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TKll XXVII. XXVIII. XXIX. XXX. XXXI. XXXII. XXXIII. XXXIV. XXXV. XXXVI. XXXVII. XXXVIII. .XXXIX. Xli. XLI. XLII. XLIII. XLIV. XliV. XLVI. XLVII. XLvni. XLIX. It. lil. Ln. Lnx. MV. JiV. POOR UABTIN. FATHER AND SON HUSn-MONKX . BETRAYAL . CALLED TO ACCOUNT WANDERING LIGHTS THE OWLS THE DOVES THE ALARM EELL . CONFESSIONS THE PIPE OF PEACK TAKEN » GONE ! . ANOTHER SACRIFICE . ANOTHER MISTAKE . ENGAGED . IN A MINE TUCKERS . duck and green peas ' prkciosa ' noah's ark . IN PART . THE OLD GUN BY THE FIRE A SHOT . THE WHOLE BY LANTERN-LIGHT . ANOTHER LOAD . WHAT ETEBY FOOL KNOWS PAOB 1.9 186 193 199 205 212 219 22(» 232 239 246 251 258 265 271 277 283 290 296 302 308 316 322 328 334 340 347 354 357 EVE, CHAPTER I. MORWELL. The river Tamar can be ascended by steamers as far as Morwell, one of the most picturesque points on that most beautiful river. There also, at a place called ' New Quay,' barges discharge their burdens of coal, bricks, &c., which thence are conveyed by carts throughout the neighbour- hood. A new road, admirable as one of those of Napo- leon's construction in France, gives access to this quay — a road constructed at the outlay of a Duke of Bedford, to whom belongs all the land that was once owned by the Abbey of Tavistock. This skilfully engineered road de- scends by zigzags from the elevated moorland on the Devon side of the Tamar, through dense woods of oak and fir, under crags of weathered rock wreathed with heather. From the summit of the moor this road runs due north, ppit mine shafts and ' ramps,' or rubble heaps thrown out of the mines, and meets other roads uniting from various points under the volcanic peak of Brent Tor, that rises in solitary dignity out of the vast moor to the height of twelve hundred feet, and is crowned by perhaps the tiniest church in England. Seventy or eighty years ago no such roads existed. The vast upland was all heather and gorse, with track« across it. An old quay had existed on the river, and the 9 EVE ruins remained of the buildings about it erected by the abbots of Tavistock ; but quay and warehouses had fallen into decay, and no barges came so far up the river. The crags on the Devon side of the Tamar rise many hundred feet in sheer precipices, broken by gulfs filled with oak coppice, heather, and dogwood. In a hollow of the down, half a mile from the oak woods and crags, with an ancient yew and Spanish chest- nut before it, stood, and stands still, Morwell House, the hunting-lodge of the abbots of Tavistock, built where a moor- well — a spring of clear water — gushed from amidst the golden gorse brakes, and after a short course ran down the steep side of the hill, and danced into the Tamar. Seventy or eighty years ago this house was in a better and worse condition than at present : worse, in that it was sorely dilapidated ; better, in that it had not suffered tasteless modern handling to convert it into a farm with labourers' cottages. Even forty years ago the old ban- quetting hall and the abbot's parlour were intact. Now all has been restored out of recognition, except the gate- house that opens into the quadrangle. In the interior of this old hall, on the twenty-fourth of June, just eighty years ago, sat the tenant : a tall, gaunt man with dark hair. He was engaged cleaning his gun, and the atmo- sphere was foul with the odour exhaled by the piece that had been recently discharged, and was now being purified. The man was intent on his work, but neither the exertion he used, nor the warmth of a June afternoon, accounted for the drops that beaded his brow and dripped from his face. Once — suddenly — he placed the muzzle of his gun against his right side under the rib, and with his foot touched the lock. A quiver ran over his face, and his dim eyes were raised to the ceiling. Then there came from near his feet a feeble sound of a babe giving token with its lips that it was dreaming of food. The man sighed, and looked down at a cradle that was before him. He placed the gun between his knees, and remained for a moment M ORWELL % gazing at the child's crib, lost in a dream, with the evening sun shining through the large window and illumining his face. It was a long face with hght blue eyes, in which lurked anguish mixed with cat-like treachery. The mouth was tremulous, and betrayed weakness. Presently, recovering himself from his abstraction, he laid the gun across the cradle, from right to left, and it rested there as a bar sinister on a shield, black and omin- ous. His head sank in his thin shaking hands, and he bowed over the cradle. His tears or sweat, or tears and sweat combined, dropped as a salt rain upon the sleeping child, that gave so slight token of its presence. All at once the door opened, and a man stood in the yellow light, like amedisoval saint against a golden ground. He stood there a minute looking in, his eyes too dazzled to distinguish what was within, but he called in a hard, sharp tone, ' Eve ! where is Eve ? ' The man at the cradle started up, showing at the time how tall ho was. He stood up as one bewildered, with his hands outspread, and looked blankly at the new comer. The latter, whose eyes were becoming accustomed to the obscurity, after a moment's pause repeated his question, • Eve ! where is Eve ? ' The tall man opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. ' Are you Ignatius Jordan ? ' ' I am.' he answered with an effort. ' And I am Ezekiel Babb. I am come for my daugh- ter.' Ignatius Jordan staggered back against the wall, and leaned against it with arms extended and with open palms. The window through which the sun streamed was ancient ; it consisted of two lights with a transom, and the sun sent the shadow of mullion and transom as a black cross against the further wall. Ignatius stood uncon- sciously spreading his arms against this shadow like a 4 EVE ghastly Ohrist on his cross. The stranger noticed the likeness, and said in his harsh tones, ' Ignatius Jordan, thou hast crucified thyself.' Then again, as he took a seat unasked, ' Eve I where is Eve ? ' The gentleman addressed answered with an effort, ' She is no longer here. She is gone.' ' What I ' exclaimed Bahh ; ' no longer here ? She was here last week. Where is she now ? ' ' She is gone,' said Jordan in a low tone. * Gone ! — her child is here. When will she return ? ' * Return ! ' — with a sigh — * never.' ' Cursed be the blood that flows in her veins ! ' shouted the new comer. ' Restless, effervescing, fevered, fantastic ! It is none of it mine, it is all her mother's.' Ho sprang to his feet and paced the room furiously, with knitted brows and clenched fists. Jordan followed him with his eye. The man was some way past the middle of life. He was strongly and compactly built. He wore a long dark coat and waistcoat, breeches, and blue worsted stockings. His hair was grey ; his protruding eyebrows met over the nose. They were black, and gave a sinister expression to his face. His profile was strongly accentu- ated, hawklike, greedy, cruel. ' I see it all,' he said, partly to himself; ' that cursed foreign blood would not suffer her to find rest even here, where there is prosperity. What is prosperity to her? What is comfort ? Bah ! all her lust is after tinsel and tawdry.' He raised his arm and clenched fist. 'A life accursed of God! Of old our forefathers^ under the righteous GromweU, rose up and swept all profanity out of the land, the jesters, and the carol singers, and theatrical performers, and pipers and tumblers. But they returned again to torment the elect. What saith the Scripture? Make no marriage with the heathen, else shall ye be un- clean, ye arid your children.' He reseated himself. ' Ignatius Jordan,' he said, ' I was mad and wicked when I took her mother to wife ; M ORWELL % and a mad and wicked thing you did when you took the daughter. As I saw you just now — as I see you at pre- sent — standing with spiead arms against the black shadow cross from the window, I thought it was a figure of what you chose for your lot when you took my Eve. I crucified myself when I married her mother, and now the iron enters your side.' He paused; he was point- ing at Ignatius with out-thrust finger, and the shadow seemed to enj;er Ignatius against the wall. * The blood that begins to fiow will not cease to run till it has all run out.' Again he paused. The arms of Jordan fell. ' So she has left you,' muttered the stranger, ' she has gone back to the world, to its pomps and vanities, its lusts, its lies, its laughter. Gone back to the players and dan- cers.' Jordan nodded ; he could not speak. ' Dead to every call of duty,' Babb continued with a scowl on his brow, * dead to everything but the cravings of a cankered heart ; dead to the love of lawful gain ; alive to wantonness, and music, and glitter. Sit down, and I will tell you the story of my folly, and you shall tell me the tale of yours.' He looked imperiously at Jordan, who sank into his chair beside the cradle. * I will light my pipe.' Ezekiel Babb struck a light with flint and steel. ' We have made a like experience, I with the mother, you with the daughter. Why are you downcast ? Bejoice if she has set you free. The mother never did that for me. Did you marry her ? ' The pale man opened his mouth, and spread out, then clasped, his hands nervously, but said nothing. ' I am not deaf that I should be addressed in signs,' said Babb. * Did you marry my daughter ? ' * No.' * The face of heaven was turned on you,' said Babb discontentedly, ' and not on me. I committed myself, and could not break off the yoke. I married.' 6 £VE The child in the cradle began to stir. Jordan rocked it with his foot. ' I will tell you all,' the visitor continued. ' I was a young man when I first saw Eve — not your Eve, but her mother. I had gone into Totnes, and I stood by the cloth market at the gate to the church. It was the great fair- day. There were performers in the open space before the market. I had seen nothing like it before. What was performed I do not recall. I saw only her. 'I thought her richly, beautifully dressed. Her beauty shone forth above all. She had hair like chestnut, and brown eyes, a clear, thin skin, and was formed deUcately as no girl of this country and stock. I knew she was of foreign blood. A carpet was laid in the market-place, and she danced on it to music. It was lil^e a flame flickering, not a girl dancing. She looked at me out of her large eyes, and I loved her. It was witchcraft, the work of the devil. The fire went out of her eyes and burnt to my marrow ; it ran in my veins. That was witchcraft, but I did not think it then. There should have been a heap of wood raised and fired, and she cast into the flames. But our lot is fallen in evil days. The word of the Lord is nc longer precious, and the Lord has said, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." That was witchcraft. How else was it that I gave no thought to Tamsine Bovey, of Buncombe, till it was too late, though Buncombe joins my land, and so Buncombe was lost to me for ever ? Quiet that child if you want to hear more. Hah I Your Eve has deserted you and her babe, but mine had not the good heart to leave me.' The child in the cradle whimpered. The pale man lifted it out, got milk and fed it. with trembling hand, but tenderly, and it dozed off in his arms. ' A girl ? ' asked Babb. Jordan nodded. ' Another Eve — a third Eve ? ' Jordan nodded again. 'Another generation of furious, fiery blood to work con- fusion, to breed desolation. Wheil will the earth open her MORWELL 7 mouth and swallow it up, that it defile no more the habi- tations of Israel ? ' Jordan drew the child to his heart, and pressed it so passionately that it woke and cried. ' Still the child or I will leave the house,' said Ezekiel Babb. * You would do well to throw a wet cloth over its mouth, and let it smother itself before it work woe on you and others. When it is quiet, I will proceed.' He paused. When the cries ceased he went on.: *I watched Eve as she danced. I could not leave the spot. Then a rope was fastened and stretched on high, and she was to walk that. A false step would have dashed her to the ground. I could not bear it. When her foot was on the ladder, I uttered a great cry and ran forward ; I caught her, I would not let her go. I was young then.' He remained silent, smok- ing, and loolung frowningly before him. ' I was not a converted man then. Afterwards, when the word of God was precious to me, and I saw that I might have had Tam- sine Bovey, and Buncombe, then I was sorry and ashamed. But it was too late. The eyes of the unrighteous are sealed. I was a fool. I married that dancing girl.' He was silent again, and looked moodily at his pipe. * I have let the fire die out,' he said, and rekindled as before. * I cannot deny that she was a good wife. But what availed it me to have a woman in the house who could dance like a feather, and could not make scald cream? What use to me a woman who brought the voice of a nightingale with her into the house, but no money ? She knew nothing of the work of a household. She had bones like those of a pigeon, there was no strength in them. I had to hire women to do her work, and she was thriftless and thoughtless, so the money went out when it should have come in. Then she bore me a daughter, and the witchery was not off me, so I called her Eve — that is your Eve, and after that she gave me sons, and then ' — angrily — • then, when too late, she died. Why did she not die half a year before Tamsine Bovey married Joseph Warm- 8 EVE ington ? If she had, I might still have got Buncombe — now it is gone, gone for ever.' He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and put it into his pocket. ' Eve was her mother's darling ; she was brought up like a heathen to love play and pleasure, not work and duty. The child sucked in her mother's nature with her mother's milk. "When the mother died, Eve — ^your Eve — waa a grown girl, and I suppose home became unendurable to her. One day some play actors passed through the place on their way from Exeter, and gave a performance in our village. I found that my daughter, against my command, went to see it. When she came home, I took her into the room where is my great Bible, and I beat her. Then she ran away, and I saw no more of her ; whether she went after the play actors or not I never inquired. ' * Did you not go in pursuit ? ' ' Why should I ? She would have run away again. Time passed, and the other day I chanced to come across a large party of strollers, -when I was in Plymouth on busi- ness. Then I learned from the manager about my child, and so, for the first time, heard where she was. Now tell me how she came iiere.' Ignatius Jordan raised himself in his chair, and swept back the hair that had fallen over his bowed face and hands. • It is passed and over,' he said. ' Let me hear all. I must know all,' said Babb. ' She is my daughter. Thanks be, that we are not called to task for the guilt of our children. The soul that sinneth it shall surely die. She had light and truth set before her on one side as surely as she had darkness and Ues on the other, Ebal and Gerizim, and she went after Ebal. It was in her bloc I. She drew it of her mother. One vessel is for honour — such am I ; another for dishonour — such are all the Eves from the first to the last, that in your arms. Veseels of wwtb, orclaiwed to be broken, Ah I you may MORIVELL 9' cherish that little creature in your arms. You may strain it to your heart, you may wrap it round with love, hut it ia in vain that you seek to save it, to shelter it. It is way- ward, wanton, wicked clay ; ordained from eternity to be broken. I stood between the first Eve and the shattering that should have come to her. That is the cause of all my woes. Where is the second Eve ? Broken in soul, broken may-be in body. There lies the third, ordained to be broken.' He folded his arms, was silent a while, and then said : * Tell me your tale. How came my daughter to your house ? ■ CHAPTER II. THE LITTLE MOTHER. 'Last Christmas twelvemonth/ said Ignatius Jordan slowly, ' I was on the moor — Morwell Down it is called. Night was falling. The place — where the road comes along over the down, from Beer Alston and Beer Ferris. I dare say you came along it, you took boat firom Ply- mouth to Beer Ferris, and thence the wa} runs — the packmen travel it — to the north to Launceston. It was stormy weather, and the snow drove hard ; the wind was so high that a man might hardly face it. I heard cries for help. I found a party of players who were on their way to Launceston, and were caught by the storm and darkness on the moor. They had a sick girl with them ' His voice broke down. * Eve? ' asked Ezekiel Babb. Jordan nodded. After a pause he recovered himself and went on. ' She could walk no further, and the party was distressed, not knowing whither to gc or what to do. I invited them to come here. Tjil house is large enough to hold a score of people. Next day I set them on their way forward, as they were pressed to be at Launceston for the Christmas holidays, 3ut the girl was too ill to 10 EVE proceed, and I offered to let her remain here till she re- covered. After a week had passed the actors sent here from Lannceston to learn how she was, and whether she could rejoin them, as they were going forward to Bodmin, hilt she was not sufHciently recovered. Then a month later, they sent again, but though. she was better I would not let her go. After that we heard no more of the players. So she remained at Morwell, and I loved her, and she became my wife.' ' You said that you did riot marry her.' ' No, not exactly. This is a place qmte out of the world, a lost, unseen spot. I am a Catholic, and no priest comes this way. There is the ancient chapel here where the Abbot of Tavistock had mass in the old time. It is bare, but the altar remains, and though no priest ever comes here, the altar is a GathoUc altar. Eve and I went into the old chapel and took hands before the altar, and I gave her a ring, and we swore to be true to each other ' — his voice shook, and then a sob broke from his breast. ' We had no priest's blessing on us, that is true. But Eve would never tell me what her name was, or whence she came. If we had gone to Tavistock or Brent Tor to be married by a Protestant minister, she would have been forced to tell her name and parentage, and that, she said, nothing would induce her to do. It mattered not, we thought. We lived here out of the world, and to me the vow was as sacred when made here as if confirmed before a minister of the established religion. We swore to be all in all to each other.' He clasped his hands on his knees, and went on with bent head: 'But the play-actors returned and were in Tavistock last week, and one of them came up here to see her, not openly, but in secret. She told me nothing, and he did not allow me to see him. She met him alone several times. This place is solitary and sad, and Eve of a lively nature. She tired of being hf're. She wearied of me.' THE LITTLE MOTHER ti Babb laughed bitterly. ' And now she is flown away with a play-actor. As she deserted her father, she de- serts her husband and child, and the house that housed her. See you,' he put out his hand and grasped the cradle : ' Here lies vanity of vanities, the pomps of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride 5 life, nestled in that crib, that self-same strain of leaping, headlong, wayward blood, that never will rest till poured out of the veins and rolled down into the ocean, and lost — lost — ^lost I ' Jordan sprang from his seat with a gasp and a stifled cry, and fell back against the wall. Babb stooped over the cradle and plucked out the child. He ^> ing together. I do not know it.' ' Then I will tell you. Listen, Bab, and shiver.' ' I am shivering in the cold wind already.' ' Shiver more shiveringly still. I am going to curdle your blood.' ' Go on with the story, but do not squeeze up against me so close, or I ihall be pushed out of the gig.' ' But, Bab, I am frightened to tell the tale.' • Then do not tell it.' • I want to frighten you.' • You are very considerate.' ' We share all things, Bab, even our terrors. I am a loving sister. Once I gave you the measles. I was too selfish to keep it all to myself. Are you ready ? Grace toid me that OLver Cloberry, the eldest son, was page boy to John Copi^estone, of Warleigh, iu Queen Elizabeth's reign, you know — wicked Queen Bess, who put so many Catholics to death. Squire Copplestone was his godfather, but he did not Uke the boy, though he was his godchild and page. The reason was this : he was much attached to Joan Hill, who refused him and married Squire Clo- ^ berry, of Bradstone, instead. The lady tried to keep friendly with her old admirer, and asked him to stand god- father to her first boy, and then take him as his page ; but Copplestone was a man who long bore a grudge, and the boy grew up the image of his father, and so — Copple- stone hated him. One day, when Copplestone was going w 20 £y£ il <>'! f iii 1 out hunting, he called for his stirrup cup, and young Clo- berry ran and brought it to him. But as the squire raised the wine to his lips he saw a spider in it ; and in a rage he dashed the cup and the contents in the face of the boy. He hit Oliver Cloberry on the brow, and when the boy staggered to his feet, he muttered something. Copplestone heard him, and called to nim to speak out, if he were not a coward. Then the lad exclaimed, *' Mother did well to throw you over for my father." Some who stood by laughec\ and Copplestone flared up ; the boy, afraid at what he had said, turned to go, then Copplestone threw his hunting dagger at him, and it struck him in the back, entered his heart, and he fell dead. Do you believe this story, Bab ? ' * There is some truth in it, I know. Prince, in his "Worthies," says that Copplestone only escaped losing his head for the murder by the surrender of thirteen manors.' ' That is not all,' Eve continued ; * now comes the creepy part of the story.* Grace Cloberry told me that every stormy night the Whish Hounds run over the downs, breathing fire, pursuing Copplestone, from Warleigh to Bradstone, and that the murdered boy is mounted behind Copplestone, and stabs him in the back all along the way. Do you believe this ? ' * Most assuredly not.' * Why should yon not, Bab ? Don't you think that a man like Copplestone would be unable to rest in his grave ? Would not that be a terrible purgatory for him to be hunted night after night ? Grace told me that old Squire Cloberry rides and blows his horn to egg-on the Whish Hounds, and Copplestone has a black horse, and he strikes • spurs into its sides when the boy stabs him in the back, and screams with pain. When the Judgment Day comes, then only will his rides be over. I am ^re I believe it all, Bab. lu is so horrible.' * It is altogether false, a foolish superstition.' HllilH THE WHISH-HUNT 21 'Look there, do you see, Bab, we are at the white stone with the cross cut in it that my father put up where he first saw my mother. Is it not strange that no one knows whence my mother came? You remember her just a little. Whither did my mother g'^ ? ' ' I do not know, Eve.' 'There, again, Bab. Yoa who sneer and toss your chin when I speak of anything out of the ordinary, must admit this to be passing wonderful. My mother came, no one knows whence; she went, no one knows whither. After that, is it hard to believe in the Whish Hounds, and Black Copplestone ? ' * The things are not to be compared,' * Your mother was buried at Buckland, and I have seen her grave. You know that her body is there, and that her soul is in heaven. But as for mine, I do not even know whether she had a human soul.' ' Eve ! "What do you mean ? ' ' I have read and heard tell of such things. She may have been a wood-spirit, an elf-maid. Whoever she was, whatever she was, my father loved her. He loves her still. I can see that. He seems to me to have her ever in his thoughts.' ' Yes,' said Barbara sadly, ' he never visits my mother's grave ; I alone care for the flowers there.' ' I can look into his heart,' said Eve. ' He loves me so dearly because he loved my mother dearer still.' Barbara made no remark to this. Then Eve, in her changeful mood, went back to the former topic of conversation. ' Thinl^, think, Bab ! of Black Copplestone riding nightly over these wastes on his black mare, with her tail streaming behind, and the Uttle page standing on the crupper, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing ; and the Whish Hounds behind, giving tongue, and Squire Cloberry in the rear urging them on with his horn. Bab 1 I am 0ure father believes in this, I should die of feai' were 22 EVE m Gopplestone hunted by dogs to pass this way. Hold! Hark ! ' she almost screamed. The wind was behind them ; they heard a call, then the tramp of horses' feet. Barbara even was for the moment startled, and drew the gig aside, off the road upon the common. A black cloud had rolled over the sickle of the moon, and obscured its feeble light. Eve could neither move nor speak. She quaked at Barbara's side like an aspen. In another moment dark figures of men and horses were visible, advancing at full gallop along the road. The dull cob the sisters were driving plunged, backed, and was filled with panic. Then the moon shone out, and a faint, ghastly light fell on the road, and they could see the black figures sweeping along. Th^re were two horses, one some way ahead of the other, and two riders, the first with slouched hat. But what was that crouched on the crup- per, clinging to the first rider ? As he swept past, Eve distinguished the imp-like form of a boy. That wholly unnerved her. She uttered a piercing shriek, and clasped her hands over her eyes. The first horse had passed, the second was abreast of the girls when that cry rang out. The horse plunged, and in a moment horse and rider crashed down, and appeared to dissolve into the ground. CHAPTEB IV. CiR ! ,'1 i eve's ring. Some moments elapsed before Barbara recovered her sur- prise, then she spoke a word of encouragement to Eve, who was in an ecstasy of terror, and tried to disengage herself from her arms, and master the frightened horse Bufliciently to allow her to descend, A thorn tree tortured EVE'S RING n by the winds stood solitary at a little distance, at a mound which indicated the presence of a former embankment. Barbara brought the cob an i gig to it, there descended, and fastened the horse to the tree. Then she helped her sister out of the vehicle. 'Do not be alarmed, Eve. There is nothing here supernatural to dismay you, only a pair of farmers who have been drinking, and one has tumbled off his horse. We must see that he has not broken his neck.' But Eve clung to her in frantic terror, and would not allow her to disengage herself. In the meantime, by the sickle moon, now sailing clear of the clouds, they could see that the first rider had reined in his horse and turned. * Jasper ! ' he called, * what is the matter ? ' No answer came. He rode back to the spot where the second horse had fallen, and dismounted. ' What has happened ? ' screamed the boy. ' I must get down also.' The man who had dismounted pointed to the white stone and said, ' Hold the horse and stay there till you are wanted. I must see what cursed mischance has befallen Jasper.* Eve was somewhat reassured at the sound of human voices, and she allowed Barbara to release herself, and advance into the road. ' Who are you ? ' asked the horseman. * Only a girl. Can I help ? Is the man hurt ? * ' Hurt, of course. He hasn't fallen into a feather bed, or — by good luck — into a furze brake.' The horse that had fallen struggled to rise. ' Out of the way,' said the inan, ' I must see that the brute does not trample on him.' He helped the horse to his feet ; the animal was much shaken and trembled, • Hold the bridle, girl.' Barbara obeyed. Then the man went to his fallen comrade and spoke to him, but received no answer. He raised his arms, and tried if any bones were broken, then he put his hand to the heart. ' Give M EV^ ,,!"■ I II the boy the bridle, and come here, you giri. Help me to loosen his neck-cloth. Is there water near ? ' * None ; we are at the highest point of the moor.' * Damn it ! There is water everywhere in over-abund- ance in this country, except where it is wanted.' * He is ahve,' said Barbara, kneeling and raising the head of the prostrate, insensible man. ' He is stunned, but he breathes.' * Jasper ! ' shouted the man who was unhurt, ' for God's sake, wake up. You know I can't remain here all night.' No response. ' This is desperate. I must press forward. Fatalities always occur when most inconvenient. I was bom to ill- luck. No help, no refuge near.' ' I am by as help ; my home not far distant,' said Bar- bara, * for a refuge.' * yes — you ! What sort of help is that ? Your house ! I can't diverge five miles out of my road for that.' ' We live not half an hour from this point.' * yes — half an hour multiplied by ten. You women don't know how to calculate distances, or give a decent direction.' ' The blood is flowing from his head,' said Barbara : ' it is cut. He has fallen on a stone.' * What the devil is to be done ? I cannot stay.' * Sir,' so id Barbara, * of course you stay by your com- rade. Do you think to leave him half dead at night to the custody of two girls, strangers, on a moor V ' * You don't understand,' answered the man ; ' I cannot and I will not stay.' He put his hand to his head. ' How far to your home ? ' *I have told you, half-an-hour.' ' Honoiu: bright — no more ? ' ' I said, half-an-hour.' * Good God, Watt ! always a fool ? • He turned sharply towards the lad who was seated on the stone. The boy £V£*S kINCr 25 bad unslung a violin from his back, taken it from its case, bad placed it under bis chin, and drawn tbe bow across the strings. * Have done, Watt I Let go the horses, have you ? What a fate it is for a man to be cumbered with helpless, useless companions.' * Jasper's horse is lame,' answered the boy, * so I have tied the two together, the sound and the cripple, and neither can get away.' ' Like me with Jasper. Damnation — ^but I must go t I dare not stay.' The boy swung his bow in the moonlight, and above the raging of the wind rang out the squeal of the instru- ment. Eve looked at him, scared. He seemed some goblin perched on the stone, trying with his magic fiddle to work a spell on all who heard its tones. The boy satisfied himself that Iiis violin was in order, and then put it once more in its case, and cast it over his back. ' How is Jasper ? ' he shouted ; but the man gave him no answer. ' Half-an-hour ! Half an eternity to me,' growled the man. ' However, one is doomed to sacrifice self for others. I will take him to your house and leave him there. Who live at your house ? Are there many men there ? ' * There is only old Christopher Davy at the lodge, but he is ill with rheumatics. My father is away.' Barbara regretted having said this the moment the words escaped her. The stranger looked about him uneasily, then up at the moon. * I can't spare more than half-an-hour.' Then Barbara said undauntedly, • No man, under any circumstances, can desert a fellow in distress, leaving him, perhaps, to die. You must lift him into our gig, and we will convey him to Morwell. Then go your way if you will. My sister and I wUl take charge of him, and do our best for him till you can return.' ' Betum 1 ' muttered the man scornfully. ' Christian It I / Hi li I '11 I III 26 nvE 1 I cast his burden before the cross. He didn't return to pick it up again.' Barbara waxed vyrroth. * If the accident had happened to you, would your 'riend have excused himself and deserted you ? ' ' Oh ! ' exclaimed the man carelessly, ' of course he would not.' * Yet you are eager to leave him.* * You do not understand. The cases are widely dif- ferent.' He went to the horses. * Halloo ! ' he exclaimed as he now noticed Eve. * Another girl springing out of the turf ! Am I among pixies ? Turn your face more to the Hght. On my oath, and I am a judge, you are a beauty ! ' Then he tried the horse that had fallen ; it halted. * The brute is fit for dogs' meat only,' he said. ' Let the fox- hounds eat him. Is that your gig ? We can never lift my brother ' * Is he your brother ? ' * We can -".ever pull him up into that conveyance. No, we must get him astride my horse ; you hold him on one side, I on the other, and so we shall get on. Gome here, Watt, and lend a hand ; you help also, Beauty, and see what you can do,' With difficulty the insensible man was raised into the saddle. He seemed to gather some slight consciousness when mounted, for he muttered ^^omething about pushing on. ' You go round on the further side of the horse,' said the maii imperiously to Barbara. * You seem strong in the arm, possibly stronger than I am. Beauty ! lead the horse.' ' The boy can do that,' said Barbara. * He don't know the way,' answered the man. • Let him come on with your old rattletrap. Upon m^ word, if Beauty were to throw a bridle over my head, I would be content to follow her through the world.' Thus they went on ; the violence of the gale had some* in ill EVE'S RING Vf what abated, but it produced a roar among the heather and gorse of the moor like that of the sea. Eve, as com- manded, went before, holding the bridle. Her movements were easy, her lorm was graceful. She tripped lightly along with elastic step, unlike the firm tread of her sister. But then Eve was only leading, and Barbara was sustaining. For some distance no one spoke. It was not easy to speak so as to be heard, without raising the voice ; and now the way led towards the oaks and beeches and pines about Morwell, and the roar among the branches was fiercer, louder than that among the bushes of furze. Presently the man cried imperiously * Halt ! ' and stepping forward caught the bit and roughly arrested the horse. ' I am certain we are followed.' * What if we are ? ' asked Barbara. * What if we are ! ' echoed the man. * Why, everything to me.' He put his hands against the injured man ; Bar- bara was sure he meant to thrust him out of the saddle, leap into it himself, and make off. She said, ' We are followed by the boy with our gig.' Then he laughed. • Ah I I forgot that. When a man has money about him and no firearms, he is nervous in such a blast-blown desert as this, where girls who may be decoys pop out of every furze bush.' ' Lead on, Eve^' said Barbara, affronted at his insolence. She was unable to resist the impulse to say, across the horse, ' You are not ashamed to let two girls see that you are a coward.' ■ The man struck his arm across the crupper of the horse, caught her bonnet-string and tore it away. ' I will beat your brains out against the saddle if you insult me.' * A coward is always cruel,' answered Barbara ; as she said this she stood off, lest he should strike again, but he took no notice of her ?ast words, perhaps had not caught them. She said no more, deeming it unwise to provoke Buch a man. 28 EVE Presently, turning his head, he asked, ' Did you call that girl— Eve ? * * Yes ; she is my sister.* * That is odd,' remarked the man. ' Eve ! Eve ! * * Did you call me ? ' asked the young girl who was leading. ' I was repeating your name, sweet as your face.* ' Go on, Eve,' said Barbara. The path descended, and became rough with stones. ' He is moving,' said Barbara. ' He said something.' * Martin ! ' spoke the injured man. * I am at your side, Jasper.' * I am hurt— where am I ? ' ' I cannot tell you ; heaven knows. In some God- forgotten waste.' * Do not leave me ! * ' Never, Jasper.' * You promise me ? * * With all my heart.* * I must trust you, Martin, — trust you.' Then he said no more, and sank back into half-con- sciousness. * How much farther ? ' asked the man who walked. ' I call this a cursed long half-hour. To women time is nought; but every moment to me is of consequence. I must push on.' ' You have just promised not to desert your friend, your brother.' ' It pacified him, and sent him to sleep again.* ' It was a promise.' ' You promise a child the moon when it cries; but it never gets it. How much farther ? ' * We are at Morwell. They issued from the lane, and were before the old gatehouse of Morwell ; a light shone through the window over the entrance door. EVE'S RING 39 'Old Davy is up there, ill. He cannot come down. The gate is open ; we will go in,' said Barbara. ' I am glad we are here,' said the man called Martin ; * now we must bestir ourselves.' Thoughtlessly he struck the horse with his whip, and the beast started, nearly precipitating the rider to the ground. The man on it groaned. The injured man was lifted down. ' Eve ! ' said Barbara, ' run in and tell Jane to come out, and see that a bed be got ready at once, in the lower room.' Presently out came a buxom womanservant, and with her assistance the man was taken ofif the horse and carried indoors. A bedroom was on the ground-floor opening out of the hall. Into this Eve led the way with a light, and the patient was laid on a bed hastily made ready for his reception. His coat was removed, and Barbara examined the head. ' Here is a gash to the bone,' she said, ' and much blood is flowing from it. Jane, come with me, and we will get what is necessary.' Martin was left alone in the room with Eve and the man called Jasper. Martin moved, so that the light fell over her ; and he stood contemplating her with wonder and admiration. She was marvellously beautiful, slender, not taU, and perfectly proportioned. Her hair was of the richest auburn, full of gloss and warmth. She had the exquisite complexion that so often accompanies hair of this colour. Her eyes were large and blue. The pure oval face was set on a delicate neck, round which hung a ker- chief, which she now untied and cast aside. • How lovely you are ! ' said Martin. A rich blush overspread her cheek and throat, and tinged her little ears. Her eyes fell. His look was bold. Then, almost unconscious of what he was doing, as an ftct of homage, Martin removed his slouched hat, and for Ilj 30 EVE the first time Eve saw what he was like, when she timidly raised her eyes. With surprise she saw a young face. The man with the imperious manner was not much above twenty, and was remarkably handsome. He had dark hair, a pale skin, very large, soft dark eyes, velvety, en- closed within dark lashes. His nose was regular, the nostrils delicately arched and chiselled. His lip was fringed with a young moustache. There was a remarkable refinement and tenderness in the face. Eve could hardly withdraw her wondering eyes from him. Such a face she had never seer , never even dreamed of as possible. Here was a type of masculine beauty that transcended all her imaginings. She had met very few young men, and those she did meet were somewhat uncouth, addicted to the stable and the kennel, and redolent of both, more at home follow- ing the hounds or shooting than associating with ladies. There was so much of innocent admiration in the gaze of simple Eve that Martin was flattered, and smiled. * Beauty 1 ' he said, * who would have dreamed to have stumbled on the likes of you on the moor ? Nay, rather let me bless my stars that I have been vouchsafed the privilege of meeting and speaking with a real fairy. It is said that you must never encounter a fairy without taking of her a reminiscence, to be a charm through life.' Suddenly he put his hand to her throat. She had a delicate blue riband about it, disclosed when she cast aside her kerchief. He put his finger between the riba>iid and her throat, and pulled. 'You are strangling me I' exclaimed Eve, shrinking away, alarmed at his boldness. ' I care not,' he replied, • this I will have.' He wrenched at and broke the riband, and then drew it from her neck. As he did so a gold ring fell on the floor. He stooped, picked it up, and put it on his little finger. ' Look,' said he with a laugh, ' my hand is so small, my fingers so slim — I can wear this ring.' •11 EVE'S mNG IX ' Give it me back I Let me have it ! You must not take it 1 ' Eve was greatly agitated and alarmed. ' I may not part with it. It was my mother's.' Then, with the same daring insolence with which he had taken the ring, he caught the girl to him, and kissed her. CHAPTER V. THE LIMPINQ HOBSE. Eve drew herself away with a cry of anger and alarm, and with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. At that moment her sister returned with Jane, and immediately Martin re- assumed his hat with broad brim. Barbara did not notice the excitement of Eve ; she had not observed the incident, because she entered a moment too late to do so, and no suspicion that the stranger would presume to take such a liberty crossed her mind. Eve stood back behind the door, with hands on her bosom to control its furious beating, and with head de- pressed to conceal the heightened colour. Barbara and the maid stooped over the unconscious man, and whilst Martin held a light, they dressed and bandaged his head. Presently his eyes opened, a flicker of intelligence passed through them, they rested on Martin; a smile for< a moment kindled the face, and the lips moved. ' He wants to speak to you,' said Barbara, noticing the direction of the eyes, and the expression that came into them. ' "What do you want, Jasper ? ' asked Martin, putting his hand on that of the other. The candle-light fell on the two hands, and Barbara noticed the contrast. That of M&rtin was delicate as the hand of a woman, narrow, with taper Angers, and white ; that of Jasper was strong, darkened by exposure. ' I ill i i 32 EVE ' Will you be so good as to undress him/ said Barbara, ' and put him to bed ? My sister will assist me in the kitchen. Jane, if you desire help, is at your service.' ' Yes, go,' said Martin, ' but return speedily, as I can- not stay many minutes.' Then the girls left the room. * I do not want you,' he said roughly to the serving woman. ' Take yourself off ; when I need you I will call. No prying at the door.' He went after her, thrust Jane forth and shut the door behind her. Then he returned to Jasper, removed his clothes, somewhat ungently, with hasty hands. When his waistcoat was off, Martin felt in the inner breast-pocket, and drew from it a pocket-book. He opened it, and transferred the contents to his own purse, then replaced the book and proceeded with the un- dressing. When Jasper was divested of his clothes, and laid at his ease in the bed, his head propped on pillows, Martin went to the door and called the girls. He was greatly agitated, Barbara observed it. His lower lip trembled. Eve hung back in the kitchen, she could not return. Martin said in eager tones, ' I have done for him all I can, now I am in haste to be o£f.' * But,' remonstrated Barbara, ' he is your brother.' * My brother ! ' laughed Martin. * He is no relation of mine. He is nought to me and I am naught to him.' * You called him your brother.' ' That was tantamount to comrade. All sons of Adam are brothers, at least in misfortune. I do not even know the fellow's name,' * Why,' said Barbara, * this is very strange. You call him Jasper, and he named you Martin.' * Ah I ' said the man hesitatingly, * we are chance travellers, riding along the same road. He asked my name and I gave it him — my surname. I am a Mr. Mar- tin — he mistook me ; and in exchange he gave me his Christian name. That is how I knew it. If anyone asks i! THE LIMPING HORSE 33 about this evont, you can say that Mr. Martin passed this way and halted awhile at your house, on liis road to Tavi- stock. ' You are going to Tavistock ? * . . • Yes, that is my destination.' • In that case I will not seek to detain you. Call up Doctor Crooke and send him here.* ' I will do so. You furnish me with an additional motive for haste to depart.' • Go,' said Barbara. ' God grant the poor man may not die.' • Die ! pshaw 1 die ! ' exclaimed Martin. • Men aren't such brittle ware as that pretty sister of yours. A fall from a horse don't kill a man. If it did, fox-hunting would not be such a popular sport. To-morrow, or the day after, Mr. Jasper "What's-his-name will be on his feet again. Hush I What do I hear ? ' His cheek turned pale, but Barbara did not see it ; he kept his face studiously away from the light. • Your horse which you hitched up outside neighed, that is all.' ' That is a great deal. It would not neigh at nothing.' He went out. Barbara told the maid to stay by the sick man, and went after Martin, She thought that in all probability the boy had arrived driving the gig. Martin stood irresolute in the doorway. The horse that had borne the injured man had been brought into the courtyard, and hitched up at the hall door. Martin looked across the quadrangle. The moon was shining into it. A yellow glimmer came from the sick porter's window over the great gate. The large gate was arched, a laden waggon might pass under it. It was unprovided with doors. Through it the moonlight could be seen on the paved ground in front of the old lodge. A. sound of horse- hoofs was audible approaching slowly, uncertainly, on the stony ground ; but no wheels. -< ■rv'i^<"Wf n ! 34 EVE 1 ! Ill • What can the bey have done with our gig ? * asked Barbara. • Will you be quiet ? ' exclaimed Martin angrily. ' I protest — you are trembling,' she said. < May not a man shiver when he is cold ? ' answered the man, She saw him shrink back into the shadow of the entrance as something appeared in the moonlight outside the gatehouse, indistinctly seen, moving strangely. Again the horse neighed. They saw the figure come on haltingly out of the light into the blackness of the shadow of the gate, pass through, and emerge into the moonlight of the court. Then both saw that the lame horse that had been deserted on the moor had followed, limping and slowly, as it was in pain, after the other horse. Barbara went at once to the poor beast, saying, * I will put you in a stall,* but in another moment she returned with a bundle in her hand. 'What have you there?' asked Martin, who was mounting his horse, pointing with his whip to what she carried. • I found this strapped to the saddle.* ' Give it to me.' ' It does not belong to you. It belongs to the other — to Jasper.' ' Let me look through the bundle ; perhaps by that means we may discover his name.' •I will examine it when you are gone. I will not detain you ; ride on for the doctor.' ' I insist on having that bundle,' said Martin. • Give it me, or I will strike you.' He raised his whip. ' Only a coward would strike a woman. I will not give you the bundle. It is not yours. As you said, this man Jasper is naught to you, nor you to him.' ' I will have it,' he said with a curse, and stooped from the saddle to wrench it from her hands. Barbara was too !l!!|!« m\m THE LIMPING HORSE 35 quick for him ; she stepped back into the doorway and slammed the door upon him, and bolted it. He uttered an ugly oath, then turned and rode through the courtyard. ' After all,' he said, * what does it matter? We were fools not to be rid of it before.' As he passed out of the gatehouse, he saw Eve in the moonlight, approaching timidly. * You must give me back my ring I ' she pleaded ; * you have no right to keep it.' * Must I, Beauty ? Where is the compulsion? * * Indeed, indeed you must.' ' Then I will — but not nowr ; at some day in the future, when we meet again.' * give it me now I It belonged to my mother, and she is dead.' 'Come! What will you give me for it? Another kiss?' Then from close by burst a peal of impish laughter, and the boy bounded out of the shadow of a yew tree into the moonlight. * Halloo, Martin I always h.'j,nging over a pretty face, detained by it when you should be galloping. I've upset the gig and broken it ; give me my place again on the crupper.' He ran, leaped, and in an instant was behind Martin. The horse bounded away, and Eve heard the clatter of the hoofs as it galloped up the lane to the moor. CHAPTER VI. A BUNDLE OF CLOTHES. Babbara Jobdan sat by the sick man with her knitting on her lap, and her eyes fixed on his face. He was asleep, and the sun would have shone full on him had she not drawn a red curtain across the window, which subdued n 36 EVE the light, and diffused a warm glow over the bed. He W9 s breathing calmly ; danger was over. On the morning after the eventful night, Mr. Jordan had returned to Morwell, and had been told what had happened— at least, the major part — and had seen the sick man. He, Jasper, was then still unconscious. The doctor from Tavistock had not arrived. The family awaited him all day, and Barbara at last suspected that Martin had not taken the trouble to deliver her message. She did not like to send again, expecting him hourly. Then a doubt rose in her mind whether Doctor Crooke might not have refused to come. Her father had made some slighting remarks about him in company lately. It was possibl'i that these had been repeated and the doctor had taken umuxage. The day passed, and as he did not arrive, and as the sick man remained unconscious, on the second morning Barbara sent a foot messenger to Beer Alston, where was a certain Mr. James Coyshe, surgeon, a young man, reputed to be able, not long settled there. The gig was broken, and the cob in trying to escape from the upset vehicle had cut himself about the legs, and was unfit for a journey. The Jordans had but one carriage horse. The gig lay wrecked in the lane ; the boy had driven it against a gate-post of granite, and smashed the axle and the splashboard and a wheel. Coyshe arrived ; he was a tall young man, witi' h '>.r cut very short, very large light whiskers, prominent eyor . and-^big protruding ears. ' He is suffering from congestion of the brain,' said the surgeon ; ' if he does not awake to-morrow, order his grave to be dug.' • Can you do nothing for him ? ' asked Miss Jordan. ' Nothing better than leave him in your hands,' said Coyshe with a bow. This was all that had passed between Barbara and the doctor. Now the third day was gone, and the man's brain bad recovered from the pressure on it, A BVNttL^ OF CL6Tim$ Hi As Barbara knitted, she stole many a glance at Jasper's face ; presently, finding that she had dropped stitches and made false counts, she laid her knitting in her lap, and watched the sleeper with imdivided attention and with a face fall of perplexity, as though trying to read the answer to a question which puzzled her, ard not finding the answer where she sought it, or finding it different from what she anticipated. In appearance Barbara was very different from her sister. Her face was round, her complexion olive, her eyes very dark. She was strongly built, without grace of form, a sound, hearty girl, hale to her heart's core. She was not beautiful, her features were without chisel- ling, but her abundant hair, her dark eyes, and the sensible, honest expression of her face redeemed it from plainness. She had practical common sense; Eve had beauty. Barbara was content with the distribution ; per- fectly satisfied to believe herself destitute of personal charms, and ready to excuse every act of thoughtlessness committed by her sister. Barbara rose from her seat, laid aside the knitting, and went to a carved oak box that stood against the wall, ornamented with the figure of a man in trunk hose, with a pair of eagles' heads in the place of a human face. She raised the lid and looked in. Thr-^e lay, neatly folded, the contents of Jasper's bundle, a coarse grey and yellow suit — a suit so peculiar in cut and colour that there was no mistaking whence it had come, and what he was who had worn it. Barbara shut the chest and returned to her place, and her look was troubled. Her eyes were again fixed on the sleeper. His face was noble. It was pale from loss of blood. The hair was black, the eyes were closed, but the lashes were long and dark. His nose was aquiline without being over-strongly characterised, his lips were thin and well moulded. The face, even in sleep, bore an expression of gravity, dignity, and integrity. Barbara found it hard to associate such a face with crime, and yet how else could 1 1 II I ',:»' l! ii 38 £V1 she account for that convict garb she had fouucl rolled up and strapped to his saddle, and which she had laid in the trunk? Prisoners escaped now and again from «L: great jail on Dartmoor. This was one of them. As she sat watching him, puzzling her mind over this, his eyes opened, and he smiled. The smile was remarkably sweet. His eyes were large, dark and soft, and from being sunken through sick- ness, appeared to fill his face. Barbara rose hastily, and, going to the fireplace, brought from it some beef-tea that had been warming at the small fire. She put it to his lips ; he thanked her, sighed, and hi^y back. She said not a word, but resumed her knitting. From this moment their positions were reversed. It was now she who was watched by him. When she looked up, she encountered his dark eyes. She coloured a little, and impatiently turned her chair on one side, so as to con- ceal her face. A couple of minutes after, sensible in every nerve that she was being observed, unable to keep her eyes away, spell-drawn, she glanced at him again. He was still watching her. Then she moved to her former position, bit her Up, frowned, and said, ' Are you in want of anything ? ' , He shook his head. * You are sufficiently yourself to remain alone for a few minutes,' she said, stood up, and left the room. She had the management of the house, and, indeed, of the farm on her hands; her usual assistant in setting the labourers their work, old Christopher Davy, was ill with rheuma- tism. This affair had happened at an untoward moment, but is it not always so ? A full hour had elapsed before Miss Jordan returned. Then she saw that the convales- cent's eyes were closed. He was probably again asleep, and sleep was the best thing for him. She reseated her- self by his bedside, and resumed her knitting. A moment after she was again aware that his eyes were on her. She had herself watched him so intently whilst he was asleep mm A BUNDLE OF CLOTHES 39 that a smile came involuntarily to her lips. She was being repaid in her own coin. The smile encouraged him to speak. * How long have I been here ? ' * Four days.' * Have I been very ill ? ' ' Yes, insensible, sometimes rambling.' * What made me ill ? What ails my head ? * He put his hand to the bandages. * You have had a fall from your horse.' He did not speak for a moment or two. His thoughts moved slowly. After a while he asked, * Where did I fall ? • * On the moor — Morwell Down.* * I can remember nothing. When was it ? ' * Four days ago.' 'Yes — ^you have told me so. I forgot. My head is not clear, there is singing and spinning in it. To-day is- -?' ♦ To-day is Monday.' • What day was that — four days ago ? ' • Thursday.' ' Yes, Thursday. I cannot think to reckon backwards. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. I can go on, but not back- ward. It pains me. I can recall Thursday.' He sighed and turned his head to the :wall. * Thursday night — ^yes, I remember no more.' After a while he turned his head round to Barbara and asked, * Where am I now ? ' * At Morwell House.' He asked no more questions for a quarter of an hour. He was taking in and turning over the information he had received. He lay on his back and closed his eyes. His face was very pale, like marble, but not like marble in this, that across it travelled changes of expression that stirred the muscles. Do what she would Barbara could not keep her eyes off him. The horrible mystery about the man, 40 EVE the lie given to her thoughts of him hy his face, forced her to ohserve him. Presently he opened his eyes, and met hers ; she re- coiled as if smitten with a guilty feeling at her heart. • You have always been with me whilst I was uncon- cious and rambling,' he said earnestly. • I have been a great deal w'th you, but not always. The maid, Jane, and an old womdn who comes in occa- sionally to char, have shared wiiu me the task. You have not been neglected.' ' I know well when you have been by me — and when you have been away. Sometimes I have felt as if I lay on a bank with wild thyme under me—' ' That is because we put thyme with our linen,' said the practical Barbara. He did not notice the explanation, but went on, * And the sun shone on my face, but a pleasant air fanned me. At other times all was dark and hot and miserable. • That was according to the stages of your illness.' ' No, I think I was content when you were in the room, and dist" 3sed when you were away. Some persons exert a mesmeric power of soothing.' • Sick men get strange fancies,' said Barbara. He rose on his elbow, and held out his hand. • I know that I owe my life to you, young lady. Allow me to thank you. My life is of no value to any but myself. I have not hitherto regarded it much. Now I shall esteem it, as saved by you. I thank you. May I touch your hand ? ' He took her fingers and put them to his lips. < This hand is firm and strong,' he said, ' but gentle as the wing of a dove.' She coldly withdrew her fingers. ' Enough of thanks,' she said bluntly. * I did but my duty.' • Was there ' he hesitated — * anyone with me when I was found, or was I alone ? ' • There were two — a man and a boy.' .. » mm: A BUNDLE OF CLOTHES 41 His face became troubled. He began a question, then let it die in his mouth, began another, but could not bring it to an end. ' And they — where are they ? ' he asked at length, * That one called Martin brought you here.' * He did 1 ' exclaimed Jasper, eagerly. ' That is — ^he assisted in bringing you here.' Barbara was so precise and scrupulous about truth, that she felt herself obliged to modify her first assertion. ' Then, when he saw you safe in our hands, he left you.' * Did he — did he say anything about me ? * * Once — but that I suppose was by a slip> he called you brother. Afterwards he asserted that you were nothing to him, nor he to you.' Jasper's face was moved with painful emotions, but it soon cleared, and he said, * Yes, I am nothing to him — no- thing. He is gone. He did well. I was, as he said — and he spoke the truth — nothing to him.' Then, hastily, to turn the subject, • Excuse me. Where am I now ? And, young lady, if you will not think it rude of me to inquire, who are you to whom I owe my poor Ufe?' * This, as I have already said, is Morwell, and I am the daughter of the gentleman who resides in it, Mr. Ignatius Jordan.' He fell back on the bed, a deadly greyness came over his face, he raised his hands : * My God ! my God 1 this is most wonderful. Thy ways are past finding out.' * What is wonderful ? ' asked Barbara. He did not answer, but partially raised himself again in bed. ' Where are my clothes ? ' he asked. ' Which clothes ? ' inquired Barbara, and her voice was hard, and her expression became stern. She hesitated for a moment, then went to the chest and drew forth the suit that had been rolled up on the pommel of the saddle; also that which he had worn when he met with the acci- I' ■iip I i Ipi iNilltl l|i 42 dent, bed. She held one in each hand, and returned to tho * Which ? ' she asked gravely, fixing her eyes on him. He looked from one to the other, and his pale faco turned a chalky white. Then he said in a low tremulous tone, * I want my waistcoat.' She gave it him. He felt eagerly about it, drew the pocltet-book from the breast-pocket, opened it and fell back. * Gone I ' he moaned, ' gone ! * The garment dropped from his fingers upon the floor, his eyes became glassy and fixed, and scarlet spots of colour formed in his cheeks. After this he became feverish, and tossed in his bed, put ills hand to his brow, plucked at the bandages, asked for water, and his pulse qujpkened. Towards evening he seemed conscious that his senses were slipping beyond control. He called repeatedly for the young lady, and Jane, who attended him then, was obliged to fetch Barbara. The sun was setting when she came into the room. She despatched Jane about some task that had to be done, and, coming to the side of the bed, said in a constrained voice, * Yes, what do you require ? I am here.' He lifted himself. His eyes were glowing with fever ; he put out his hand and clasped her wrist ; his band was burning. His lips quivered ; his face was full of a fiery eagerness. ' I entreat you I you are so good, so kind ! You have surprised a secret. I beseech you let no one else into it — no one have a suspicion of it. I am hot. I am in a fever. I am afraid what I may say when others are by me. I would go on my knees to you could I rise. I pray you, I pray you ' he put his hands together, * do not leave me if I become delirious. It is a hard thing to ask. 1 have no claim on you ; but I fear. I would have none but you know what I say, and 1 may say strange things if l!ii A BUNDLE Of CLOTHES 43 toy mind becomes deranged with fever. You f*iel my hand, is it not like a red-hot-coal ? You know that I am likely to wander. Stay by me — in pity — in mercy — for the love of God— for the love of God I ' His hand, a fiery hand, grasped her wrist convulsively. She stood by his bed, greatly moved, much stung with self-reproach. It was cruel of her to act as she had done, to show him that convict suit, and let him see that she knew his vileness. It was heartless, wicked of her, when the poor fellow was just returned to consciousness, to cast him back into his misery and shame by the sight of that degrading garment. Spots of colour came into her cheeks almost as deep as those which burnt in the sick man's face. ' I should have considered he was ill, that he was under my charge,' she said, and laid her left hand on his to intimate that she sought to disengage her wrist from his grasp. At the touch his eyes, less wild, looked pie. dingly at her. ' ' Yes, Mr. Jasper,' she said, ' I * * Why do you call me Mr. Jasper ? ' * That other man gave you the name.* * Yes, my name is Jasper. And yours ? * * Barbara. I am Miss Barbara Jordan.' ' Will you promise what I asked ? ' * Yes,' she said, * I will stay by you all night, and what- ever passes your lips shall never pass mine.' He smiled, and gave a sigh of relief. * How good you are ! How good ! Barbara Jordan.' He did not call her Miss, and she felt slightly piqued. He, a convict, to speak of her thus I But she pacified her wounded pride with the consideration that his mind was disturbed by fever. ; M 44 £:v£ CHAPTER Vn. A NIGHT-WATCH. Babbaba had passed her word to remain all night with the sick man, should he prove delirious ; she was scrupulously conscientious, and in spite of her father's remonstrance and assurance that old Betty Westlake could look after the fellow well enough, she remained in the sick room after the rest had gone to bed. That Jasper was fevered was indubitable ; he was hot and restless, tossing his head from side to side on the pillow, and it was not safe to leave him, lest he should dis- arrange his bandage, lest, in an access of fever, he should leap from his bed and do himself an injury. After everyone had retired the house became very still. Barbara poked and made up the fire. It must not become too large, as the nights were not cold, and it must not be allowed to go out. Jasper did not speak, but he opened his eyes occasion- ally, and looked at his nurse with a strange light in his eyes that alarmed her. What if he were to become frantic ? What — worse — were he to die ? He was only half con- scious, he did not seem to know who she was. His lips twitched and moved, but no voice came. Then he clasped both hands over his brow, and moaned, and plucked at the bandages. ' You must not do that,' said Barbara Jordan, rising from her chpir and going beside him. He glared at her from his burnhig eyes without intelligence. Then she laid her cool hand on his strapped brow, and he let his arms fall, and lay still, and the twitching of his mouth ceased. The pressure of her hand eased, soothed him. Directly she withdrew her hand he began to murmur and move, and cry out, * Martin ! Martin ! ' Then he put forth his hand and opened it wide, and closedr it again, in a wild, restless, unmeaning manner. A mCMT-WATcM 4S Next he waved it excitedly, as if in vehement conver- sation or earnest protest. Barbara spoke to him, but he did not hear her. She urged him to lie quiet and not excite himself, but her words, if they entered his ear, conveyed no message to the brain. He snatched at his bandage. ' You shall not do that,' she said, and caught bis hand, and held it down firmly on the coverlet. Then, at once, he was quiet. He continued turning his head on the pil- low, but he did not stir his arm. When she attempted to withdraw her hand he would not suffer her. Once, when almost by main force, she plucked her hand away, he be- came excited and tried to rise in his bed. In terror, to pacify him, she gave him her hand again. She moved her chair close to the bed, where she could sit facing him, and let him hold her left hand with his left. He was quiet at once. It seemed to her that her cool, calmly flowing blood poured its healing influence through her hand up his arm to his tossing, troubled head. Thus she was obliged to sit all night, hand in hand with the man she was constrained to pity, but whom, for his guilt, she loathed. Ho became coder, his pulse beat less fiercely, his hand was less burning and dry. She saw him pass from vexing dreams into placid sleep. She was unable to knit, to do any work all night. She could do nothing other than sit, hour after hour, with her eyes on his face, trying to unravel the riddle, to reconcile that noble countenance with an evil life. And when she could not solve it, she closed her eyes and prayed, and her prayer was concerned, like her thoughts, with the man who lay in fever and pain, and who clasped her so resolutely. Towards dawn his eyes opened, and there was no more vacancy and fire in them. Then she went to the little casement and opened it. The fresh, sweet air of early morning rushed in, and with the air came the song of awakening thrushes, the spiral twitter of the lark. One fading star was still shining in a sky that was laying aside its sables. m .-4 46 £V& Sha went baok to the bedside and said gently, ' You are better.' ' Thank you,' he answered. ' I have given you much trouble.' She shook her head, she did not speak. Something rose in her throat. She had extinguished the lamp. In the grey dawn the face on the bed looked death-like, and a gush of tenderness, of pity for the patient, filled Barbara's heart. She brought a basin and a sponge, and, leaning over him, washed his face. He thanked her with his sweet smile, a smile that told of pain. It a£fected Barbara strangely. She drew a long breath. She could not speak. If she had attempted to do so she would have sobbed ; for she was tired with her continued watching. To be a nurse to the weak, whether to a babe or a wounded man, brings out all the sweet springs in a woman's soul; and poor Barbara, against her judgment, felt that every ♦^^le vein in her heart was oozing with pity, love, soUciti , mercy, faith and hope. What eyes that Jasper had ! so gentle, soft, and truthful. Gould treachery, cruelty, dishonesty lurk beneath them ? A question trembled on Barbara's lips. She longed to ask him something about himself, to know the truth, to have that horrible enigma solved. She leaned her hand on the back of the chair, and put the other to her lips. * What is it ? ' he asked suddenly. She started. He had read her thoughts. Her eyes met his, and, as they met, her eyes answered and said, 'Yes, there is a certain matter. I cannot rest till I know.' ' I am sure,' he said, ' there is something you wish to say, but are afraid lest you should excite me.' She was silent. * I am better now ; the wind blows cool over me, and the morning light re&eshes me. Do not be afraid. Speak.' She hesitated. :li il! A NlGHT-lVATCn 47 * Speak,' ho said. * I am fully conscious and sclf-pos- Bossbd now.' ' Yes/ she said slowly. ' It is right that I should know for certain what you are.' She halted. She shrank from the question. He remained waiting. Then she asked with a trembling voice, ' Is that convict garment yours ? ' He turned away his face sharply. She waited for the answer. He did not reply. Ilia breast heaved and his whole body shook, the very bed quivered with suppressed emotion. ' Do not be afraid,' she said, in measured tones. ' I will not betray you. I have nursed you and fed you, and bathed your head. No, n6verl never I whatever your crime may have been, will I betray you. No one in the house suspects. No eyes 1 ut mine have seen that garment. Do not mistrust me ; not by word or look will I divulge the secret, but I must know all.' Still he did not reply. His face was turned away, but she saw the working of the muscles of his cheek-bone, and the throb of the great vein in his temple. Barbara felt a flutter of compunction in her heart. She had again over- agitated this unhappy man when he was not in a condition to bear it. She knew she had acted precipitately, unfairly, but the suspense had become to her unendurable. ' I have done wrong to ask the question,' she said. ' No,' he answered, and looked at her. His large eyes, sunken and lustrous with sickness, met hers, and he saw that tears were trembling on her lids. ' No,' he said, ' you did right to ask ; * then paused. ' The garment — the prison garment is mine.' A catch in Barbara's breath ; she turned her head hastily and walked towards the door. Near the door st ^od the oak chest carved with the eagle-headed man. S^e stooped, threw it open, caught up the convict clothes, rolled them together, and ran up into the attic, where she secreted them in a place none but herself would be likely to look into. ■ ■•^•'■r«i->-'v»^» 48 EVE m\ A moment after she reappeared, composed. * A packman came this way with his wares yesterday,* said Miss Jordan gravely. ' Amongst other news he brought was this, that a convict had recently broken out from the prison at Prince's Town on Dartmoor, and was thought to have I scaped off the moor.' He listened and made no answer, but sighed heavily. ' You are safe here,' she said ; * your secret remains here ' — she touched her breast. ' ' My father, my sister, none of the maids suspect anything. Never let us allude to this matter again, and I hope that as soon as you are sufficiently recovered you will go your way.' The door opened gently and Eve appeared, fresh and lovely as a May blossom. *Bab, dear sister,' said the young girl, 'let me sit by him now. You must have a nap. You take everything upon you — you are tired. Why, Barbara, surely you have been crying ? ' * I crying ! ' exclaimed the elder angrily. • What have I had to make me cry ? No ; I am tired, and my eyes bum.' * Then close ^jhem and sleep for a couple of hours.* Barbara left the room and shut the door behind her. In the early morning none of the servants could be spared to sit with the sick man. *■ Eve went to the table and arranged a bunch of oxlips, dripping with dew, in a glass of water. * How sweet they are ! ' she said, smiling. * Smell them, they will do you good. These are of the old monks' planting; they grow in abundance in the orchard, but nowhere else. The oxlips and the orchis suit together perfectly* If the oxlip had been a little more yellow and the orchis a little more purple, they would have made an ill-assorted posy.' Jasper looked at the flowers, then at her. * Are you her sister ? ' * What, Barbara's sister ? * ^. « A NIGHT-WATCH 49 * Yes, her name is Barbara.' ' Of course I am.' He looked at Eve. He could trace in her no likeness to her sister. Involuntarily he said, ' You are very beau- tiful.' She coloured — with pleasure. Twice within a few days the same compliment had been paid her. * What is your name, young lady ? ' * My name is Eve.' * Eve ! ' repeated Jasper. * How strange ! • Twice also, within a few days, had this remark been passed on her name. * Why should it be strange ? ' ' Because that was also the name of my mother and of my sis'er.' * Is your mother alive ? * , He shook his head. ' And your sister ? ' ' I do not know. I remember her only faintly, and my father never speaks of her.' Then he changed the subject. •You are very unlike Miss Barbara. I should not have supposed you were sisters.' ' We are half-sisters. We had not the same mother.* He was exhausted with speaking, and turned towards the wall. Eve seated herself in the chair vacated by Bar- bara. She occupied her fingers with makmg a cowslip ball, and when it was made she tossed it. Then, as he moved, she feared that she disturbed him, so she put the ball on the table, from which, however, it rolled off. Jasper turned as she was groping for it. * Do I trouble you ? ' she said. ' Honour bright, I will sit quiet.' How beautiful she looked with her chestnut hair ; how delicate and pearly was her lovely neck ; what sweet eyes were hers, blue as a heaven full of sunshine ! * Have you sat much with me, Miss Eve, whilst I hay^ been ill?* 50 EVE !! ' Not much ; my sister would not suffer me. I cm such a fidget that she thought I might irritate you; such a giddypate that I might forget your draughts and com- presses. Barbara is one of those people who do all things themselves, and rely on no one else.' * I must have given Miss Barbara much trouble. How good she has been ! ' * Oh, Barbara is good to everyone f She can't help it. Some people are born good-tempered and practical, and others are born pretty and poetical; some to be good needlewomen, others to wear smart clothes.' ' Tell me, Miss Eve, did anyone come near me when I met with my accident ? ' ' Your friend Martin and Barbara brought you here.' ' And when I was .here who had to do with my clothes ? ' Martin undressed you whilst my sister and I got ready what was necessary for you.' * And my clothes — who touched them ? ' ♦After your friend Martin, only Barbara; she folded them and put them away. Why do you ask ? * Jasper sighed and put his hand to his head. Silence ensued for some time ; had not he held his hand to the wound Eve would have supposed he was asleep. Now, all at once. Eve saw the cowslip ball; it was under the table, and with the point of her little foot she could touch it and roll it to her. So she played with the ball, rolling it with her feet, but so lightly that she made no noise. All at once he looked round at her. Startled, she kicked the cowslip ball away. He turned his head away again. About five minutes later she was on tiptoe, stealing across the room to where the ball had rolled. She picked it up and laid it on the pillow near Jasper's face. He opened his eyes. They had been closed. * I thought,' explained Eve, ' that the scent of the IHIWfltlli A MGHT-tVATCtt %t flowers might do you good. They are somewhat bruised and so smell the stronger.' He half nodded and closed his eyes again. Presently she plucked timidly at the sheet. As he paid no attention she plucked again. He looked at her. The bright face, like an opening wild rose, was bending over him. * Will it disturb you greatly if I ask you a question ? ' He shook his head. * Who was that young man whom you called Martin ? ' He looked earnestly into her eyes, and the colour mounted under the transparent skin of her throat, cheeks, and brow. * Eve,' he said gravely, * have you ever been ill — cut, wounded ' — he put out his hand and lightly indicated her heart — ' there ? ' She shook her pretty head with a smile. * Then think and ask no more about Martin. He came to you out of darkness, he went from you into darkness. Put him utterly and for ever out of your thoughts as you value your happiness.' CHAPTER Vm. BAB. As Jasper recovered, he saw less of the sisters. June had come, and with it lovely weather, and with the lovely weather the haysel. The air was sweet about Hhe house with the fragrance of hay, and the soft summer breath wafted the pollen and fine strands on its wings into the court and in at the windows of the old house. Hay harvest was a busy time, especially for Barbara, Jordan. She engaged extra hands, and saw that cake was baked and beer brewed for the harvesters. Mr. Jordan had become, as years passed, more abstracted from the cares of the 52 EVE m ! i l!| ill i farm, and more steeped in his fantastic semi-scientiific pulf- suits. As his eldest daughter put her strong shoulder to the wheel of business, Mr. Jordan edged his from under it and VAi the whole pressure upon her. Consequently Bar- bara was very much engaged. All that was necessary to be done for the convalescent was done, quietly and con- siderately ; but Jasper was left considerably to himself. Neither Barbara nor Eve had the leisure, even if they had the inclination, to sit in his room and entertain him with conversation. Eve brought Jasper fresh flowers every morning, and by snatches sang to him. The little parlour opened out of the room he occupied, and in it was her harpsichord, an old instrument, without much tone, but it served to accompany her clear fresh voice. In the evening she and Barbara sang duets. The elder sister had a good alto voice that contrasted well with the warble of her sister's soprano. Mr. Jordan came periodically into the sick room, and saluted his guest in a shy, reserved manner, asked how he progressed, made some common remark about the weather, fidgeted with the backs of the chairs or the brim of his hat, and went away. He was a timid man with strangers, a man who lived in his own thoughts, a man with a frightened, far-off look in his eyes. He was ungainly in his movements, through nervousness. He made no friends, he had acquaintances only. His peculiar circumstances, the connection with Eve's mother, his natural reserve, had kept him apart from the gentlefolks around. His reserve had deepened of late, and his shyne^ had become painful to himself and to those with whom he spoke. As Eve grew up, and her beauty was observed, the neighbours pitied the two girls, condemned through no fault of their own to a life of social exclusion. Of Barbara everyone spoke well, as an excellent manager and thrifty housekeeper, kind of heart, in all things reliable. Of Eve everyone spoke as a beauty. Some little informal conclaves BAB S3 had been held in the neighbourhood, and one good lady had said to the CJoberrys, * If you will call, so will I.' So the Cloberrys of Bradstone, as a leading county family, had taken the initiative and called. As the Cloberry family coEkch drove up to the gate of Morwell, Mr. Jordan was all but caught, but he had the presence of mind to slip behind a laurel bush, that concealed his body, whilst exposing his legs. There he remained motionless, believing himself un- seen, till the carriage drove away. After the Cloberrys had called, other visitors arrived, and the girls received invita- tions to tea, which they gladly accepted. Mr. Jordan sent his card by his daughters ; he would make no calls in person, and the neighbours were relieved not to see him. That affair of seventeen years ago was not forgiven. Mr. Jordan was well pleased that his daughters should go into society, or rather that his daughter Eve should be re« ceived and admired. With Barbara he had not much in common, only the daily cares of the estate, and these wor- ried him. To Eve, and to her alone, he opened out, and spoke of things that lived within, in his mind, to her alone did he exhibit tenderness. Barbara was shut out from his heart ; she felt the exclusion, but did not resent the prefer- ence shown to Eve. That was natural, it was Eve's due, for Eve was so beautiful, so bright, so perfect a little fairy. But, though Barbara did not grudge her young sister the love that was given to her, she felt an ache in her heart, and a regret that the father's love was not so full that it could embrace and envelop both. One day, when the afternoon sun was streaming into the hall, Barbara crossed it, and came to the convalescent's room. * Come,* she eaid, ' my father and I think you had better sit outside the house ; we are carrying tbe hay, and it may amuse you to watch the waggons. The sweet air will do you good. You must be weary of confinement in this Uttle room.' * How can I be weary where I am so kindly treated l^- •-^■....••*\.;<,<.3 fl 54 EVE lili ^|i i I! l! ||||1HI I I'llll ! II >l ! ill where all speaks to me of rest and peace and culture ! Jasper was dressed, and was sitting in an irm-chair read- ing, or pretending t ■) read, a book. * Can you rise, Mr. Jasper ? ' she asked. He tried to leave the chair, but he was still very weak, 80 she assisted him. * And now,' she said kindly, * walk, sir 1 ' She watched his steps. His face was pale, and the pallor wad the more observable from the darkness of his hair. * I think,' said he, forcing a sn Ue, * I must beg a little support.' She went without hesitation to his side, and he put his arm in hers. He had no+ only lost much blood, but had been bruised and severely shaken,, and was not certain of his steps. Barbara was a&aid, in crossing the hall, lest he should fall on the stone floor. She disengaged his hand, put her arm about his waist, bade him lean on her shoul- der. How strong she seemed I * Can you get on now ? ' she asked, looking up. His deep eyes met her. * I could get on for ever thus,' he answered. She flushed scarlet. I dislike such speeches,' she ^aid ; and disengaged her- self from him. Whilst her arm was about him her hand had felt the beating of his heart. She conducted him to a bench in the garden near a bed of stocks, where the bees were busy. * How beautiful the world looks when one has not seen it for many days ! * he said. * Yes, there is a good shear of hay, saved in splendid order.' * When a child is born into the world there is always a gathering, and a festival to greet it. I am born anew into the beautiful world to-day. I am on the threshold of a new life, and you have nursed me into it. Am I too presumptuous if I ask you to sit here a very little while, and welcome me into it ? That will be a festival indeed,' 111 BAB 55 She smiled good-humouredly, and took hor place on the bench. Jasper puzzled her daily more and more. What was he? What was the temptation that had led him away ? Was his repentance thorough ? Barbara prayed for him daily, with the excuse to her conscience that it was always well to pray for the conversion of a sinner, and that she was bound to pray for the man whom Providence had cast broken and helpless at her feet. The Goc i Sa- maritan prayed, doubtless, for the man who fell among thieves. She was interested in her patient. Her patient he was, as she was the only person in the house to provide and order whatever was done in it. Her patient, Eve and her father called him. Her patient he was, somehow her own heart told her he was ; bound to her doubly by the so- licitude with which she had nursed him, by the secret of his life which she had surprised. He puzzled her. He puzzled her more and more daily There was a gentleness and refinement in his manner and speech that showed her he was not a man of low c? ass, that if he were not a g«T>tleman by birth he was one in mind and culture. There was a gr ive religiousness about him, moreover, that could not be a isumed, and did not comport with a criminal. Who was he, and wlat had he done ? How far had he sinned, or been sinned against? Barbara's mind was fretted with these ever-recurring questions. Teasjd with the (nigma, she could not divert her thoughts for long from it — it formed the background to all that occupied her during the day. She considered the dairy, but when the butter was weighed, went back in mind to the riddle. She was withdrawn again by the demands of the cook for gro- ceries from her store closet ; when the closet door was shut she was again thinking of the puzzle She had to calcu- late the amount of cake required for the harvesters, and went on from the calculations of currants and sugar to the balancing of probabilities in the case of Jasper. She had avoided seeing him of late more than was ne- ■fl^ M II ! ■ ''I |i!'! 1 56 £V& cessary, she had resolved not to go near him, and let the maid Jane attend to his requirements, ftided hy Christo- pher Davy's hoy, who cleaned the hoots and knives, and ran errands, and weeded the paths, and was made gener- ally useful. Yet for all her resolve she did not keep it : she discovered that some Uttle matter had been neglected, which forced her to enter the room. When she was there she was impatient to he out of it again, and she hardly spoke to Jasper, was short, busy, and away in a moment. ' It does not do to leave the servants to themselves,' soliloquised Barbara. ' They half do whatever they are set at. Tne sick man would not Hke to complain. I must see to everything myself.' Now she complied with his request to sit beside him, but was at once filled with restlessness. She could not speak to him on the one subject th ~ > tormented her. She had herself forbidden mention of She looked askance at Jasper, who was not speaking. He had his hat off, on his lap ; his eyes were moist, his lips were moving. She was confident he was praying. He turned in a moment, re-covered his head, and said with his sweet smile, ' God is good. I have already thanked you. I have thanked him now.' Was this hypocrisy ? Barbara could not believe it. She said, * If you have no objection, may we know your name ? I have been asked by my father and others. I mean,' she hesitated, * a name by which you would care to be called.' • * ^ * You shall have my real name,' he said, slightly colour- ing. * For myself to know, or to tell others ? ' * As you will. Miss Jordan. My name is Babb.* ' Babb 1 ' echoed Barbara. She thought to herself that it was a name as ugly as it was unusual. At that moment Eve appeared, glowing with life, a wreath of wild roses wound about her hat. SAB 11 ' Bab ! Bab dear 1 ' she cried, referring to her sister. Barbara turned crimson, and sprang from her seat. * The last cartload is going to start,' said Eve eagerly, ' and the men say that I am the Queen and must sit on the top ; but I want half-a-crown, Bab dear, to pay my footing up the ladder to the top of the load.' Barbara drew her sister away. ' Eve ! never call me by that ridiculous pet-name again. When we were chil- dren it did not matter. Now I do not wish it.' • Why not ? ' asked the wondering girl. * How hot you are looking, and yet you have been sitting still ! ' ' I do not wish it. Eve. You will make me very angry, and I shall feel hurt if you do it again. Bab — think, dar- ling, the name is positively revolting, I assure you. I hate it. If you have any love for me in your heart, any re- gard for my feelings, you will not call me by it again. Bab 1' CHAPTER IX. THE POCKET-BOOK. Jaspeb drew in full draughts of the delicious air, leaning back on the bench, himself in shade, watching the trees, hearing the hum of the bees, and the voices of the harves- ters, pleasant and soft in the distance, as if the golden sun had subdued all the harshness in the tones of the rough voices. Then the wagg' a drew nigh ; the garden was above the level of the fariayard, terraced so that Jasper could not see the cart and horses, or the men, but he saw the great load of grey-green hay move by, with Eve and Barbara seated on it, the former not only crowned with roses, but holding a pole with a bunch of roses and a flutter of ribands at the top. Eve's golden hair had fallen loose and was about her shoulders. She was in an ecstasy of gaiety. As the load travelled along before the garden, - ho -1 //! 58 EVE both Evo and her sister saw the sick man on his bench. He seemed so thin, white, and feeble in the midst of a fresh and vigorous nature that Barbara's heart grew soft, and she had to bite her lip to control its quiver. Eve waved her staff topped with flowers and streamers, stood up in the hay and curtsied to him, with a merry laugh, and then dropped back into the hay, having lost her balance through the jolting of the wheels. Jasper brightened, and, remov- ing his hat, returned the salute with comic majesty. Then, as Eve and Barbara disappeared, he fell back against the wall, and his eyes rested on the fluttering leaves of a white poplar, and some white butterflies that might have been leaves reft from the trees, flickering and pursuing each other in the soft air. The swallows that lived in. a colony of inverted clay domes under the eaves were darting about, uttering shrill cries, the expression of exuberant joy of life. Jasper sank into a summer dream. He was roused from his reverie by a man coming be- tween him and the pretty garden picture that filled his eyes. He recognised the surgeon, Mr. — or as the country people called him. Doctor — Coyshe. The young medical man had no objection to being thus entitled, but he very emphatically protested against his name being converted into Quash, or even Squash. Coyshe is a very respectable and ancient Devonshire family name, but it is a name that lends itself readily to phonetic degradation, and the young surgeon had to do daily battle to preserve it from being vulgarised. * Good afternoon, patient 1 ' said he cheerily ; * doing well, thanks to my treatment.' Jasper made a suitable reply. ' Ah ! I dare say you pull a face at seeing me now, thinking I am paying visits for the sake of my fee, when need for my attendance is past. That, let me tell you, is the way of some doctors ; it is, however, not mine. Lord love you, I knew a case of a man who sent for a doctor because his wife was ill, and was forced to smother her under pillows to cui short the attendance and bring the THE POCKET-BOOK 59 bill within the compass of his means. Bless your stars, my man, that you fell into my hands, not into those of old Crooke.' ' I am assured,' said Jasper, ' that I am fallen into the best possible hands.' • Who assured you of that ? ' asked Coyshe sharply ; * Miss Eve or the other ? ' ' I am assured by my own experience of your skill.' * Ah ! an ordinary practitioner would have trepanned you ; the whole run of them, myself and myself only ex- cepted, have an itch in their fingers for the saw and the scalpel. There is far too much bleeding, cupping, and calomel used in the profession now — but what are we to say ? The people love to have it so, to see blood and havj a squeal for their money. I've had before now to admin- ister a bread pill and give it a Greek name.' Mr. Jordan from his study, the girls from the stackyard (or moway, as it is locally called), saw or heard the sur- geon. He was loud in his talk and made himself heard. They came to him into the garden. Eve, with her natural coquetry, retained the crown of roses and her sceptre. * You see,' said Mr. Coyshe, rubbing his hands, ' I have done wonders. This would have been a dead man but for me. Now, sir, look at me,' he said to Jasper ; * you owe me a life.' ' I know very well to whom I owe my life,' answered Jasper, and glanced at Barbara. ' To my last hour I shall not forget the obligation.' • And do you know why he owes me his life ? ' asked the surgeon of Mr. Jordan. ' Because I let nature alone, and kept old Crooke away. I can tell you the usual practice. The doctor comes and shrugs his shoulders and takes snuff. "When he sees a proper impression made, he says, " How- ever ; we will do our best, only we don't work miracles." He sprinkles his victim with snuff, as if about to embalm the body. If the man dies, the reason is clear. Crooke 6o EVE was not sent for in timo. If he recovers, Orooke has wrought a miracle. That is not my way, as you all know.* He looked about him complacently. ' What will you take, Mr. Coyshe ? ' asked Barbara ; * some of our haysel ale, or claret ? And will you come indoors for refreshment ? ' ' Indoors ! dear me, no ! ' said the young doctor ; * I keep out of the atmosphere impregnated with four or five centuries of dirt as much as I can. If I had my way I would burn down every house with all its contents every ten years, and so we might get rid of half the diseases which ravage the world. I wouldn't live in your old ramshackle Morwell if I were paid ten guineas a day. The atmosphere must be poisoned, charged with particles of dust many centuries old. Under every cupboard, ay, and on top of it, is fluff, and every stir of a gown, every tread of a foot, sets it floating, and the currents bring it to your lungs or pores. What is that dust made up of ? Who can tell ? The scrapings of old monks, the scum of Protestant reformers, the detritus of any number of Jor- dans for ages, some of whom ha^e had measles, some scarlet-fever, some small-pox. No, thank you. I'll have my claret in the gaiicsn, I can tell you without looking what goes to make up the air in that pestilent old box ; the dog has carried old bones behind the cupboard, the cat has been set a saucer of milk under the chest, which has been forgotten and gone sour. An old stocking which one of the ladies was mending was thrust under a sofa cushion, when the front door bell rang, and she had to receive callers — and that also was forgotten.' Miss Jordan waxed red and indignant. • Mr. Coyshe,' she said, * I cannot hear you say this, it is not true. Our house is perfectly sweet and clean ; there is neither a store of old bones, nor a half- darned stocking, nor any of the other abominations you mentioned about it.* * Your eyes have not seen the world through a micro- scope. Mine have,' answered the unabashed surgeon, THE POCKET-BOOK 6i [she,' Our store the [cro- leon, * When a ray of sunhght enters your rooms, you can see the whole course of the ray.* •Yes. ' Very well, that is because the air is dirty. If it were clean you would be unable to see it. No, thank you. I will have my claret in the garden ; perhaps you would not mind having it sent out to me. The air out of doors is pure compared to that of a house.' A little table, wine, glasses and cake were sent out. Barbara and Eve did not reappear. Mr. Jordan had a great respect frr the young doctor His self-assurance, his pedantry, his boasting, imposed on the timid and half-cultured mind of the old man. He hoped to get information from the surgeon about tests for metals, to interest him in his pursuits without letting him into his secrets ; he therefore overcame his shyness sufficiently to appear and converse when Mr. Coyshe arrived. * What a very beautiful daughter you have got I ' said Coyshe ; * one that is only to be seen in pictures. A man despairs of beholding such loveliness in actual hfe, and see, here, at the limit of the world, the vision flashes on one I Not much like you, Squire, not much like her sistei* ; looks as if she belonged to another breed.' Jasper Babb looked round startled at the audacity and rudeness of the surgeon. Mr. Jordan was not offended ; he seemed indeed flattered. He was very proud of Eve. * You are right. My eldest daughter has almost nothing in common with her younger sisier — only a half- sister.' * Really,' said Coyshe, * it makes me shiver for the future of that fairy being. I take it for granted she will be yoked to some county booby of a squire, a Bob Acres. Good Lord ! what a prospect ! A jewel of gold in a swine's snout, as Solomon says.' ' Eve shall never marry one unworthy of her,' said Ignatius Jordan vehemently. She will be under no con- 1 ft m 62 EVE