hill at the top of which is a cutting known as the "new passage," the "devil's bellows," where in windy weather there is a chance of being carried off one's feet. the village consists of one long street situated above the mouth of the _char_, the leading feature of the view being the heights which hedge in the valley, particularly those from which the road has just descended. it is an ancient place, which still preserves the memory of two sanguinary battles between the danes and saxons. in the first the saxons were commanded by egbert, in the second by ethelwolf. in both the danes were victorious, but so crippled in the fight that they were obliged to retreat to their ships. at charmouth, too, in the attempted escape of charles ii. to france, occurred the incident which so nearly led to the discovery of the fugitive. a plan had been concerted with the captain of a merchantman trading to lyme that a boat at a particular hour of the night should be sent to the beach at charmouth. charles rode hither under the guidance of lord wilmot and colonel wyndham and rested at the little inn to await the appointed time. the vessel, however, from unforeseen circumstances, was unable to leave the harbour, and the fugitive was obliged to give up the enterprise and to pass the night in the village. the next morning it was found that his horse had cast a shoe, and the village blacksmith was summoned to repair the loss. this was a curious fellow, whose suspicions were aroused on observing that the old shoes were fastened in a manner peculiar to the north of england. the hostler, who was a republican soldier, carried the information to the puritan minister. from the minister it went to the magistrate, and from the magistrate to the captain of a troop of horse, who soon galloped with his men in pursuit. fortunately for the king, they took the wrong road, and he escaped. the inn at which charles rested is still standing. part of it is now the congregational manse. the front of the house has now been entirely modernised, but the interior has retained all the quaint features of the carolean period, and here one may still see heavy ceilings and fine oak-panellings. in the portion which is now a cottage a large chimney (which is said to have served as a hiding-place) and the "king's bedroom" are still pointed out to visitors. until comparatively recent times the inn was still providing ale to thirsty rustics and was called the "queen's head," and several old natives can remember when the landlord displayed a sign on which was inscribed: "here in this house was lodged king charles, come in, sirs, you may venture; for here is entertainment good for churchman or dissenter." in a commemoration tablet was placed on the house. similar tablets have been placed on ellesdon farm, the george inn (now a shop), bridport, and on the george inn, broadwindsor, at each of which charles ii. took refreshment or a night's lodgment during his passage through dorset. two lanes, one turning off near the top of the straight descent, and one just below the church, lead in a few minutes to the sea. the beach is sand, shingle and rock, and supports a coastguard station, bathing machines and a few fishing-boats which are launched from the beach. there are cliffs on each side of the bay, and here the char, "a small, irregular, alder-fringed, playful river, full of strange fish such as inland streams yield not," mingles very modestly with the sea. the river rises under lewesdon and pilesdon, about six miles distant in a direct line. three miles north of charmouth is corrie castle (king's castle), supposed to have been the camp of egbert when he fought with the danes. the cliffs at charmouth exhibit a fine section of the strata and abound in interesting fossil remains. these include the bones of those colossal reptiles the ichthyosaurus and plesiosaurus, of the pterodactyl, and numerous fish; and, among other shells, those of the ammonite and belemnite, which are found in great quantities on golden cap. the lias contains much bituminous matter and iron pyrites, which have frequently taken fire after heavy rains. at a bed of gravel near the mouth of the river the remains of an elephant and rhinoceros have been discovered. the tourist must look for the relic of the "queen's head" next above a chapel and opposite the picturesque george inn. i think that the quiet folk who occupy the genuine inn where the king stopped must often breathe mild maledictions over the heads of inquisitive pilgrims who peep and peer into their windows, and i suspect that they have begged mine host of the george to claim for his house the honour of sheltering charles stuart from the troops. at all events the george is pointed out to the visitor as the great historical attraction, in spite of the fact that it was built long after the time king charles was in hiding in dorset. chapter xiii rambles around bridport i, who am a pagan child, who know how dying plato smiled, and how confucius lessoned kings, and of the buddha's wanderings, find god in very usual things. toller porcorum (toller of the swine) has a railway station on the bridport branch line and is two miles from maiden newton. the name is explanatory, and great herds of swine were once bred here. the affix serves to distinguish this toller from its next neighbour, toller fratrum (toller of the brethren, _i.e._ monks), which is one mile from maiden newton station. the mansion of sir thomas fulford still stands and is a fine instance of early seventeenth-century domestic architecture. the very first things i noticed about this house were the tall, narrow, thick windows--windows that any man might look upon with covetous eyes. such tall stone-mullioned windows are an enchantment, and, as hilaire belloc says, it is the duty of every man to keep up the high worship of noble windows till he comes down to the windowless grave. a building with a thatched roof near the house is a refectory, and appropriately cut in stone on the wall will be noticed a monk eating bread. at wynford eagle, two miles south, the church still preserves a curious tympanum of a norman door. it shows two ferocious and unspeakable-looking beasts, who are about to fight. they are said to be wyverns--which are heraldic monsters with two wings, two legs and tapering bodies. the most remarkable discovery ever made in the vicinity of wynford eagle was recorded by aubrey in connection with the opening of a barrow at ferndown. the diggers came upon "a place like an oven, curiously clay'd round; and in the midst of it a fair urn full of very firm bones, with a great quantity of black ashes under it. and what is most remarkable; one of the diggers putting his hand into the oven when first open'd, pull'd it back hastily, not being able to endure the _heat_; and several others doing the like, affirmed it to be hot enough to bake bread.... digging further they met with sixteen urns more, but not in ovens; and in the middle one with ears; they were all full of some bones and black ashes." the house of the sydenhams still stands at wynford eagle. on the highest point of the central gable a fierce-looking stone eagle arrests our attention, and under it is carved the date . rampisham is three miles south of evershot, and the churchyard contains an ancient stone cross, the decayed condition of which will test the patience and ingenuity of those who desire to satisfy themselves of the accuracy of britton's description of the sculpture--namely, that it represents "the stoning of st stephen, the martyrdom of st edmund, the martyrdom of st thomas à becket, and two crowned figures sitting at a long table, to whom a man kneels on one knee." the inn called the "tiger's head" is of great antiquity; it has stooped and settled down with age, and, within, the low-ceiled rooms seem saturated with influence, and weighty with the wearing of men's lives. cross-in-hand stands on the verge of the down, which breaks away precipitously to the vale where yetminster lies. a bleached and desolate upland, it took its name from a stone pillar which stood there, a strange, rude monolith, from a stratum unknown in any local quarry, on which was roughly carved a human hand. differing accounts were given of its history and purport. some authorities stated that a devotional cross had once formed the complete erection thereon, of which the present relic was but the stump; others that the stone as it stood was entire, and that it had been fixed there to mark a boundary or place of meeting. it was on this stone that alec d'urberville made tess swear not to tempt him by her charms. "this was once a holy cross," said he. "relics are not in my creed, but i fear you at moments." it was with a sense of painful dread that tess, after leaving this spot, learned from a rustic that the stone was not a holy cross. "cross--no; 'twere not a cross! 'tis a thing of ill-omen, miss. it was put up in wuld times by the relations of a malefactor, who was tortured there by nailing his hands to a post and afterwards hung. the bones lie underneath. they say he sold his soul to the devil, and that he walks at times." deep down below is the sequestered village of batcombe. an uncanny story attaches itself to a battered old gothic tomb in batcombe churchyard. the tomb stands near the north wall of the church, and it is said to be the resting-place of one conjuring minterne, who hardy in one of his novels tells us left directions, after having quarrelled with his vicar, that he was to be buried "neither in the church nor out of it." it is said that this eccentric injunction was complied with, but the tomb has since been moved. what deed minterne had committed that prevented him from lying quietly in the usual grave like the other good folk of batcombe who had departed this life no man can tell. all the rustics could tell me was they had heard he had sold himself to old nick, and that his request to be buried in such a unique manner was a ruse to prevent his master "the old 'un" from getting him when he died. in bygone days the "conjurer" was an important character in the dorset village, and he was generally of good reputation, and supposed to be gifted with supernatural power, which he exercised for good. by his incantations and ceremonies he cured anything from inflamed eyes to lung disease. a wessex dealer in magic and spells is mentioned in hardy's story, _the withered arm_. he lived in a valley in the remotest part of egdon heath: "he did not profess his remedial practices openly, or care anything about their continuance, his direct interests being those of a dealer in furze, turf, 'sharp sand,' and other local products. indeed, he affected not to believe largely in his own powers, and when warts that had been shown him for cure miraculously disappeared--which it must be owned they infallibly did--he would say lightly, 'oh, i only drink a glass of grog upon 'em--perhaps it's all chance,' and immediately turn the subject." but to return to minterne. the present vicar of batcombe church--rev. joseph pulliblank--thinks the fore-shortened stone of minterne's tomb, which is square instead of the usual oblong, gives some support to the story of the "conjurer" being buried with his feet under the masonry of the church wall. the following paragraph is also from some notes kindly sent to me by the rev. joseph pulliblank:-- "batcombe church, originally saxon, has only two points which testify to the fact--( ) a saxon font inside, ( ) a small portion of saxon masonry worked into the outside south wall. "in modern times batcombe was the seat of 'the little commonwealth' settlement founded by the earl of sandwich and run on the lines of the 'george junior republic' in america--owing to financial and other difficulties it came to an end during the war." in the church are wall tablets to the minterne family: one to a john minterne who died in , as well as a john minterne who was buried in . there is a monument to bridget minterne in yetminster church, who was the wife of john minterne of batcombe. the inscription runs: "here lyeth y body of bridgett minterne wife of john minterne of batcombe esq., second daughter of sir john brown of frampton kt. who died y th july ano domini ." which of the ancient possessors of batcombe can claim the honour of being the famous conjuring minterne i was unable to discover. little remains of his history. we only know that he was always kind, and knew how to ride well, for he once jumped his horse from the crest of the down into the village, knocking one of the pinnacles off the church tower on his way. he would not talk much about wizardry, but would rather sing songs. no doubt minterne was a very lovable fellow! in rudyard kipling's "marklake witches" (_rewards and fairies_) the sussex "conjurer" is represented by jerry gamm the witchmaster, and he is one of the most striking examples in literature of the rustic astrologer and doctor. the following charm--a very excellent one, too--was jerry gamm's charm against a disease of an obstinate and deadly character: "you know the names of the twelve apostles, dearie? you say them names, one by one, before your open window, rain or storm, wet or shine, five times a day fasting. but mind you, 'twixt every name you draw in your breath through your nose, right down to your pretty toes, as long and as deep as you can, and let it out slow through your pretty little mouth. there's virtue for your cough in those names spoke that way. and i'll give you something you can see, moreover. here's a stick of maple which is the warmest tree in the wood. it's cut one inch long for you every year," jerry said. "that's sixteen inches. you set it in your window so that it holds up the sash, and thus you keep it, rain or shine, or wet or fine, day and night. i've said words over it which will have virtue on your complaints." bridport lies two miles inland from the sea and its unheard-of harbour of west bay. we first hear of the town in the reign of edward the confessor, when it could boast a mint, a priory of monks and two hundred houses. in saxon days it was probably a place of some importance, owing to the fact of it being the port to the river brit, but its early history is without any distinctive mark or important event. when charles ii. arrived at bridport in his hasty flight from charmouth the town was full of soldiers, but the royal party went boldly to an inn (the _george_, now a shop, incorporating part of the old building opposite the town hall) and mixed with the company. every stranger was mistrusted by the troops, however, and charles and his suite quitted the town after a hasty meal. they retired by the main dorchester road and took a lane leading to broadwindsor and so escaped. lee lane, a mile to the east of bridport, is said to be the actual scene where the royal party retreated to security. the first thing the pilgrim will notice when entering bridport is the generous width of the streets, and it is a curious fact that the local industries have left their stamp on the town in this way. the town was always famed for its hempen manufactures, and it furnished most of the cordage for the royal fleet in the good old times of "wooden walls." it was for this reason the roads were made wider--to allow each house to have a "rope walk." at one time the town enjoyed almost a monopoly in the manufacture of cordage. gallows' ropes also were made here, hence the grim retort often heard in wessex: "you'll live to be stabbed with a bridport dagger!" george barnet, "a gentleman-burgher of port bredy," in hardy's _fellow townsmen_, was descended from the hemp and rope merchants of bridport. the church is fifteenth-century and contains a cross-legged effigy of a mail-clad knight, probably one of the de chideocks. the old building was restored in , when two bays were added to the nave. thomas hardy waxes bitterly jocular over this piece of restoration: "the church had had such a tremendous joke played upon it by some facetious restorer or other as to be scarce recognisable by its dearest old friends." west bay and bridport are scenes in hardy's tale, _fellow townsmen_, where they are dealt with under the name of "port bredy," from the name of the little river bredy, which here flows into the sea. the town mainly consists of one long highway, divided at west street and east street by the clock tower of the town hall, which forms the very hub of commercial liveliness, with the fine old inns and quaint shops about it. the greyhound hotel is a place very much favoured by travellers, and for old-fashioned fare and comfort there is no inn in england which could better it. mr trump, the broad-shouldered landlord, is one of the old school, a man of genial humour and generous strength, and his popularity reaches well over the borders of dorset. he is a great lover of horses, and i stood by his side as he surveyed a manifestation of divine energy in the form of a horse of spirit and tremendous power owned by a local farmer. "walter" trump took off his hat to the fine animal and turned to me, saying: "if there are no horses in heaven i don't want to go there." south street turns down to the quay near the greyhound, and in the summer traps will be usually found at this corner to take one down to the sea. the literary and scientific institute, in east street, opposite the bull hotel, contains a number of coins and some natural history exhibits, as well as a library. the conservative club has been established in a fine old tudor building in south street, on the opposite side of which is another ancient house called dungeness. at the back of a house on the south side of the east bridge is a portion of the old hospital of st john. the bull has been modernised, but it is the black bull where george barnet put up on his return to his native town, in _fellow townsmen_. between the town hall and the greyhound is a passage known as bucky doo, which the rev. r. grosvenor bartelot traces to "bocardo," "originally a syllogism in logic, which was here, as at oxford, applied to the prison, because, just as a bocardo syllogism always ended in a final negative, so did a compulsory visit to the bocardo lock-up generally mean a closer acquaintance with the disciplinary use of 'the bridport dagger' and a final negative to the drama of life." if the pilgrim wishes to make a pleasant excursion on foot to west bay he must take a track that goes round the churchyard and follow the riverside footpath on the right bank of the stream. thus we arrive at bridport quay and west bay. the harbour never became of any importance owing to the microscopic shingle which has always obstructed and choked its mouth. everywhere the pilgrim turns he sees hillocks of this waste sand which has prevented a willing port from serving its country. the fact that bridport was not called upon to provide any ships either for the siege of calais in or for the fleet to oppose the spanish armada may be accepted as proof that the burgesses of the town possessed no vessels large enough for fighting purposes. so the little harbour fell into indolence and sluggishness, thus bearing out the truth of the old saying: "that which does not serve dies." the place is picturesque in an odd and casual way, and a scattering of quaint old dwellings contrast with a row of new lodging-houses which are very showy (rory-tory the dorset rustic would style them!) in spite of their affectation of the dandy-go-rusty tiles of antiquity. a little group of fishermen may always be seen loafing and smoking by the thatched bridport arms hotel, and the only time these good fellows ever show any quickening to life is when some barque, taking unusual risks, allows itself to be towed and winched between the narrow pier-heads. at such times the spirit of ships and men departed seems to enter into them, and they shout and heave and sing randy-dandy deep-sea songs, and use much profanity. the shingle is part of one of the remarkable features of the dorset coast--the chesil beach or chesil bank, which runs as far as portland. chesil is old english for _pebble_, the old word being found in chesilton in dorset and chislehurst in kent. the pebbles gradually grow coarser as one progresses in a south-easterly direction, so that in olden days the smugglers, running their "tubs" ashore, at venture, in the fog or during the night, knew the exact stretch of bank they had arrived on by taking a handful of shingle to examine. the attractions of west bay are good bathing, good sea fishing and good boating, for the curious little harbour is a particularly pleasing haunt for amateur sailors. there are many pleasant short walks in the neighbourhood of bridport and west bay. eype is reached from bridport by field paths passing through allington and the lovers' grove. a bridle-way takes one to eype church, standing on the ridge, whence it leads through the village down a deep hollow to the beach. continuing over thorncombe beacon, we reach seatown, which is a seaside branch of chideock. "chiddick," as any wessex man of the soil will pronounce the name, is a little less than a mile inland on the lyme regis road. the anchor inn at seatown is an old place of entertainment i have not personally visited, but a man who knows his dorset informs me that it is a place where the centuries mingle; with black beams in the ceiling, oak settles, shining with long usage, and ironwork full of the rough simplicity of the elizabethan forge. i shall call there next time i fare dorset way, if only to stand in the great bay window which looks out to the sea. such buildings remind one, not of decay but of immutableness. perhaps even the summons of the dark reaper would not sound quite so sharp in an ancient inn. there are less perfect places one might die in, and if i had my wish i would choose to pass away in an inn, where all my regrets would be arrested by the stamping of feet on the sanded floor beneath, and the ancient and untutored voices of farmhands and ploughmen singing some lively song. chapter xiv round about beaminster beaminster is six miles to the north of bridport, and is reached by a pleasant walk, passing on the way the little village of melplash. it is a sleepy country town, deeply seated among hills, near the head-waters of the _birt_, which flows through it. it is a place of some antiquity, but not remarkable for much, if we except its sufferings by fire. in , when prince maurice was quartered here, it was burnt completely to the ground, having been fired by a drunken soldier. the greater part of it was a second time destroyed in , and again in . very prominent landmarks of the beaminster district are pilsdon pen and lewesdon hill, two eminences of green sand remarkable for their likeness to one another. the singularity of their appearance has naturally excited much attention. sailors, whom they serve as a landmark, call them the _cow and the calf_; the rev. william crowe has sung the praises of lewesdon in a descriptive poem, and the two hills together have given rise to a proverbial saying current in this country and applied to neighbours who are not acquainted: "... as much akin as lew'son hill to pil'son pen." these hills command a charming prospect, and pilsdon is further interesting as the site of an ancient camp, of oval form, encompassed by three strong ramparts and ditches. it is the highest point in the county, nine hundred and thirty-four feet above the sea. crowe's _lewesdon hill_ was much admired by rogers, who says in his _table talk_: "when travelling in italy i made two authors my constant study for versification, milton and crowe." beaminster is in a centre of a district famous for its great dairies, flowers, bees and rural industries, and here is produced the famous double dorset and blue vinny cheese which has always a place on the table of the true dorset family. the word "vinny" means mouldy; thus when the rustic thinks his cheese is in a fine ripe condition he will be likely to remark: "this yer cheese is butvul now; tez vinnied through and through." the same word is also used in devonshire for "bad-tempered," thus, "you vinnied little mullybrub, git out of my sight this minut!" the large dairies where the cheeses are made are called "soap factories" by the facetious natives, and one frequently meets motor lorries grinding up the sharp hills beneath the burden of a hundred or so freshly pressed rounds of cheese. in spite of the town's sufferings by fire the grand old church has fortunately always escaped. it is approached by a lane at the corner of the market-place. the pride of beaminster is the old church tower, which was built in . a native said to me: "didee ever see zich a comfortable-looking old tower as that be, and i knaws you won't see more trinkrums on any church in the county." by "trinkrums" i suppose he meant the gargoyles, pinnacles and profusion of delicate carvings for which the gracious amber-coloured tower is justly famous. the church itself cannot vie with the tower for elegance or magnificence. indeed the church is quite a dull-looking place. however, the nave, arcade and a squint from the south aisle into the chancel are early english. the pulpit is jacobean. there are two handsome monuments to members of the strode family and some memorial windows to the oglanders and other benefactors. affixed to the pavement of the south aisle is an early brass, with this inscription in old english characters: "pray for the soule of sr. john tone whos body lyth berid under this tombe on whos soule jhu have mercy a patr nostr & ave." sir john was a priest, and probably a knight of malta, who died in beaminster while he was on a pilgrimage through dorset. the church is the scene of a "well-authenticated" apparition. down to the year the free school (of which the rev. samuel hood, father of admirals viscount hood and lord bridport, was at one time master) was held in one of the galleries, and there, on "saturday, june , ," did one john daniel appear at full noonday to five of his school-fellows, "between three weeks and a month after his burial." the reason was plain when his body was dug up and duly examined, for it was found that he had been strangled. letherbury, about a mile south of beaminster, is a pleasant walk down the brit valley, by the river-side. on the road is _parnham_, a noble mansion of the tudor period standing in a well wooded and watered demesne. from the parnhams this estate came to the strodes, passing thence in to the oglanders. other old houses in the neighbourhood of beaminster are _strode_, _melplash_ and _mapperton_, and the whole district bears the marks of long and prosperous agricultural occupation in the old-fashioned days when "squire" and tenant lived and died in semi-feudal relationship on the estate which the one owned and the other rented. mapperton house belongs to the time of henry viii. in the reign of that sovereign the lord of the manor was robert morgan, who had the following patent granted to him:--"forasmoche as we bee credibly informed that our welbiloved robert morgan esquier, for diverse infirmities which he hathe in his hedde, cannot convenyently, without his grete danngier, be discovered of the same. whereupon wee in tendre consideration thereof have by these presents licensed him to use and wear his bonnet on his hed at all tymys, as wel in our presence as elsewher at his libertie." poor old robert! perhaps his dorset stubbornness had as much to do with his wearing a "bonnet at all tymys" as the "infirmities in his hedde." but he was well able to take care of himself, for he built this beautiful manor-house and recorded the fact in the great hall: "robt. morgan and mary his wife built this house in their own lifetime, at their own charge and cost. what they spent, that they lent: what they gave, that they have: what they left, that they lost." a glossary of west country provincialisms _abide._ cannot abide a thing is, not able to suffer or put up with it. _addle._ attle is a term used in mining, and signifies the rejected and useless rubbish. hence an addled egg is an egg unfit for use. _aft_, now only used as a sea term, but anciently with degrees of comparison, as "after, aftest." _agate_, open-mouthed attention; hearkening with eagerness. "he was all _agate_," eager to hear what was said. _alare_, a short time ago: in common use. _anan._ a shakespearean expression formerly used by the dorset rustics when they wished to have a repetition of what had been said; but no one now uses it. _backalong_, homeward. _ballyrag_, to scold. _banging-gert_, very large. _barken_, an enclosed place, as a rick-barken, a rick-yard. in sussex a yard or enclosure near a house is called a "barton," from barley; and tun, an enclosure. _barm_, yeast. _bayte_, to beat, or thrash. "a wumman, a spenyel, and a walnut-tree, the oftener yu bayte 'em better they'll be." _blare_, to shout loudly. "chillern pick up words as pigeons pease, and blare them again as god shall please." _brath_, the ancient cornish name for a mastiff dog. perhaps this accounts for the common expression, "a broth of a boy," meaning "a stout dog of a boy"--a sturdy fellow. _buck_, that peculiar infection which in summer sometimes gets into a dairy and spoils the cream and butter; a sign of gross negligence and want of skill, and not easily to be eradicated. _bumpkin_, a common term for a clumsy, uncouth man. but whence the word?--for it is also applied to a part of a ship where the foretack is fastened down. the word _bump_ means a protuberance, a prominence: to _bump_ against a thing is a local term for striking oneself clumsily against it. _butt_, a straw beehive. "a butt of bees in may is worth a guinea any day; a butt of bees in june is worth a silver spoon; a butt of bees in july isn't worth a fly." _chitter_, thin, folded up. it is applied to a thin and furrowed face, by way of ridicule. such a one is said to be "chitter-faced." the long and folded milts or testes of some fishes are called "chitterlins," as were the frills at the bosom of shirts when they were so worn. the entrails of a pig cleaned and boiled are common food in wiltshire, and the dish is called "chitterlings." _churer_, an occasional workman. char, to do household work in the absence of a domestic servant as a charwoman. in dorset they say "one good choor deserves another," instead of one good turn, etc. _click-handed_, left-handed. _cloam_, common earthenware. _clush_, to lie down close to the ground, to stoop low down. _clusty_, close and heavy; particularly applied to bread not well fermented, and therefore closely set. also applied to a potato that is not mealy. _coccabelles_, icicles. _condididdle_, to filch away, to convey anything away by trickery. _craking_, complaining. "i, anthony james pye molley, can burn, take, sink, and destroy; there's only one thing i can't do, on my life! and that is, to stop the craking tongue of my wife." _crummy_, fat, corpulent. "a fine crummy old fellow." _daddick_, rotten wood. _dew-bit_, breakfast. _dout_, to extinguish. _downargle_, to argue in an overbearing manner. _drattle you!_ a corruption of the irreverent oath, "god throttle you." _dubbin o' drenk_, a pot of ale. _durns_, door-posts. _ebbet_, the common lizard, commonly called the "eft," which may be a corruption of this word. the word _eft_ signifies speedy or quick. _escaped._ a person is said to be just escaped when his understanding is only just enough to warrant his being free from constraint of the tutelage of his friends. _ether_ or _edder_, a hedge; also the twisted wands with which a "stake hedge" is made. they have a rhyme in dorset on the durability of a "stake ether": "an elder stake and black-thorn ether will make a hedge to last for ever." _fags!_ or, _aw fegs!_ an interjection. indeed! truly! _fenigy_, to run away secretly, or so slip off as to deceive expectation; deceitfully to fail in a promise. it is most frequently applied to cases where a man has shown appearances of courtship to a woman, and then has left her without any apparent reason, and without any open quarrel. _fess_, proud, vain. "lukee her agot a new bonnet. why, her's as fess as a paycock." mrs durbeyfield uses this word in hardy's _tess_. _flaymerry_, a merry-making, or what is now vulgarly called "a spree," but with an innocent meaning, an excursion for amusement. _gabbern._ gloomy, comfortless rooms and houses are "gabbern." _galley-bagger_, a person fond of gadding about. _gallied_, scared. jonathan kail the farm-hand at talbothay's uses this word (see hardy's _tess_). _gallyvanting_, going from home. "then for these flagons of silver fine, even they shall have no praise of mine; for when my lord or lady be going to dine, he sends them out to be filled with wine, but his man goes gallyvanting away, because they are precious, and fine, and gay; but if the wine had been order'd in a leather bottel, the man would have come back, and all been well." _gigglet_, a merry young girl, one who shows her folly by a disposition to grin and laugh for no cause. it is used as a term of slight and contempt, and commonly to a young girl. gigglet-market, a hiring-place for servants. from time immemorial, to within the last sixty years, on lady day young girls in dorset and devon were accustomed to stand in the market-place awaiting a chance of being hired as servants. _gu-ku_, cuckoo. "the gu-ku is a merry bird, she sings as she flies; she brings us good tidings, she tells us no lies. she sucks little birds' eggs to make her voice clear; and when she sings 'gu-ku' the summer is near." _hadge_, hedge. "love thy neighbour--but dawnt pull down thy hadge." _holt_, hold. "when you are an anvil, holt you still, when you are a hammer, strike your fill." _hozeburd_, a person of bad character. "jack dollop, a 'hore's bird of a fellow," is the hero of a story related by dairyman crick in hardy's _tess_. _klip_, a sudden smart blow, but not a heavy one. it is most usually applied to a "_klip_ under the ear." of late the word _klipper_ is grown into use to describe a smart-sailing vessel, one that sails very swiftly, with some distant reference to the same idea. _knap_, prominent. it is sometimes applied to the prominent part of a hill; but it is more frequently used as significant of the form of a person's knees when they are distorted towards each other, and which some people have chosen to term knock-kneed. _lasher_, a large thing, of any sort. the meaning sought to be conveyed appears to be that this thing beats or excels every other. the opinion that any object which excels another is able to beat, _lash_ or inflict violence on that other is a strange but not uncommon vulgar one. _lof_, unwilling. "dawntee be like old solomon wise-- 'lof tu go tu beyd and lof to rise.' cuz then you'll soon be 'out tu elbaws, out tu toes, out ov money, an out ov cloase.'" _main_, very. i remember once hearing a dorset thatcher say: "i be main fammled. i be so hungry i could welly eat the barn tiles." _mommet_, a scarecrow. see _tess of the d'urbervilles_: "had it anything to do with father's making such a mommet of himself in thik carriage?" _nitch_, a bundle of reed, straw or wood. "he's got a nitch"--he is drunk. _peg_, pig. "tez time tu watch out when you're getting all you want. fattening pegs ain't 'ardly in luck!" at a tithe dinner a farmer in giving the royal toast said: "the king, god bless him! may he be plaized to send us more pegs and less parsons." _stubberds_, delicious apples. "did you say the stars were worlds, tess?" "yes." "all like ours?" "i don't know; but i think so. they sometimes seem to be like the apples on our stubbard-tree. most of them splendid and sound--a few blighted." "which do we live on--a splendid one or a blighted one?" "a blighted one." (see thomas hardy's _tess_.) _stugged_, stuck in the mud. "he that will not merry be with a pretty girl by the fire, i wish he was a-top o' dartmoor a-stugged in the mire." _squab pie_, a pie in favour in devon and dorset: "mutton, onions, apples and dough make a good pie as any i know." _ingredients._-- lb. mutton or pork cutlets, large apples sliced, large onions, ¼ lb. salt fat bacon cut small, oz. castor sugar, ½ pint of mutton broth, pepper and salt to taste. place these in layers in a deep pie-dish, cover with rich paste and bake for an hour and a half, or place the whole in a crock and stew an hour and a half. serve piping hot. i have seen clotted cream served and eaten with this "delicacy." _squab_, the youngest or weakest pig of the litter. the london costermonger speaks of the youngest member of his family as the "squab." _withwind_, the wild convolvulus. _withy_, the willow-tree. they say in wiltshire, in reference to the very rapid growth of the willow, that "a withy tree will buy a horse before an oak will buy a bridle and saddle." the willow will often grow twelve feet in a season. _wizzened_, shrivelled, withered: as "a wizzened apple," "a wizzened-faced woman." _wosbird._ a term of reproach, the meaning of which appears to be unknown to those who use it. it is evidently a corruption of whore's-bird.