w u WINTERING HAY WINTERING HAY BY JOHN TREVENA AUTHOR OF FURZE THE CRUEL," "HEATHER," "GRANITE, "BRACKEN," ETC. LONDON CONSTABLE & COMPANY LTD, 1912 CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE CHRISTMAS TREE . i II. AN ACRE OF BRAMBLES . . , . 19 III. JANE'S . . . . . . 47 IV. A DAY OF CONFESSION . . 61 V. A DAY OF RESOLUTION . . 79 VI. THE GRAY CROSS OF WHISTLY DOWN . . 96 VII. THE GARDEN QUEST . . . .114 VIII. A FAMILY AFFAIR . . ... 134 IX. A VISIT TO BLACKERTON . . . 152 X. MANY DISCOVERIES . . . .171 XI. THE COMING OF CAPTAIN ELIAS MUTTER . . 189 XII. THE CERTAIN TIE OF FRIENDSHIP . . 204 XIII. THE LAST TIME . . ... 221 XIV. FLIGHT FROM THE GREEN WAY . . 239 XV. THE GREEN WAY LOST . . 256 XVI. VOICES FROM THE GREEN WAY . . 272 vii 310167 viii CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE XVII. THE RETURN . . ... 294 XVIII. THE PAST NOT DEAD .- . . 310 XIX. THE RETURN TO BURNTBEER . . 333 XX. WHAT SEEMED NECESSARY . . 349 XXI. THE RETURN TO WINTERING HAY . . 363 XXII. THE TRANSLATION . . . . 384 XXIII. SATURN OF THE SCYTHE RISING . . . 404 XXIV. CREATURES OF REVOLT . . . . 421 XXV. THE LAST PRINCIPAL CHARACTER . . 438 XXVI. THE DOCTRINE OF GIVING WAY . . .455 XXVII. THE DOCTRINE WORKING OUT . . 479 XXVIII. THE REVELATION . . . 496 WINTERING HAY CHAPTER I THE CHRISTMAS TREE WHITE mist, black windows, and a steady drip from the slates ; the peal of water falling from a height into some rock basin ; outside the cleave, and far from it, where was more open space for the wind to move in, bells striking against the clouds, their sound only reaching the windows like insects tapping woodwork> or so many throbbing watches packed in wool. The vapour, itself wool-like, wrapped the walls of Wintering Hay, as if anxious to hide that dwelling-place from the eyes of men, although needlessly, for in all seasons it was hidden, lying apart from the world in sleep. Old-fashioned Nature, who loves a solitude and will always, if she can, bring back the wild state that men and women seek to destroy while loving it, triumphed wonderfully in Zigzag Cleave. Those who had watered goats there while Phoenician galleys strained at the mouth of the Dart might still have found their way along, recognising some boulder at every turning ; they would have discovered their own bridge higher up ; the thurlestone from which they looked out had not yet fallen. This was the triumph of Nature she had suc- ceeded in holding her own. A gang of men, with picks and blasting powder, would in a day or two have altered the landscape ; but it had never been done, because Nature, usually acting on the defensive, struggling for the 3 2 WINTERING HAY plot, of land where she may grow her thorns, upon the fringe of Dartmoor and across its heights strikes out offensively and wins. The human side of the history of Dartmoor- is a record of half-hearted endeavour, punctuated by the tremulous question, "Is it possible ? " never by the determined period, " We will." On a bright day it seemed easy to tame the highland, remove the rocks, and marry the virgin soil to the ploughshare that the golden children of harvest might be born. A thousand times the venture was attempted, to end as often in defeat ; for the calm day was short before Nature arose, shrieking in midday darkness, bringing ice for rain, and wind to drive the workmen back- ward, claiming her own again ; and those who had begun the fight had not courage to strike a second time ; and their sons went up to be beaten also. Each generation made one effort and no more. Rocks, fern, furze, heather might be done down in time ; but never their fierce guardian storm and that plague of hailstones. Therefore Nature ruled and sang in the cleave as she had always done, and still on that Christmas Day seemed solitary because she hid so much in mist ; but the human growths were there, represented by the gentle thudding of those bells, so easily to be mistaken for the peal of water, also by the swinging open of a window and the presence of a face. The charm was dissolved. Out of the mist started things black enough to be seen ; as the white rocks would glimmer in the dark, so did these black things frown from the mist brambles, leafless, with long ropes bending. At a glance it might have appeared as if the Nature of Wintering Hay was a Nature of thorns, since upon every side the brakes were high and rough, covering much ground and wasting good earth, sprawling over it, warning off man and beast, ruling the acres tyrannically ; yet making no attack, for they, too, acted on the defensive, they formed merely a part of cleave and garden ; and if they ever seemed the whole it was because they were black, while mist and house and water were all white. THE CHRISTMAS TREE 3 They were not cruel, since they provided a nesting-place for birds, and on the lew side stood ponies when the wind was fierce, while in autumn they distributed their berries ; but they were " dangerous trade," stuff to be avoided, because the wounds they gave were warlike and took long to heal. The boy at the window saw the black brakes, which at the moment seemed to represent the whole. To him they were not unlike the master and mistress of that house. His mind already had been forced to work unfairly. Men and women like the brambles there were, not to be ap- proached without caution, dangerous to dwell with, growing thorns because they could not help it, even ignorant of their presence, not knowing how they struck into others, what wounds they made, what flesh was torn ; but when awakened by the spring of Nature, breaking into flower and bearing fruit. For in every human soul is a tenderness somewhere, and it works through, perhaps once and no more, unseen, unknown, coming and going like the lily of a day. " I will wait no longer," said Cyril Rossingall, whose face it was, brown and healthy but frowning, at the window. Nineteen should never frown on Christmas Day, but the brambles reached inside and the boy was caught in them. He spoke loudly enough for his voice to be heard below, since the house was always silent in calm weather, and the feet of its tenants appeared to be covered always with soft slippers, nor was there anything in the form of laughter or high-spirited talk. Voices of revelry would have shocked the stonecrop upon the walls. Decay was there, a gradual weakening from top to bottom, bricks starting from chimney-stacks, doors sagging, plaster crumbling, window-frames crusted with lichen these things were not noticed because all was the same as yesterday. The ex- posed lath could be hidden behind a picture, the outer walls given a coat of whitewash, and so the failings might be mended by concealment. r , Cyril looked out again : the atmosphere was darker, 4 WINTERING HAY the mist thicker. Sometimes the rolling clouds brought the sounds near ; at other times, they stifled his ears. Now they were conductors, making the stream which had carved out Zigzag Cleave tumultuous as it dropped from shelf to shelf, each fall a different bell-like note of music ; and bringing, as he thought, other sounds from hidden highlands, sounds which his own imagination had projected into the lonely spaces in order that the mist might bring them back to his ears as calls of its own. He could wait no longer because his mind was calling from the place where it wandered : " This day must not be missed. It is the greatest of them all for wonders. One hour of Christmas solitude is better than a year of moonlit nights. Come out, for the wonder waits." Everything in romance and myth, which are the founda- tions of thought and the buttresses of spiritual life, made the call irresistible. Cyril a dreamer, and forced to it by living with sleepers, had made his mind dark when amid happier* surroundings he might have illumined it by studying folk-lore, and listening to startling tales of enchantment repeated by members of a race about to die, yet clinging to a creed of a harmless polytheism, finding a personal god in every brook and the spirit of an oread in each boulder. It was certain, with this creed accepted, that such minor deities possessed upon Christmas Day powers unapproached at any other season of the year. If they could not make themselves visible to human eyes they might act, bring changes into life, convey some message, send a gift upon this day when the darker beings of the unseen world were powerless. Therefore Cyril knew he could not wait. That day was his, dedicated to lonely rambles with the gods ; and although he had been ordered to remain in the house, should he not obey the voice of a god rather than the voice of a man ? That mist had been sent for a purpose : so that he might be surrounded with a cloud of mystery upon the heights while the wonder was revealed. THE CHRISTMAS TREE 5 Cyril had turned to leave the bedroom, hearing nothing within the house, and was at the door, which in that thick light seemed still far distant, when he became conscious of more space that door would swing back if not securely fastened and he saw his uncle, Andrew Mutter, standing and watching, more like a helpless animal than a man. That face was incapable of expression : it never laughed, nor did it frown ; love and hatred looked out of the same windows of dead eyes. It was a large face, of coarse features and mottled skin ; white whiskers, suggesting the topiary work of some old garden, grew stiffly from each side of his neck chin and lip were clean-shaven while the hair, long and covering both ears, was black. His hands, yellow, like the back of a frog and as cold, hung after the manner of useless appendages to the loose arms. Extraordinary feet were covered with felt slippers. This figure was draped in a long Black coat, and trousers baggy enough to have made any other man look ridiculous ; but nothing could have made Mutter look ridiculous. He inspired fear like a spirit from another world, because he was unusual ; the life in him appeared to have borrowed little from the normal existence of mankind. If any one word could have summed him up it was exhaustion ; and yet those hands had done no labour at any time, there was no tormenting brain nor any mind to vex him ; passion was not known, and the only member which had seen much active service was the tongue of prayer. Impossible, one might have thought, that these two belonged to the same human family. A likeness there may be between the old man and the infant, but between this uncle and nephew there seemed nothing in common apart from the rough outline of human form. Cyril, pure of skin, with hot flesh beneath it and blood which altered its tem- perature with every sight and sound, blood which would boil quickly and get the mastery that was obvious and a brain eager to grapple with problems, and a mind stung into imagination by the masculine rush of a river or the feminine shiver of a silver birch, at the green end 6 WINTERING HAY of life also and feverish with rising sap ; and Mutter, the log covered with a phosphorescent fungus of life. Yet the two were not only human beings, but relations. Cyril could never look into those eyes, which had no feeling, but were able to meet those of any man in a wonder- ful innocence which was real. He began to feel angry, for he hated his uncle and kept out of his way as much as possible. They seldom met apart from the ordinary business of meals, and rarely spoke to each other ; but sometimes Mutter felt upon him the divine commission to seek out his nephew and to speak the word which might make him tremble. He stood there then, his eyes dis- tending until they became round and childish, and asked, in the weary voice of hopelessness, " Do you mean to go to hell?" Cyril made no movement. He felt the blood in his cheeks, knew there was a black thought at his heart, and longed for the courage to answer this crude religion with cool pantheism. This was a very old-fashioned enquiry, as simple a one as could be thought of, and put to him in a childlike way. The simplicity was fearful to Cyril. Had his uncle shown a trace of human emotion, or charged his question with some feeling, he would have been more comprehensible, therefore less terrible. It was impossible to answer a man who had no mind, who did not know the names of birds and plants, and to tell him there were other paths more beautiful than his, which joined some- where, perhaps in a sunset dream of perfect death, or in a mist-surrounded upland round the body, with immor- tality's own highway. To plead a new idea before a man who had only one idea was to make himself an advocate of sin. " Your aunt and I have been singing psalms. What psalms have you been singing ? " went on the uncle, never moving nor altering his round-eyed stare. " We have said our prayers. What have you been doing for sal- vation ? " " Thinking," said Cyril, swaying about nervously. THE CHRISTMAS TREE 7 " Have you thought upon the lessons of this day ? " " I have been thinking about the moor, the mist, the solitude," muttered Cyril ; but these words did not reach his uncle's ears. !< Your aunt and I have been preparing ourselves for the time when we shall stand in heaven and sing psalms day and night for ever and ever," said Mutter still more simply. How tired they will get of it, thought Cyril. " This is Christmas, one of the seasons of solemn medi- tation." A Good Friday, thought the boy, wishing for courage to say so. " And you have not opened the Bible." " I have," Cyril answered, speaking to himself, but the words went forth and reached Mutter ; and he asked in the same dull voice, " What chapters have you read ? " " Those," said Cyril, saying more than he meant out of nervousness, half turning and pointing at the window where the' mist streamed on. " The inspiration is there : I can understand it that way. It is all there, birth, death, and everything." No change, and not a flicker of feeling, came upon the uncle's face when he perceived that his nephew was so far gone in wickedness as to jest upon sacred things ; and although mystic influences "were at work that day, unless tradition lied, none entered the house to let these two understand each other better : to show Cyril that his uncle was a good man, if damaged by excessive piety, and to show Mutter that his nephew was a passionate youth, not to be trained in his school, but shaped out of the rough by the elementary forces which had made of the old stone mountain of Dartmoor a place of beauty. The religion which satisfied the one was not for the other. Cyril sought to gain as the best what his uncle rejected as the worst. There was a leaf lying upon the carpet, carried there by the wind : a dead leaf, a crisp and dull brown thing which 8 WINTERING HAY had passed through the green and scarlet of two seasons ; a trifoliate scrap of bramble forced from its one year's tenancy of some bush by the rising of the bud beneath. This Mutter saw by using Cyril's powers of observation. A current of air passing along the passage reached the leaf and made it struggle. The boy perceived the motion and looked down. The uncle's eyes turned also in that direction, saw rubbish, and inspiration made him order, " Pick that up." Cyril did not wish to be disobedient, but he was thinking again, wondering where to an inch the leaf had come from, and trying with that microscopic mind of his to replace it exactly upon the parent stem. Mutter was now interfering wilh his religion, blaspheming at one of the small things which had come out of solitude into the house, attempting to join its religion of beauty with that dull psalm-singing, adding the ever-changing Nature to the scene that was the same all the year round. That room was in a sense his own. Surely he might share it with his own articles of belief. It could hardly be a sin to open the window and let Nature come to him. Would that man never understand how that the Creator was to be discerned in the leaves of the bramble as surely as in the leaves of the Bible ? Could he never perceive that the Birth he celebrated was not in ancient history, but present with them, upon every tree in the wood and every primrose in the bank, where every growth was childlike with young buds ? " I did not put it there," he said, hardly thinking of Mutter and not speaking to him ; and starting when he heard a movement and saw the mottled face come nearer. Was the uncle angry ? That soul knew its own secrets. The eyes were the same, the flesh looked as dead, but there was working in that room the spirit of intolerance which could not permit those in its power to choose their own way through life. Mutter approached and, with a slowness which fascinated his nephew, raised his loose right arm and struck Cyril with all the strength he had full upon the ear with the flat of his ice-cold hand, making the room THE CHRISTMAS TREE 9 hideous with the sound of a blow as false to religion as the crackling of those faggots at the stake which others no more bigoted had lighted ; and then he walked away with a slow shuffling, dimly conscious of having done some good, given the body suffering that the spirit might be healed ; and there was no mind in him to put the question whether the act had not given him some pleasure. Cyril, with the door locked, was on his knees to curse. A vein of cowardice ran through his character. When maddened he might have been capable of much that a man may do, but he could never lose his temper in the presence of Mutter. He had to wait until he was alone, and then he would moan for a time, even shed tears, and make an appeal to space for justice. Hitherto Mutter had satisfied himself with crude questions. This was the first time he had lifted up his hand to strike a blow, and Cyril was able in his miseiy to feel wonder at the force of the hand which gave good in the form of alms to others and so much harm to him ; yet with all his fury at being beaten like a child he was crushed, and had Mutter returned the boy would have trembled before the man. At last he rose, bathed his eyes it was shameful to know that they were red opened the door, listened, but could hear nothing because of the ringing in his ears. " Church bells," he said sardonically, knowing that he must get into the mist and lose himself. Advancing along the passage he heard presently the monotone of sermon-reading, varied by a cough and the suggestion of a stifled yawn, which made him whisper, " They are at it again. There has been a prayer for my benefit, and now they will nod over sermons till they fall asleep." Cyril was at the time of life which knows no standard of proportion. He had been hardly used perhaps, but then his manner towards others was unfriendly, and his hatred of any form of discipline made discord. To most young men guidance seems always like oppression. It would have been amazing had the Mutters sympathised with his worship of Nature, although they themselves had in the 10 WINTERING HAY first instance driven him to it. Neither could they under- stand what Cyril meant by a bright and happy day. Company, laughter, idle games, feasting, mumming, and all the usual frivolity of Christmas would have meant no pleasure for them, but much the reverse, being from their point of view actually sinful. The day was a solemn festival, to be passed in meditation which meant happiness to them, whereas idle laughter, had it been permissible, would have made them miserable. They went to one extreme, while the greater part of their fellow-creatures went to the other and made of the day a festival of rioting. They could not comprehend how youth abhors continual dullness, and they could only suppose that Cyril's absten- tion from their devotions was a sign that he had given himself over to the devil. They meant to do their duty by him, but apart from prayer had no idea as to what that duty might be. While standing upon the stairs, listening to sounds in shadow, Cyril was touched, not by a hand, but by the chill of fear. There came a creeping of uneasy flesh, a shudder shook him ; he lost his nerve, ran from the house, taking neither hat nor coat for his journey ; but when in the air, removed from the house by a barrier of mist, he fell to laughing at himself for running from a fancy. He could feel bold in the open space. All terror, he thought, was behind, in that room of hard chairs and cold, uncovered tables where the Mutters struggled on their sleepy way to heaven ; not awaiting him in the solitude, nor afterwards in the night. The blow upon his ear had made him weak, but Cyril had altered now : no longer crushed and moaning in the house, but like a young pilgrim making his wilful progress ; for he was at home, going up between his granite walls to his own heights, where the only roof was sky, and in this freedom he could feel a man strong enough to break a tyrant's rule and to punish the striker with fair justice. If this was the day of wonders spells would work. A curse upon that mottled hand ; let brambles tear it, granite crush it, wild wind numb it ; let it be smitten with THE CHRISTMAS TREE 11 paralysis. How easy was this pleasant blasphemy now that Cyril walked in his temple, a boy bishop wielding spiritual rule over the tremendous forces of Nature which recognised him only as a drifting particle, a thing to be wetted and buffeted like a rock, and forced on a level with things which had no reason. Let the man be excommunicate also. Words and a wave of the hand would work it. Let Andrew Mutter be cut off from sunshine, and let everything that was beautiful turn against him ; and let an ointment be made of mist and earth and struck upon his eyes, hiding for ever the place of his desire, showing him only the sulphureous hell to which he consigned others. And with such curses Cyril went on his way to find a blessing. Outlines not near were all well hidden, yet he could have sketched them out upon the misty clouds with a forefinger. Where that whalelike mass of vapour spouted went the high hedge marking the boundary of Wintering Hay, a desolation of red-hooked brambles and much furze ; above, a hundred feet higher than the house, for the hill was steep, composed of a granite so tough that time and winter had not yet worn it to a slope, and settled upon a ledge which seemed too small, were three cottages, appear- ing to shun each other : one called The Chapel, another Jane's, and the third, which was unoccupied and ruinous, had, for some cause, no story and no name. At the back of these cots began the wood called Thirty every plat and copse around were so many history-books a wood of old Scotch fir, boggy and crossed with runnels, noisy with owls between dusk and dawn, haunted all day by lapwings screaming invisibly down the dark depths. This wood went high upon the moor, giving the lie to those who said no trees would grow there, and at its end were longstones, erected by old land-grabbers as a testimony of their daring, and not tampered with since because ancient, mysterious, or religious, forced to preach a sermon although they knew nothing better than the slang of thieves, if men 12 WINTERING HAY; could be called so for taking what the owner did not use. It was pleasant to go through Thirty when the wind was rough, and the tormented tree-tops roared, and the empty space beneath them was half lighted ; but Cyril did not go that way, for it was Christmas and the wonder of the hour was on the heights. He ascended Zigzag Cleave by the path of that form, skirting the wood, and so upward between the dry walls of the plats until the carols began for he was over the first shoulder of the mountain and upon the plateau, where the wind never ceased and he entered a trackway which gave no assurance of leading anywhere except higher and from the world. Parallel with it ran a brook, at least it seemed one, and its presence was obvious ; but why did it run beside the dry gully and a foot beneath it ? Another story ! There was no end to them. The brook had itself once been the trackway, worn by the feet of tinners, to become in time a channel of rain, which continued to wear the soil as the feet had done, until a surface gully was well made ; and in season of flood much water, unable to find an outlet through its usual channel, became diverted into this new one, and had used it ever since. Men still passed that way, and finding the old trackway always wet they walked beside it, and so continued for a few centuries, until their feet made another path beside the one which had become a water- way. So that where men are wont to walk a river may in time be formed, and even the Dart itself, which floats a warship, may in the early days have been a rain-trickle taking the direction of some winding pathway worn by the large, hard feet of savage men. Cyril pressed eagerly along this trackway upward, free from all fear, elated by the wind, excited by solitude, and happy, for this was his Christmas walk and he had immor- tals with him. The mist was darker, more threatening, but not fearful because it was blessed mist, and presently it would scatter, in one spot only, before some rock altar, or above a stone circle, to reveal the gift, the Christmas present which had been reserved for him. Whatever form THE CHRISTMAS TREE 13 it took it would prove the means of making life, bestowing liberty, giving happiness, and, above' all, of revealing the beautiful part of human nature, the divine side of it as represented to him only up to now by the almost painful beauty of Nature. There must be magic upon Christmas Day, enchantment of the best, giving the great, good thing to those who sought for it. Cyril had felt that always. As a young child he had gone out, troubled by dreams which told him that behind the shoulder of the mountain were trees, and among them somebody waiting for him alone ; and he had gone, a mere toddler, climbing up the trackway, fighting his way onward with gasps and tears, reaching the place he had never seen before, all that mys- terious region hidden from the house, to find nothing except the same rock moorland, no sacred grove, and no path to lead him, and nobody waiting to take him by the hand. So the dream seemed false, and disappointment of the world, which crushes a child so soon as he can reason, brought Cyril his first unhappiness. Lost and frightened he wandered through the solitude until at last a moorman found him kneeling beside a dead pony which had succumbed to wild, wintry weather, and crying, not for himself, but at the manifestation and the discovery of death. A couple of hundred feet higher the trackway reached a gentle slope where water trickled through a long chain of bogs, except in one part where a gully of great depth had been carved out, and here the Marybrook splashed down from ledge to ledge. The path brought to a spot absolutely level, known locally as a water-table, not as in its archi- tectural meaning a place where water was thrown off, but where it gathered ; and here there had been once a clapper bridge, or at least one had been started many centuries ago and had not yet been finished. History had some tale of this, as of all else : how that a certain official, possibly a Perambulator, passing that way in time gone by, had slipped upon the stepping-stones and wetted his feet. " A bridge must be made," he cried, and calling two moor- men he gave them pay for one day, and told them to 14 WINTERING HAY build one. " A bridge over a river cannot be made in one day," they answered. " Where is the river ? " asked the autocrat. " Here is nothing but a small stream." But they still insisted it was a river. " Do your work/' they were told. " It is a matter of half a dozen stones." Next day came a heavy rain which made the waters rise up five feet, and the official was astounded, for the men were right, and the stream was indeed a river ; and when he was told the waters would rise yet another five feet during the winter's rain he said no more. But the work of one day was finished ; useless to man and beast. Here Cyril hesitated, mindful that the afternoon was getting on. His seemed but a fool's journey after all, a religious rambling after unrealities, for all things were the same : the Marybrook as white and noisy, the plateau as black ; not even a wandering light appeared to lead him on. He gazed at the bleached tussocks rising on the higher side, hoping to see some movement, some small being passing there with a guiding cry : he advanced in that direction, leaving the trackway, getting into crevassed ground where it was difficult to tread, and so ascended from the plateau, departing from the noise of water, going into a place of silence, for even the wind had ceased ; and still the tussocks rose above all shivering, and still he looked and saw the same old moor of rock and peat. Another change in the nature of the journey upon the second shoulder of the mountain, black with heather, and free from stones where the ground was firm and far less broken. Cyril paused again, conscious of sound ; not the ringing in his ears caused by the uncle's blow, nor of bells from distant towers below, but more as the herald of the wonder hidden yonder. The mist was going ; the last clouds rolled on, solemnly falling so that the sky appeared even to the horizon, where a red bar showed that the sun still burnt. The air became more chilled ; and out of the silence went on the tapping, as it might have been a staff against the stones, while Cyril strained his eyes to see the figure limping on its way to find him with blind eyes. THE CHRISTMAS TREE 15 It came from the moor, that gentle tapping, from beneath the peat where little folk kept Christmas with quaint revels, and the mist had cleared that he might see their tiny candles and the keepers of the precious ointment which could open human eyes to the religion of Nature with beauty as its god. This would not do. The romance of life must rest on firmer stuff than tissue. The thought might be inter- woven with gold and silver, but the fact contained base metal. The tapping was real indeed, but water made it. Somewhere, not seen, a piece of spongy soil was oozing, perhaps with the pressure of the listener's weight, and giving forth its moisture drop by drop. The wonder was not there ; no law had been suspended, all was common- place ; yet Cyril looked up again as he went onward, and his thoughtful frown became a laugh, and his arms went out in childlike rapture, and he cried in exultation, " It is here." A green path opened before his feet few would have noticed it at all or stayed to wonder winding between the thick black shrubs of heather, greener than lowland grass, a ribbon of bright colour in the black and clear of rock. It was a path not made by men, but by the fairies ; for when men walk down heather it grows again, and wherever the pixies walk they leave a mark and nothing but grass will grow where they have trodden. No man required to walk that way ; human feet would have worn a hollow and here was none, while the heather fell back as it knew that densely as it might grow on either side, the Pixies' Path was ground it might not violate. Here was the way of sunset stories. Along this path had gone the children of the air : Frimutelle and Floramie speaking in frightened whispers, Doralice looking back for Guerrino, Samaritana gliding with her spells ; with a thousand others of the same type and beauty, fragrant with wild thyme and orange blossom, prince and princess, gaily, lightly, gracefully since the end of them all must be happiness and love was god of the pathway passing like 16 WINTERING HAY the mists of the moorland, through enchanted twilight and vaporous moonbeams, melting into the echo of the mountain or into shadow-forms to play and laugh divinely in the paradise of the hill-top. And so the tales of child- hood became the only literature, and the Green Way was left to prove them true. " I have come this way before and have not seen it," Cyril murmured. " I could not have forgotten. I re- member each gully, the shape of the biggest rocks ; every feature of the moorland is recorded on my memory. I have not seen it before because it was not here. It is here for Christmas Day. It came at midnight. To-morrow it will be gone. I must use it quickly before the light goes." He hurried forward to set his feet upon the mystic carpet. How soft it was, how easy to walk there ! It seemed that he was carried onward, as if by wind, and there was none, merely the strong pressure of his will and the excitement of his mind. So he had been destined to win good fortune, since the boy or girl who found that path and trod it to the end were bound to win the prize, certain to find all that they wished to see, sure to gain the victory that they fought for. Darkness was coming on with no kindness of twilight, the silence was great, space grew purple, and there was no promise of any light from heaven ; and Cyril began to run along the Green Way, sweating a little and partly out of fear. How was it he had never found that Pixies' Path before ? One he knew and had often walked on, but that was much lower down, a long way off, wider perhaps, but less vivid in colour than this, which had surely been cut through the heather the night before by some gust of blessed wind. The end came in sight. The side of the mountain started up, black with dead growths and moisture, and there was neither holy spring bubbling out of the rock, nor rough temple, no house of Albunea, no blue candle, nothing at all beautiful ; merely a waste of black stone veined with quartz. The religious journey ended in desolation. Even the imagination of youth could hardly THE CHRISTMAS TREE 17 conjure brightness and happiness out of that bleak upland ; for another change had come upon the scene, the wind was getting angry, and dark clouds which had chased the mist away seemed now to have conquered the whole world, singing no longer to Cyril, but screaming at him, "There is no gift for you. Christmas is over, and the black spells are free again. You must wait another year." Yet Cyril did not go, although there was danger of being caught by the night. He looked on with keen eyes, accus- tomed to read those outlines ; the light seemed to proceed upward, from the gleaming stones, where there was heather and no grass, just beyond the ending of the path where the green carpet had been sharply shorn away ; and here was a wonder in that treeless waste, a tiny tree, a spruce fir scarcely a foot in height, squat, struggling for existence in the open place of winds, a Christmas Tree, battered but living, and having on its heads three golden crowns of buds, for this was December, coronation time, when growth begins to reign. For the second time since noon Cyril went upon his knees, now to bless, to worship, and to gaze, and to be certain that the tree was real, not a part of the dream of the pathway and the walk. He put out his hand, and when his fingers were pricked by the needle-like leaves he knew that the growth, sown there by wind or some passing bird, or by the higher power of good enchantment, was a gift for him, his present from Nature for that Christmas. This little fir, which fought to live between hard rock and crushing wind, to live only and not grow, for it was old and dwarfed and had not strength to bear a cone, was like himself : a solitary growth very far removed from other members of its family, forced to exist amid uncongenial surroundings, and yet to love its life, to give all its strength to live, content if only it could endure to know the time when the stones would be removed from its roots and some rain-storm would wash down a few handfuls of black soil. " It is meant for me. I will take it back and plant it 18 WINTERING HAY in the garden ; and we will grow together. I will find a place where the soil is good and deep ; I will make it grow, and when they are dead, and I am happy, and married to the wife that I mean to win, we will decorate the tree each Christmas. How dark it is ! " The clouds were like wings of ravens ; the wind was croaking. Happiness won by the death of others, those who gave the wisher food and clothing was that good- will of Christmas and a way to peace ? The poor roots struggled ; so strong, though starved, they were, clinging beneath the stones, refusing to be parted from them, or to exchange their barrenness for the happiness of good soil. The body of the tree came away when Cyril pulled with both hands, but the fine and tender fibres of the root remained, broken off beneath the stones, preferring death to change ; but Cyril had the gift in his hands, and with it hurried a few steps, and finding himself deep in heather turned back searching for the Green Way which had led him to that place, and could not find it. All the bewildered tracks were lost like the day and its dreams ; and he could only travel roughly downwards towards home through darkness, trusting fortune to guide his steps, murmuring as he went with the wind urging him from the height, " I could not find the path because already it has vanished, and will never be seen again ; but this tree which grew at the end of it my gift is real." CHAPTER II AN ACRE OF BRAMBLES HALF-WAY down the side of the mountain Cyril hurrying to escape from darkness ; at the foot of it the Mutters tightening their hold upon salvation ; and upon the first ridge, the projecting ankle-bone of the giant who supported mistland on his shoulders, another family keeping Christmas fatefully. Of the three cottages two were dark, the centre one abandoned to birds and rock plants, the tenants of the third unconscious already in fourpost bedsteads. In the first there was the dull gleam of a lamp struggling through peat smoke. This cottage was known as The Chapel, possibly because it had been built upon the foundations of some shrine, a spot where some anchoret had cast himself, or holy well had gushed ; but the true tale was held in the book which had been closed for ever, and the idea of a place of worship remained only in the index of subjects which that book treated of. Three people lived there, naturally related : Gideon Fley, the master, Maria Athberry, and their small daughter Rhoda. Her birth had brought them all under the same roof ; before Maria had worked for her living she did so still, and with far less remuneration but with a little piece of flesh and blood to care for she went to Gideon without ceremony, going to his cottage, as one might pay a call, and directly she entered putting on an apron, cleaning up, and seeing what there was for supper. She had a claim upon the man, therefore he must maintain her. The birth of the child was the only form, religious or otherwise, of 20 WINTERING HAY the union between them, and for the man it was enough. Gideon could not present himself in church ; he had not the clothes, neither could he face the clergyman or listen to the old English words which in some terrible fashion would have deprived him of strength and manliness and transferred them to Maria ; for Gideon was in the dark about religion, which was to him all witchcraft. Before the funeral of his father he had slipped into the coffin some bread and meat, with the only coin he possessed, feeling somehow that the old man would be hungry on the journey, and might require a piece of money to pay his fare ; and he had insisted that the body should be carried out feet first. Gideon could not read, and yet had any one told him of the River Cocytus with the two-oared boat and the ferryman of the dead holding his hand on the pole, and the shade approaching from beneath the trees which were covered with lifeless oscilla for leaves, he might have grunted with some kind of inward knowledge of that scene. Such visions if the stubborn beliefs of paganism could be called so did not disturb Maria. She believed that the religious ceremony of marriage was necessary for salvation, and doubted whether an illegitimate child could enter heaven. In an uncomplaining way she admitted to herself that they were probably all damned ; and yet if any other man had offered her marriage she would certainly have refused, although Gideon was cruel and her life was hard, but she had given herself, and to pass to another would have seemed an act of wantonness. She had done what she could for the child, and had hurried it to baptism, dreading lest death should take the little soul to be driven up and down the moorland by the Black Hunt. She, too, believed in the power of witchcraft ; but whereas with Gideon all was dark, with her there was white magic, as sunshine against darkness : there was white magic in marriage, in the ordinary services of the church, in the singing of hymns, enchantments which were denied because Gideon could not spare her out on Sunday, and he was master AN ACRE OF BRAMBLES 21 because her home was his. And so she worked ; there was nothing else to be done. Worked and protected herself and the child ; but being human lost her temper, since she gave the man much and received so little in return. She was the priestess of this little cottage called The Chapel, and the gospel of work was her religion. Dark it was, but the home was darker than the moor. Gideon lay abed till noon, grumbling because no visitor had arrived, calling from time to time, " Ain't Kit come yet ? " and swearing when the answer was the same. At length he rose and dressed, as he called it, then huddled over the fire : sallow, dirty, unshaven, the laces of his still damp boots trailing along the floor, his breeches and stock- ings brown with peat stains, his hands thrust into the pockets of a long, loose coat. Little Rhoda kept well away from the father who had put no gift into her stocking and had then not a word of kindness, playing with bright stones which she had picked up for jewellery, whispering to these lifeless playthings as a child will. Maria was looking for work to purge her melancholy, and finding little, for they had no meat to be cooked, and the pudding was made. A flush upon her cheeks, not caused by the heat of the room, grew darker. This was the day of rejoicing, when folk who had good clothes wore them, and churches were like gardens from font to altar she started at the thought, at the idea of so much space between the two, a few steps only in the church, but in the way of life how rough a journey, past many a milestone of youth and folly with eyes closed to solemn sign-posts ; and she had gone wrong, had not reached the altar, and now it was in the mist. This was the day of laughter, and here was the man her master half-snoring in the peat smoke, and her child not knowing that bells were ringing in the valley or why the cheerful noise was made. Maria was hungry, not for the meat which they lacked, but for the food which builds up souls for the warm heart and the caressing hand. Even the voice of a preacher delivering a message of good- will would have sounded upon her ears like that of a lover. 22 WINTERING HAY The falsest notes of the most discordant chorister would have made an echo of the song of heaven. Good clothes, or at least a cloak to cover her shabbiness, and she would have gone out, have fought for liberty if necessary, to get her soul fed and her eyes filled by voices singing an old hymn and the wind of the organ flinging glad music across the resting-places of the dead. " Wur that you, woman ? " exclaimed Gideon, bringing his head up and staring foolishly. " I reckon it wur. I must ha' sung out without knowing. I can't mind the words though. I ha' the tune, but when I gets to ' new-born King ' I ha' to dwell upon it." " I fancied 'twur Kit. He'm fond o' singing." " He'm fonder of strong ale," she retorted in her woman's way. " He ain't a drunkard," growled Gideon. " He is," she muttered. " It takes a lot to make Kit a drunkard," he said with unconscious humour. That colour was getting deeper on Maria's cheeks. She wanted to rain contradictions on him, not because she was quarrelsome, but to relieve herself and arouse him. Such silence was only meant for stones and lichen. She fought the storm under and looked out : nothing there but mist and the shadowy tree-tops of Wintering Hay. The child screamed suddenly, dropped the stone she was polishing ; and Maria turning caught a glimpse of a slim, yellowish creature gliding beside the wall. " Leave throwing they stones about, maid," called Gideon angrily. " Let her alone, will ye ? " cried Maria, snatching the curb off Nature. " You ha' given the child no meat. Ain't her to have no play ? I'll scat the brute," she cried, grabbing ineffectually at the swift animal, which glided from her to the hearth, to be captured by Gideon and stuffed into his large, loose pocket. " If I get hold of that ferret I'll throw 'en on the fire. An honest man don't work wi' they things. He works wi' his hands, and buys a bit AN ACRE OF BRAMBLES 23 o' meat vor Christmas, and gives his woman clothes to go abroad in." " Hold your noise, both of ye," the man snarled, spitting on the hearth. " I ha' held it long enough. A woman can say what she has a mind to in her own home, and if her can't 'tis prison and I ses to you, Gideon Fley, you ain't an honest man." The taunt amused him, for he laughed and muttered, " Darn ye, I'm gude enough vor you." " I ha' heard plenty o' that. When us took our first walk you ses, ' I'll be gude to ye/ and when you knew what wur going to happen, you ses, ' I'll be gude to ye both. I'll do my best.' If a man's best be to do naught, you ha' kept your promise." " There's a whistle ! Open the door, woman," called Gideon, turning himself and becoming more awake. " I ain't your slave," she replied ; and almost as she spoke mist entered and with it a man : short, bearded, red and watery about the eyes, a sprig of holly pinned upon his cap, clad in a ragged overcoat, decayed trousers, and large, split boots. He seemed to fling himself into the room, singing as he came, shouting rather : " Another drink, another drink ! Another drink will do me good, I'll have another drink." " Not here you won't," Maria muttered. " A merry Christmas all," the man shouted. " Peace, happiness, and plenty of work. I'm a glutton for work. Twenty miles a day, rain or fine, round and round the old circle, town and country, asking every lady and gentleman I meet, * Have ye any work for a poor old soldier ? ' I live for work, but I exist without it. Come out, my pretty," tugging at one of his pockets. " What's the luck, Gideon ? Not sick, are ye ?. " " The same old thing. It takes me this rough weather," said Fley, rubbing his left side tenderly. " I ain't so sick as the woman though." 24 WINTERING HAY " What's wrong ? Her got a heart too ? A woman talks plenty about her heart, but it don't kill her. A woman's heart is like a worm when it breaks she has one for her master and one for another chap. Don't be sick, missus. Tis Christmas time for strong ale. Here's all I could get," and he threw a hare upon the table. " What have ye been doing then, Kit ? " asked Gideon. " You promised to come round Christmas morning wi' some meat, and now 'tis dark " " Ain't it near enough ? " broke in the cheerful tramp. " I ain't so fond of the time o' day that I want to keep it. I'm a man of work, not a man of business. Folks are in a liberal mood to-day, and when I see the drinking going on I like to get close to it. ' Any work for the old soldier ? ' I ask, and it always comes. A chap who can pass the giff-gaff is sure of his food and lodging." " I ha' a fancy vor pheasant. I'm tired of the furry trade," Gideon grumbled. " Birds are scarce in the close country, and up yonder they'm as wild as the ouzels. That's it, my dear," cried Kit, as Maria lighted the lamp. " The dark is good for some trades, but it spoils winking. Man, you're looking whist like the night in the turnip-field when we dragged the net." " Shut it," cried the other man. " Think she don't know ? Maria sees as far as most women, and that's the whole length of the way her master goes. Ain't that right, my dear ? You can tell a lurcher from a sheep-dog, although the magistrates can't, and partridges from sparrows. Pitch in the fire-place, neigh- bour, and keep your heart warm, and don't try to fool the woman who eats your meat." " I ha' done with it," said Maria loudly, looking from one to the other, and hearing as she thought in the wind the dull rejoicings of the Christmas hymn. " Done wi' the meat. You ha' tasted none to-day," observed Gideon with hateful humour. " A proper pair of poachers," she said fiercely. AN ACRE OF BRAMBLES 25 " Wrong, my dear. Call Gideon what you like, for he keeps a lurcher, and pays no licence because he swears it's a sheep-dog, and he keeps ferrets, and owns a net which wasn't made for catching mackerel nor yet butterflies. I'm an old soldier, a gardener, a pedestrian, a naturalist, a man of science, bless your shining eyes. I go into the copse to pick primroses, I walk the fields to listen to birds singing, I lie by the river to watch the spiders skating on the water. The country is my garden, and I walk in it every day. Before the farmer is out of bed I've studied agriculture on his land, and before the stars come out I have surveyed a dozen parishes. Every day I add a page to a life of study." " You'm drunk," said the stormy woman. Kit held out both hands, brown, hairy things, but palms downwards, for the skin there bore no record of real work, and standing as a challenger went on, " Show a fist more steady than that, and I'll say I'm drunk. I like my drink it does me good. Put out your hands, and hold 'em as steady as these." " I won't put out my hands. I'm ashamed of 'em," she answered. " That's a woman ! Afraid to show a decent man a bit of honest dirt," muttered the surly Gideon, who was turning the epithet poacher over in his mind, and finding it little to his liking. " There is no honest dirt in this house," she said madly. " I ha' lived in foul trade and with it. I ha' eaten it, but I won't clean it. I'm ashamed to put out my hands, Kit Coke, not vor what's on 'em, but vor what I ain't got ; and if he wur honest, and deserving of a woman to mind his home, he'd strike this hand down sooner than let me show it. There's my little maid what I ha' fought vor, and yon's her father. My Rhoda and me are related, but that man and me ain't though I live with 'en, and work vor 'en, and though he's father of the maid I'm mother to, he ain't no more related to me than you be, Kit Coke and I begged 'en to go to church wi' me, I prayed 'en to go, I wur 26 WINTERING HAY always willing and I be willing now ; and he promised to go, he swore it * May I be struck down if I don't/ he said. ' I'll make you an honest woman, I'll give you a ring/ he said a hundred times and here's the hand, I'll show it now to shame 'en, a woman's hand what ha' washed and scrubbed and cooked vor a poacher and a liar, a mother's hand as naked as her child's." " Let me alone, darn ye." Gideon had risen ; he was coughing and getting black. " Stop her, Kit. I can see her dumb else." " You can't do more than you ha' done. You'm a man the Almighty's a man too, you say. He'll stand up vor His own sex. He'll send a wicked woman and her bastard down to hell. That ain't the God o' Scripture, Gideon Fley. He ha' two eyes, I reckon : one of 'em divine, and t'other human, and wi' the human eye He'll look on me and know how I wur led." " Give over, my girl," advised Kit, somewhat sharply. " Take a man as he is, and be glad you have one. Lead him, and he'll go : drive him, and he'll stand. Make up the fire and cook the meat ; then for a song and a happy night. Put your hand down, woman, and don't get angry. We ain't laughing at ye." " I ha' been laughed at plenty. I'm used to it. Where's my ten shillings, Gideon ? " she demanded, coming a step forward. " The money I saved, penny by penny, to get me a ring. You said you couldn't afford to buy one, so I saved month after month till I got the money. What have ye done wi' my ten shillings what I put by ? " " The money wur mine," Gideon shouted. " I ha' naught, I fancy. The house ain't mine, nor yet the stuff in it, and you ain't mine. I'd be as gude on Dart- moor along wi' the ponies, looking vor a lew place to lie down in. The maid is all I have, and what's mine I'll hold. You can take yourself out, Kit Coke, and your poacher's trade with ye. I'll cook no stolen meat." " You're a bit noisy, Mrs. Fley," answered the tramp smoothly. AN ACRE OF BRAMBLES 27 " A body can't talk without making a noise. Please to call me Miss Athberry, vor that's my name. His ain't gude enough vor me, I reckon. I can be the woman of a man what ought to be spending Christmas in prison, but I ain't to be his wife I ain't respectable enough." Gideon snatched at an ash-stick lying on the hearth to toughen. He was slow in speech and could not express his feelings in mere words ; but deeds he understood. The others did not hear what he was muttering, but Kit, who knew him well, could guess. He turned up his coat-collar and made for the door, not cursing the luck which sent him out without a supper, for he was a philosophic being who took weather and fortune as they came, but anxious to avoid a business which might bring him into contact with the law. The respectability of his character would not permit him to be present at a scene of violence ; nor would it allow him to protect a woman, although he knew she might require hands stronger than her own. " Another fool, another fool," half sang the cheerful rascal as he fled leaving the door wide open. " Some preacher has got at her, or else she's mazed for lack of company. The same walls every day, under the same roof, and the same view out over, with a peevish brat at her skirt, and a dull master coming in to stuff and sleep that makes her worry. A week on the road would put her right. A tramp through the country would show her the way to live. When we do too much in one parish there's another over the next hill. I would as soon lie in the churchyard as rot in a house of my own." He went quickly, and with as little noise as possible, down the darkest side of the rocky track towards the field- path which would lead him out upon the road to Blackerton, imitating the cry of the owls with such fidelity that one lonely bird flapped over him to learn what manner of creature he might be. Down that same track, which passed behind the three cottages upon the ledge, came Cyril like a young spirit of the peaceful season, his fair hair blown about, his face 28 WINTERING HAY happy, for he held the small spruce fir, nodding with the wind-like motions of his body, tingling his cheeks when he stumbled with scratches of its needle leaves. The trackway went far below the cottages which stood upon an outcrop of brown rock. Stone steps led down between two spouting springs ; and here the rocks were slimy with fat mosses and ferns were long, and cloudy green branches kept sun- light off the steps during the months which have no dog's letter. Now they were bare, save in the cracks where life persistent forced crowns on primrose roots and young grass began to waken in the shelter fed by water-drip ; for Christmas is not winter in Nature's great, wild garden, but spring's first holy-day ; and the winds say masses for the trees and plants to hasten their release from pur- gatory. During the long descent Cyril had heard nothing but the one voice which he at least could catch the meaning of the wind under a corporal of mist muttering to the faithful. The stones beyond had ceased to rattle, for Kit was already out of the trackway. At last there came the wailing of the owls, heard every night but always startling, more so in time of sorrow, and Cyril paused a moment. One owl was out of sympathy with the season ; there was no bird-soul behind the ululation, the tone was forced and lacked the note of pathos ; and yet Cyril did not guess a tramp had made it. That cry, deceiving other owls and him, was made by a man who lived upon deceit. Cyril was near the flight of steps, and still heard no voices ; yet he came on slowly, for his senses caught what others might have missed the rustling of a stoat through leaves, the trepidation of moles beside the hedge and he was well aware that moving bodies on a large scale were not far distant. The atmosphere above these rocks was in a disturbed condition : people passed, not for any household need of peat or wood, but in fear and anger, one escaping from another following. The boy's soul warned him not to go too near, but his body lingered, and his ears admitted sounds more definite than any mere suggestion of feet in AN ACRE OF BRAMBLES 29 motion : scuffling, a blow against the air, a gasp ; but not an exclamation, nor threat, nor entreaty : merely a strife upon the cliff like that of elements, a matter of the clouds, and only connected with the earth by atmospheric in- fluence. It was then whisperingly dark. The Fleys perhaps. They do not get on well together. Now they might be two spirits, thought Cyril ; and went on. By chance he had come that way instead of descending the pathway of the cleave, preferring to return by this trackway to complete his round. There was a prospect of discord at home, making him shrink from any that was avoidable, more especially as the finding of the Green Way had steeped his mind in mysticism, and the sense of enchantment remained, with the prickles and odour of the tree, itself a magic growth while the walk lasted, linking his spirit to the dream of pure delight. A broil would put an end to this peace and spoil the Christmas journey : therefore he hurried between the wood called Thirty and the haunted cliff, shivering a little, for the passion in the air was real. " They seem dumb," he muttered. " She does not drink she has good eyes. I wish I had come back by Zigzag Cleave, but I thought it would be quieter this way. Those people have no right to make my walk end badly." Another moment and he would have been past the steps had not his foot slipped upon a rounded stone which Kit had kicked there in his hurry. He fell against a slab of well-worn rock. Still he could have escaped, but stayed to look up, and the darkness became parted by a flash of two white faces, and a woman scrambled down, after her a man hitting out at the whole world with a stick and two lean arms. Neither of them appeared to notice, although both struck against, the boy whose eyes, with power added, followed flight and pursuit, gazing at first with the stupidity of terror at the tragic antics, those windmill arms, and flail-like ashplant tough with hearth-reek. Here was more than a vulgar quarrel ; the woman ran, not from 30 WINTERING HAY the unknown, but from certain death, and the man pur- sued without plan or knowledge, but in the state, unless prevented, to swingle the fibre of soul from that bodily substance which had driven humanity out of him by the suggestion that he was inhuman. Somehow Cyril could not escape. With those figures leaping in the dark gro- tesquely, borrowing from Nature so little of its beauty, resembling the distorted images of tree roots shown by nightmare, he could not turn ; and he forgot the day, his tree, and the spirit of enchantment passed from him, the charm cast by the Green Way dissolved, and he fell from dreamland to hard earth. He was no angel sent to dwell with men and women, exempt from the passions which controlled their lives. Those two had passed as though he had been invisible, but he was as human as themselves, and passion was in him too ; and he had seen the woman's eyes, and her face, which should have been all white, was partly red. Still clutching the tree he ran out from the steps, not shouting, for if they could not see they would not hear, appalled by their silence, which had not been broken by a word. That made the business hideous, this animal-like want of speech : one exclamation, a cry for help, even an oath of anger, would have brought the actors into line with humankind. They were beneath the bank, where brown earth pitted with rabbit-holes went up to a thatch of furze bushes, and the darkness was a thing to feel. The stick had fallen twice, groan answered growl ; then Cyril was beside them, smelling sweat, and when the man's right arm went up he used his left, being born to the use of that, and with his blackthorn, cut and trimmed on a day of idleness, struck out, and felt his elbow tingle with a shock. All was over ; and Cyril, cooling rapidly, seemed to be alone with Maria beside the bank. Gideon had gone, as if that blow had struck him like a ball far out of sight. Shuddering, Cyril passed his hand along the stick to make sure it was dry, then parted his dry lips to speak : AN ACRE OF BRAMBLES 31 " Mrs. Fley, are you hurt ? I am sorry for this." " I b'ain't hurt, sir. He scared me cruel. Where's Gideon to ? " " He is not here. I did not hear him go." P " He fell. Tis awful dark under they brimmles. Gideon ! Where be to, man ? " " He is here ! He caught at my leg. He keeps on hitting at me. Get up, Fley. I hit harder than I meant." " Dear life, sir, 'tis his heart agoing weak. Let's ha' a light. 'Twur wrong of you to hit the man. He never interfered wi' you," she muttered. " He would have murdered you," said Cyril angrily, pulling matches from his pocket and striking one. " He wur right. I'm his woman and I set upon him first." Cyril would have left her with the knowledge that he had made enemies by his meddling, but the spectacle of Gideon writhing in that blot of light held his feet. Still the man was speechless, still in action, throwing out his arms and legs like one learning to swim. They could not see his face for it was downward, and as Maria knelt to take his head the light went out. " There is blood on your face," said Cyril in a dazed manner. " I don't take any notice of that," she answered sharply. >( You had no right to hit my master." " There is not much gratitude in you, Mrs. Fley. I did not want to interfere, but how could I stand by and see him kill you ? " " I brought it on myself. I put upon him more than 'he could bear, told 'en he ought to be in prison, mebbe I spat on him. I didn't know what I wur doing, I lost my temper, one thing led to another, and at last he took the stick. He meant nothing serious. He would ha' hit me two or dree times, then he would ha' come to hisself again. Gideon, my dear, I'm sorry. Come home, man, and I'll cook the meat if us sits up all night vor't. Life be a game of give and take, and us women ha 1 to give a lot vor little taking." 32 WINTERING HAY " How is he ? " Cyril whispered. " He'm better now. He ha' been troubled wi' his heart avore. Come along, Gideon you can stand up now. Us'll get along home and forget how words ha' passed." " He is not getting up. Can I help you ? " " The fit ha' gone by. He be getting quiet. He'll get his breath back soon, and then he'll stand. He wur scared as well as hit, and I heard 'en fall into they brimmles like a squab when 'tis shot. That old spear of yours be proper heavy. 'Twur a liddle one he used on me, not a gurt club what might be took vor bullocks." " Is it any use waiting ? " " No, sir, I reckon." " Good night. I am sorry for interfering if I was not wanted," said Cyril somewhat bitterly ; and moved away, longing to be alone and afraid, for it seemed to him still as if Gideon was not there. The silence was greater than it had been, and the atmosphere of romance had turned to frost. But he went back, remembering the tree which he had dropped. " Please, sir, to make a light," a low voice muttered ; and Cyril felt again for matches, saying hurriedly, " Is he always like this when he gets a seizure ? I did not mean to hit so hard, but just then it seemed necessary I thought he would kill you, I felt I must prevent him, and I tried to hit his arm, but it was too dark to see, I forgot my stick is heavy. Is he moving, Mrs. Fley ? " " I heard 'en sigh as you said good night. He ain't moved since. It be bad night, I fancy," said the woman, as the light of the match revealed the presence of a third person, whose face was the ghastliest there. Wind came along the trackway and restored the dark- ness, which to the eyes of Cyril was no longer black, but red and leaping ; and out of it came the cry, " Gideon, my dear, get up. Why don't ye move, man ? Speak to me, Gideon lad, do ye now. I'd sooner have ye hit me than lie there whist and staring. Move a bit, will ye ? AN ACRE OF BRAMBLES 33 Kick me if you ha' a mind to. Aw, dear soul, move, and say you'm here." " Unconsciousness that would make him lose colour. They look like dead when they faint I know they do. Where are you, Mrs. Fley ? " " I be here, sir." " Let me help you lift him. We must carry him up the steps, get him into the warm." She was breathing noisily, and he knew somehow that her hands were on her eyes. " Take his feet. We can do it we must. Somebody might come this way. Did he move then ? " " He'm like a stone." " You must help me. I cannot carry him by myself. Quick, Mrs. Fley ! He is lying in the water." Gideon was not heavy, being of small bones, so they raised him at a first attempt and reached the steps, where the struggle began, for the moss was slippery and the burden did nothing to assist them. Twice they rested panting, twice they fought on, with backs bent and laboured breathing ; and so to the open door, and into the smoky room, where little Rhoda crouched in a corner, sobbing with terror of the solitude, hugging to her breast the dog for company ; and they stretched the body in its usual place close to the glowing turves, and Cyril turned to bring the lamp down, but could not hold it when he heard the sobs of the child, and from the lips of the frightened mother the slow sentence : " Light's no gude." No answer was possible, for that interior became crowded in an instant with all the awful faces of those who had done violence to their fellow-creatures and had endured the penalty : faster whirled that circle of red terror around Cyril, as the muttering reached his ears : " You ha' murdered my master." " He is not dead. This is only unconsciousness, and he will revive presently. Unfasten his clothes, give him brandy, rub his body, put something hot to his feet. He 34 WINTERING HAY is numbed we left him lying there too long. It is very cold in the trackway, and his clothes are soaked." And then Cyril became dumb because her eyes were staring at him. " He'm past all medicine. Gideon be dead. Well, I asked vor't and now I ha' my wish. May you be struck, I ses, and struck he be. He ha' done naught to you, Mr. Rossingall. He never took his stick to you. He never swore at you. You ha' killed the man, you ha' made me a lone woman, you ha' took my maid's father away, you ha' took my home from me, you ha' turned me out to get my own living. This be a merry Christmas, I reckon. My master took, and the old owls screaming. His soul be gone by now, so I'll shut the door, vor if I see them birds come nigh I'll scream wi' them. ' Hark the herald angels sing ' 'tis a whist song, I reckon." Listening to nothing, Cyril stood and stared at the silent figure, which was Gideon Fley no longer, but a parcel of stuff left by the living man, not to Maria his woman, nor to any relation, but to the one who had struck him down. That body was Cyril's property, all that he possessed, secured to him by bond more holding than the overlapping stone or any contract he had signed to. He had hardly spoken to the man in life ; had passed him sometimes with the usual careless notice, but had never walked with him nor asked him questions, and had never touched him until then ; but now, with the breath gone out, and the strength he had used unwisely struck away, he seemed to exist in a new and terrible manner, and to be mouthing the words of his final testament : " In the name of God. Amen. This is the last will of me, Gideon Fley. I give and devise all my estate and effects of which I may die possessed, or entitled to, especially the woman Maria Athberry with whom I have lived, and the child Rhoda Athberry born of that union, unto Cyril Rossingall of Wintering Hay. I also devise and be- queath all my Body unto the said Cyril Rossingall abso- lutely, for him to dispose of as he may think fit, either AN ACRE OF BRAMBLES 35 by burning, tearing, burying, or otherwise destroying the same." All earth and heaven forced that Christmas gift upon the white and shivering boy. His own life was held in mortgage by that corpse. So this was the turning-point, and the sign which was to be his through life flashed out in this smoky cottage, guiding towards a horror of darkness, not to the perfect happiness, nor to the beauty of peace which the light of the morning had promised should be his if he sought for them along the right path. He had gone out so often, looking for the rock-altar upon which he might offer his whole being to the service of Nature, persuaded that the patient search would meet with full reward, and the time would come upon the upland when the message would reach him as a whisper of inspiration, "This is the way." Upon that day he had made an onward step ; had been called into the mist to find a mystic pathway of pure green, and at the end of it a stunted tree, a growth of wonder because it grew there ; and in that cloudland he had breathed a different life, drawn nearer the barrier which separates flesh and blood from higher forms, and been in communion with the souls of plants, and caught a human note in plaints of birds. From that height he had descended to this depth : up on a quest, then down to a deed ; pure from a sermon on the mount to kill a man. What force against all godliness was here ? What dryads of dark and twisted roots, longing like souls of the dead in Pluto's fabled realm for blood to feed on, had tempted him to stray from the usual pathway of the cleave, where all was fresh and open, and had drawn him into the close trackway, roofed with oak branches between gloomy banks of rotting leaves, so that he might witness that night- mare of a struggle and end it with a crime ? Surely no young devil had a dwelling in the tree he had plucked up. That fiend was in himself, not carried in his arms, formed outwardly of pith and prickle, but lodged in his body, and 36 WINTERING HAY made of the same cruel stuff which had raged in Gideon until extinguished by the human passion his had kindled. The dream of beauty seemed broken for evermore. The way had been lost, the wrong direction taken. Cyril had, as it were, in the fond dreaming state of youth, knelt beside a placid brook, t seeing his own quiet face, the flowers, the stately branches, patches of bright sky, and drifting cirri, calling himself a wanderer through the scene of wonder, and the surroundings high and low his own ; and then, in a wild moment of madness unexplained, had with his own hand flung a pebble in the brook, breaking his own image, and the scene, and heaven as well. Movement went on ; the flame of the lamp seemed full of life, the peat on the hearth fell apart while glowing particles changed places ; smoke hurried, even the furni- ture creaked ; but from the one thing where life was needed came no motion. The passing of feet behind brought Cyril back to the thorny new condition ; gazing, he saw the unwedded widow going out in hat and shawl. If he called she did not hear him, for she made no pause, and the door closed. She had gone to be a messenger and a witness against him. Cyril awoke fully and went after her into darkness which was new, and reached her on the top of the steps where they had struggled. " Where are you going, Mrs. Fley ? " He was getting cool and more settled, for he was desperate. This woman had no right to dispose of any property which was his. " Vor policeman/' she answered, simply as duty dic- tated. " You must not go ; you cannot for your own sake," he urged, taking her by the arm, holding her back, able to feel a thrill of manly strength at this first contact with a woman not related. " Nobody must know we must keep this to ourselves." " You ha' killed my master," she muttered, beginning to break down and crying out of fear and trembling, while he stood quiet and cold. " It was an accident while protecting you. There is AN ACRE OF BRAMBLES 37 no mark upon him ; no blood, no wound. He died of heart failure." " He would be living if you hadn't hit him. I must tell policeman." ' You shall not. There would be an inquest." " If he died of heart, 'twould come out then." " It might not. Whatever the verdict I should be driven out of my home. We might be sent for trial." " Not me, sir. I never put a hand on Gideon." " How would you prove it ? " Cyril whispered, shivering at the cunning he found in him. " Questions would be asked about your character mine is good. They say you were not married to Gideon." " Tis true," she sobbed. " It would come out that you had lived with the man, you had been heard threatening him. The Jolls at the end cottage would witness against you. If you swore I hit him, and I swore it was you " Cyril muttered and could not finish, for it seemed to him these were the words of a criminal, and she frightened him with her fierce sobbing. " We must get rid of the body," he whispered. She was yielding out of weakness and custom. It was true her character would not survive hard questions, made bad by the dead man because he would not keep his promise. If put upon her trial even her own connections might say little that was good ; and if Cyril should be base enough to swear that her hand, not his, had struck the blow, character would be weighed and found against her. Youth on one side, sex on the other, made both weak, and one form of weakness was led by the other along a path which seemed the easiest, but was, in fact, the track of difficulty leading into the depth where no light reached. They returned to the cottage, shut the*door Cyril it was who locked it and there they stood with backs towards the fire-place, where the master of the place still ruled. The ticking of the clock, scarce heard before, came then like hammer-strokes. 38 WINTERING HAY " We will buij'jhim." " Where, sir ? " " In the higher part of Wintering Hay. The ground there will never be disturbed." ' ' He will walk. He will fly abroad in the night and follow the Dark Hunt. What ha' Gideon done that he shouldn't lie in churchyard ? " she asked piteously. " The body will lie quiet. I will read the service over the grave," said Cyril wildly, for it was getting noisy in that cottage of the tremendous pendulum. " What be I to say when folks ask me, where be Gideon to ? They will know he wur here to-day, and they'll know to-morrow he be gone. Who be to pay the rent ? " " I will. Has Gideon never been away before ? " " Many a time. He ha' gone off wi' Kit Coke vor days.",: 'VWho is Kit ? " " A poacher, sir. A good- vor- naught who tramps the country round." " You can say Gideon went with him. He will never come back, but you need not know the reason." " Folks may ask Kit." " Let suspicion fall upon him," said Cyril, very far removed by then from the mystic pathway. " We must move the body now. Somebody might come it is not likely, but we cannot run a risk." " Us can never dig the ground down under. 'Tis vull of roots." She shuddered. " I know the place. We have got the whole night before us. The body will fall down and lie hidden in the brambles until I am ready, and if anybody should discover me digging there I can say I am planting a tree ; I have one ready. Let us get the body out at once. Then I must go home." The rocky ledge where the cottage stood was hardly thirty feet in width. A dry wall, loosely made of granite blocks, had been erected upon the edge to guard against a tumble, for the cliff there dropped sheer to the upper AN ACRE OF BRAMBLES 39 portion of the ground attached to Cyril's home, and far above it, for the moorland rose sharply from the bottom of the cleave. All the upper part was a natural wilderness of granite boulders, furze brakes, and bramble patches, never visited by the Mutters. Cyril was the only human being who entered it, to fight his way through brambles and tall bracken that he might lie upon a rock well hidden to dream or read romance. " A lantern," he cried quickly. " Nobody will see the light, for it is misty. Besides, it's Christmas. I will soon make a hole in the wall, and afterwards build it up as it was before." This was a part of the foolish work done easily. Out- burst of passion had led to weakness, but neither sinned until now. They went wrong, not so much because they feared the law, but in terror of those who would talk and act unjustly. Gideon might have met his death by heart failure, but how many self-appointed judges would accept that verdict ? Where Maria was concerned not many of the neighbours. Where Cyril was concerned not his aunt and uncle. Publicity in any case would punish them too severely ; and more bitterly if the law declined to do so ; and this was a truth Maria began to realise while lighting the lantern for her accomplice to begin his struggle with the wall. If this young gentleman could not survive enquiry, how should she ? Round and ragged stones rolled out with shocks upon the turf. Sedum and moss and lichen fell to die. The hand which had done for Gideon Fley now tore the scarlet moss-cells into fragments and crushed full many a score of pixy-matches, things the boy loved and had gloated over often with almost a young girl's tenderness for trifles. This was no hour of reverence for beauty. A body in torment looks not at what it crushes as it writhes, unlike the crushing power above that body which knows what force to the smallest fraction can be borne, descending with all the elements behind it, and yet not altering a feature nor tearing from the sufferer's head the least 40 WINTERING HAY i small hair. Now that the work was on Cyril had no fellow- ship with the god of the mountain. Only a short time back he had walked high above the tree-tops ; now he worked beneath their roots. The wood called Thirty spread above, dividing the lost pathway from the bramble patch, making a black cloud between height and depth, between the highest rock where the wind seemed holy and that hot work more foolish than most crimes. "It is done. That hole is large enough," said Cyril fiercely, rubbing his bruised hands together to wipe the dirt off. "I'll manage it all alone. I'll drag him out and put him through, and if he does come down upon a rock he'll never feel it." Maria was subdued and shuddering with many emotions as well as cold ; but still she answered, " Please to treat 'en proper, sir. He wur my master." " He disgraced you ; gave you his home but not his name. Do you suppose I would get myself into trouble for a man like that ? You must get rid of the dog, else the creature will be sniffing and scratching down there." " I mind him as he wur when he come to court me," she sobbed. " When a man's dead 'tis hard to think of all. ' I want you home,' he ses. ' Maria, I love you " Stand here. I'll fetch him out you are trembling too much. I have nothing to be afraid of, for I never killed the man. His head was too hard to feel the knock I gave it. You roused him with what you said. You are the murderess." She sobbed more violently and hung back, while Cyril walked into the cottage, trying to keep at that same heat to complete the work, but faltering when he saw little Rhoda struggling to remove her father's boots, sobbing and moaning while her fingers wrestled with the sodden laces, and the long, lean dog asleep with its head on the master's chest. Cyril closed his eyes for a moment. The domestic scene was frightful in its silence. " Out of the way, youngster," he said in a growling voice. " Your father and I are going for a walk." AN ACRE OF BRAMBLES 41 " Daddy seepy so seepy," moaned the child. Maria heard herself called. She came forward, groping and tottering. " Take the dog he shows his teeth at me. You must help me after all, for I cannot drag him round the table." " Shall us show 'em a bold face ? Shall I go vor police- man ? " she pleaded. " I'll look at 'em all, sir, if you will." " Be quiet," he said angrily. " Take the legs as you did before." " I don't like touching 'en now. Gideon, my dear, I want to see ye put away in churchyard proper. I'll ha' no sleep when I think of ye lying beneath the brimmles. This ain't my will 'tis his what hit ye. I would ha' no hand in it if it warn't vor he." " Damn you, woman ! Take him, or I shall go mad. Do you think I want to get rid of him like this ? We must do it, or be done for ourselves." " Aw, sir, dear sir, he wur my master. He could be kind." "He is out of the world now, but we are in it. We cannot hurt him. We can only save ourselves." Again the tired woman bent her back to perform these last domestic duties for the man who had bought her cheaply and had used her as a slave. Again they staggered through the darkness ; a few paces only, but each a work, an agitation, and a pain ; and at the hole in the wall Cyril dropped his burden so that the whole weight of the body falling downwards dragged at the woman's arms, bringing her forward against Cyril, who seized and held her back ; and when she clutched at him they were like lovers embracing in the night, breathing out passion for each other. Then came the shock, one rustling movement, one turning over as in sleep, and the body was safe in brambles, held to the side of the hill beneath by their strong cables and their thorns. " Let me go," said Cyril hoarsely ; for she held on forgetting who he was, regarding him as a man, a helper, 42 WINTERING HAY something to support a lonely woman. " I have to build up the wall ; and it is late." " Don't ye leave me. I'll hear 'en struggling in they brimmles : I'll be mazed wi' dread alone." " You have the child," he said, forcing her away. " I ha' no man, and 'tis whist these winter nights. I'll seem to hear brimmles scratching like his fingers on the door " " Get the lantern and a spade. The body is down there, and we cannot get it up again. They might call it murder now." " He'm bruised wi' rocks and tored wi' thorns." " They might say your blows had bruised him, your nails had scratched his face." She screamed and Cyril left her, perceiving she had become helpless, and getting the lantern from the cottage, and tools from the linhay, he replaced the big stones one by one, restoring to the topmost line some of the soil and turf he had displaced, but not the broken cups of moss and the shattered pixy-candles, for they had been trodden in the mud, then beating the stuff down to a level with the rest. This work was soon accomplished, and he went to Maria, who stood outside the circle of light, still weeping, and said, " Open the door about ten and listen. When you hear me whistle come out. I know where the ground is easy to dig," he muttered feverishly. " I began once to clear a part to make a garden. No one can ever find it there." " He'll be found if 'tis God's will." " These things come out to punish guilty people. We have done no wrong. God knows what killed the man, and how we are compelled to hfcle the body. The posses- sion of the secret will be our punishment. I must keep it for your sake and you must keep it for mine. Get something to eat and read your Bible. He died naturally you know he did. Now you are free to marry a man worthy of you, one who will make you happy. You will soon forget." Regaining the little tree he had dropped upon the AN ACRE OF BRAMBLES 43 trackway, Cyril hurried home, unable to think because he ran, and the only part of his mind he could control was concentrated upon the Mutters and what they would say when he returned so late. Through the moor gate he passed, and across the water by the clapper, which gleamed faintly, and so to the house, where not a light was showing. Turning from the dismal porch, he sought the back way, entered there, avoiding the eyes of cook and housemaid, who were trained in their master's school, went into the hall like a thief, hesitated a moment to wipe his face, then made to another gloomy door and opened it, shivering a little when he saw two silent ones, horribly innocent of sin, sitting near the fire, each with a book and lighted candle : his aunt and uncle alive to each other, sleepy to him, and to the dark world dead. " Is that you, Cyril ? " asked the aunt, with her back towards the door. " Yes, I have been up the moor and was lost in the mist. I am very sorry to be so late, but at one time I was afraid I might not get back at all." The uncle said nothing, and did not even look up. He might have been asleep, but Cyril knew he was not ; more probably wondering what pleasure could be found in sliding headlong to the devil. " You were told to stay in the house. This is Christmas and you have spent it like a heathen," the aunt went on. " We have done our best for you by giving you a good education, and we have tried to bring you up to the fear of God ; but you will not obey us, and you do nothing to please us." " I must have exercise," Cyril muttered. " I just went outside, I did not mean to go far, but I wandered on, and then the mist came up and I went wrong." " You have never yet gone right," she said in the same hopeless fashion. " We have tried to make you a gentle- man, but it seems you were meant to be a bootblack." " Cyril," said the uncle sharply, " get your supper and go to bed." 44 WINTERING HAY " You may come and say good night first," added the aunt as coldly as before, yet the permission made Cyril wonder whether she had not the heart of a real woman and some love for him with all his waywardness in spite of her acts and words. Would she remember his kiss if to receive it was no pleasure ? He went, thankful to get off so easily, accustomed to be regarded as a mere child, and beside a burnt-out fire devoured cold food which restored his energies and cleared his mind to think again. So he had actually murdered a man ! The fact excluded details, such as a diseased heart. He, Cyril Rossingall, a handsome youth, spiritual in face and imagination, clear- eyed, soft-handed, had joined the lowest order of criminals, nor did the truth paralyse him with horror. He could eat and drink without discomfort, neither shuddering nor casting glances over his shoulder to be sure the dark corners of the room were empty. Maria might be sick with terror in her lonely cottage, but Cyril felt no fear. He looked at the reflection of his face in the mantelglass and saw a smile of satisfaction, for he was very hungry and the cold turkey was good ; he saw bright eyes, a smooth forehead ; even his hair was not much ruffled ; and there was nothing on his hands to remind him of the bequest waiting in the mist. fc Excitement had hold upon him. His mind, wrenched out of its usual groove, was merely throbbing, not working freely, and what seemed thought was a kind of frenzy. He was in a state of carelessness because necessity forced it on him in order that the day's business might be finished. The eight red letters of murderer had no more meaning then than the ten black ones of punishment. " I found a fir tree on the moor. I am going to plant it in the garden." So he chatted to the aunt when he returned. " You are always planting things. They do not grow," she answered shortly. " This one will," he said with confidence. AN ACRE OF BRAMBLES 45 "You have your mind always upon earthly things," she began ; but Mutter looked up and said, " Do not talk to the boy." Cyril bent and kissed her coldly on the cheek. She did not respond. Then he passed to the other side of the fire, and said, " Good night, uncle. I hope your rheumatism is better." No answer was given, nor even a hand, to the sinner. Cyril scowled and walked out, possessing the one clear thought of hatred ; and when he had gone Caroline looked up to say, " The boy seems very fond of digging." " He loves the dirt," her husband answered. Not a sound came over the moorland then : by ten the wind was raging. It was easy to leave the house unob- served. Cyril had done so before, to walk about in moon- light, and on that night when all was dark and wild with shaking doors and booming chimneys, it was the simplest thing to pass out and climb to the high place among the rocks where the tremendous piece of property awaited its final transfer to the ground. Cyril's mood had changed : now he was frightened, trembling at the shapeless aspect of well-known forms, dreading to lay a hand upon the body ; and as he went he tried to encourage himself with thoughts of his uncle's creed, since his own seemed false, to believe that this duty was religious, and he was a young priest about to perform the last office for a fellow-man. Yet the darkness remained full of trouble, and there was melancholy in the wind unknown before. Life was beginning here. Those early years had been wasted and walked away. Boyhood had been a time of dreams, and now the realities of the world fought with his spirit as the wind buffeting his body, and Cyril was born again that Christmas night into a world of difficulty which his own act had made. The next few hours were periods, ages even, of frightful toil ; and each as it passed was wiped clean off his memory. The first was associated with shudderings and gropings, difficulties in obtaining foothold, nausea, bramble scratches, 46 WINTERING HAY furze pricks, a lantern, mattock, and shovel lowered down the face of the cliff by means of a rope, a terrible face looking over. The second period was occupied by roots, but stones entered, some of them large, dug out after great effort and rolled aside. The third period was one of anger, despair, carelessness, ending in relief, for it seemed to the worker that he seated himself beside a long, narrow hole, where the tree was to be planted, and held between his hands a can of hot tea, without much knowledge as to how it had reached him, but the simple woman had known that men when they work require refreshment. While the fourth period was made up of bodily pains, an unending flow of perspiration and at the end of it the tree was planted. The dim light of the lantern revealed it, black and stunted, sheltered from the wind, its roots well trodden under peat, and the ground all round it broken, but soon hidden by the planter beneath dead fern. The work was over : the new garden had been made during four great hours of work ; and from the darkness of the cliff a voice came softly out of sheer exhaustion : " God help us, sir. Good night." CHAPTER III JANE'S A NOTHER side to that dark matter of burial was to XJL be found on the very shelf of rock from which Gideon had been excluded. The first cottage was in process of decay, the second had holes in its roof, but the third was sound. Behind a wonderful little garden space had been scooped out of the cliff ; and here appeared a tombstone, and upon it was inscribed, " J. Joll. Died 187-. Until the shadows flee away." Within the cottage old voices were humming pleasantly : one asking, the other denying ; making it obvious that the speakers were not of the same sex. "Til take the pail." " I wants him myself." " And the scrubbing-brush." " I wants him too." " And the soap." " I be using him." Apparently all things were masculine, except the object- ing speaker, who was perhaps not telling the truth, a possibility hinted at by the first speaker, who presently came into the open air holding the three articles he had demanded, and followed by the maker of obstacles pro- testing that her brother would lose the use of his seven senses and be " took in the prime of life "if he insisted upon scrubbing an old tombstone in the middle of winter. It was then for the other to object, and he did so seriously. " If I waits vor spring to wash the stone, maybe he won't 47 48 WINTERING HAY get washed at all. What's to prevent me from dying avore then ? " " You ha* got another twenty years in they old bones." " But I b'ain't all bones," the brother answered. " A man is as strong as his heart. While his heart is cheerful he bides. When it gets tired of life he goes. I ha* a mind to scrub the stone, and I'll do it." " He'm a contrairy toad," the sister murmured. These were the Jolls, Jane and Betty, only children of John Joll whose heart had ceased to beat not so very long ago after working for a century. There was something in the Joll blood which kept their hearts going. It takes twelve months to make a year, but only eleven Jolls to make a thousand years, was the family motto. Such Jolls as died under eighty were described as children, and only those who passed the century were mature. Jane and Betty were still far removed from the age which would require soft food and spectacles. But why Jane, for certainly the elder of the two had a better title to the gender masculine than the washing things he carried ? In the general masculinity of gardening implements and household appliances it seemed unfair that the master should be rele- gated to the sex called weaker. But that in a sense was the case. The old fellow setting forth to scour the tomb- stone was head of the Joll family, bearded like a man, dressed as one ; legally he was feminine. Two women had been joined with him in matrimony, the Church blessing and the law not interfering, though it might have appeared both foolish and quite wrong to wed a woman to a being known as Jane. Sons and daughters had been born with pitiless regularity, yet that was not enough to convince the law of the land, which undoubtedly has angles of obtuseness, that their father was a man. Human wisdom apparently could not wipe out the human error which made it impossible for old Joll to prove his sex. Lawyers per- ceived how on a certain day in olden time a female child had been christened Jane. They further perceived that one James Joll had subsequently insisted upon personating JANE'S 49 this lady. No record existed of the baptism of James, nor was there evidence of any kind to show that Jane had ever been seen or heard of. To the mind which overlooked the niceties of common sense but one answer was suggested. James Joll was non-existent, and the man who bore that title did so at his peril. The record of Jane began and ended with her birth. James certainly lived, though he had failed to be a credit to either sex. To eliminate both would have been inconvenient, since one person of the community would have been left unaccounted for. Wherefore the perceptible and assertive James became, for all purposes apart from reason, the missing Jane. Old Joll had told the story so often that there was now no danger of any embellishment, for the sentences came easily from his brain which had composed them in pre- railway days when each parish had its own dialect, and the man who said " tray " for three thereby proclaimed himself an alien to the one who said " dree." The language was too wonderful for modern ears, but in a revised version the story went somewhat as follows : " There wur a lot of hunting in them years, and there wur a lot of smallpox ; and because of the hunting and the smallpox I got to be called Jane. You can't work that out, I reckon ? No, I knew you couldn't. There wur a gurt big comet in the sky when I wur born, and volks said he warn't there vor no gude, but the comet had nought to do wi' the hunting, though they do say he brought the small- pox. Vaither told me of a man he knew well, and a vunny chap he wur. Hadn't got seven senses same as me, and maybe you. He wur the man who called up parson one night, and ses, ' I ha' shot one o' the angels what flaps around church tower. I ha' been and killed a holy angel, parson. Whatever shall I do ? ' You see he had shot a gurt white owl, and when the bird wur lying on the ground in moonlight, wi' the wings on each side of his head, he must ha' looked like one o' they cherubims what wur painted on church wall. Well, vaither said this man wur going down 9. lane on the very night I come into the world, and he E 50 WINTERING HAY whistling and making out to hisself he warn't afraid of the old comet volks do whistle when they'm alone and scared, though I don't know how that helps 'em when all on a sudden the comet lashed out wi' his tail, like a horse worried wi' flies, and knocked the fellow over the hedge, across two fields, and down a gravel pit. That's his story mind, told when he got home, but he warn't supposed to be quite teetotal. Next day, anyhow, he had the smallpox, and it took him, and the comet got the blame. " Same day as he wur put away they took me to be christened. They took the children to church as quick as 'em could, vor a lot got the disease and went back to heaven almost as soon as they wur sent out on't, and vaither said I wur a weakly one ; like a tadpole, he said, head and nought else. He fancied I had the pox, and in them days volks had an idea that baptism would cure a child what wur took to church sick. Of course, he could catch the pox next day, or next minute, after being christened, but if 'twur in mun at the time of the ceremony out 'twould go. When the scules came in they old beliefs went out. That's the part the smallpox played in giving me the name of Jane. You don't see it yet, but you will in a minute. " Parson wur proper angry when they told 'en a man wur dead and a child wur born, and both of 'em wanted to come to church on the same day leastways, neither exactly wanted to come, but they wur going to be brought. The parsons then wur very different gentlemen from the sort us gets now, and this one, same as most of the others, did a bit of farming in the summer and hunted all winter. 'Twur cold weather then, and hounds wur meeting in next parish, five miles off, and parson naturally didn't want to be burying and christening when duty wur calling 'en to the hunt. ' 'Tis bravish frosty weather,' he said to clerk. ' Ain't hard enough to stop the hunting, thank God, but 'twill keep the body.' ' Won't keep the baby,' said clerk, and parson had to give way, though he made the volk come early so that he shouldn't lose the day. He came .running into church wi' his long boots and spurs, and the JANE'S 51 collar of his red coat sticking out of his surplice, while his man walked the horse up and down outside churchyard I didn't see that, of course, though I wur there, but I saw the same sort of thing many a time when I got older. Proper sportsmen the parsons wur, and this one broke his neck at last and died like a Christian gentleman, and his widdie sent us all a card wi' verses wrote on him, saying he wur gone to heaven, and took pretty nigh all the virtues wi' him ; and in the four corners wur angels weeping cruel, though I couldn't properly understand why they wur so sorry they had got him. " Parson got through the funeral first, cutting the prayers a bit, vor he told the mourners he didn't want 'em to stand and take cold, and then he came trampesing into church, shouting, ' Where's the baby ? If he ain't here I can't wait vor 'en.' Up gets vaither and tells 'en they'm ready. ' What's the name of mun ? ' asks parson, avore clerk had time to tip the pail o' watter into the font proper dirty trade it wur, I mind, being took out of the rain-tub outside. Parson could do as much in five minutes as any man I ever knew. ' James, sir,' says vaither. ' A proper name,' says parson. ' We'll leave out they long prayers, vor you won't understand 'em, and they b'ain't necessary. James, I baptise thee. Take 'en away, Joll. He'm a better Christian than any of we, and if he do take the pox he'll go to the right place. Just run out and tell my man I'm coming/ says parson, and goes off to the vestry, running in his gurt boots, and tells clerk, who was an oldish man and a bit deaf, what to write in the register, and I don't know how many other things besides till the old chap didn't hardly know which end he stood on. He wur terrible awkward wi' the pen at any time, and when parson shouted first one thing and then another he must ha' got into a muddle and instead of writing James he put Jane. Us didn't find out the mistake till years afterwards, and then 'twur too late to alter it, vor parson and clerk wur both dead, but I wur wrote down a female and a female I ha' been ever since, and a lawyer told me that though I know I 52 WINTERING HAY be James Joll I can't prove it, and though 'tis certain I vvur born a boy I can't prove I warn't born a maid. Parson would ha' laughed cruel if he had lived to know of it, vor he liked a joke, and he wur a good man I tell ye, and got on well wi' the volks, and bred the primest pigs in the parish, and rode straight but if he hadn't wanted to go hunting that morning I would never ha' been cheated out 'of "my rightful sect." With that word meant for sex Joll invariably brought his story to a close. Had it not been for a little matter of law, which required a birth certificate, the error would not have been discovered. Fresh complications were added when Joll took as his first wife a woman named more rightly Jane. It was a mistake, but having gone the full length of falling in love no escape was possible. A new vicar appearing upon the scene some years later discovered a flock of children released from school, and desiring to make acquaintance asked their names. ach cheerfully replied with the monosyllable, " Joll." The vicar addressed the question, " Who is your father ?" and received the answer, " Jane Joll," which seeming frivolity he rebuked with a stern, " I said your father, not your mother." But still they answered, " Jane." Despairingly the pastor asked, " Your mother's name then ? " And again the monotonous, " Jane." The parson went on, murmuring, " It is a pity that such pretty children should be crazy." The next day he went to clear the matter up, and con- fused it more by gently opening the cottage door enquiring whether he had reached the dwelling-place of " Jane Doll." All this was ancient history, tales of the almost fabulous times, not long ago, when every country parish was a kingdom, with its King 'Squire and Pope Parson, its own code of law and standard of living ; when every man and woman living upon the other side of a certain brook or JANE'S 53 boundary stone, against which lads from both sides had been soundly bumped, were foreigners, while those who occu- pied the uttermost parts of the country were antipodean : their ways if not their feet being entirely opposite ; when life went well enough, if slowly, in a steady round of work and parochial festivity, and that labourer who had travelled ten miles away was a kind of Sindbad. Joll had come out of that time, out of a large world into a small one, and was in some ways a stranger. The place was the same, if less prosperous, but science had waved a wand over it making folk restless, emptying cottages and leaving them to decay, turning many a field into a garden of thistles. Joh 1 loved the quiet old gods the best, and worshipped them still. Hardly had he dipped the brush into the steaming water, after preparing the inscribed portion of the stone to receive the soap, when Betty again came forth, an- nouncing, " Come in, old dear. Young gentleman be to see ye from the Hay." " Let 'en come out," said Joll, who was no respecter of the young. ' Tis Maria Fley he wants to tell about." " She'm nought to he. I ain't going to be mazed wi' business whiles I clean the stone. Two things done to once means neither finished. Say I wishes 'en a happy new year, and tell 'en to call again." Betty had disappeared, but her voice could be heard: " There he be, sir. T'other side o' garden, catching rheumatics and mortal chills " ; and then Cyril walked over to the old man who was inwardly well pleased to have a listener, his sister being prone to wilful deafness, and in any case his book of wisdom had been exhausted upon her. "It is a cold morning to be out washing," said Cyril, noticing pail and scrubbing-brush, but not the flat upright stone, kept usually wrapped up in sacking, for the old man's body hid it. " Mebbe 'tis cold, but I don't take any notice of it," said Joll, using the phrase which was always near his 54 WINTERING HAY tongue, and speaking truly. It was part of the Joll nature not to notice anything harmful or unpleasant, and therein reposed the secret perhaps of Joll longevity. If the weather was atrocious they took no notice ; if bodily pains threatened they took no notice ; if sorrow, disaster, or financial ruin seemed likely to crush them, if enemies became vindictive or friends went wrong, they took no notice ; and when death suggested they had used the world enough, even then they took no notice. It was a way of expressing contentment, of declining to be disturbed by external influences. Drizzle and cold mist could hardly harm a man who insisted upon regarding them as warmth and sunshine. " Tis the new year. I wish ye happiness," said Joll. " And as many years after as ye want, vor 'tis no use being alive unless ye ha' a mind to live. Take the happiness, sir, and let old Satan ha' the rest. He likes the bad things, us likes the gude, and that way we'm all satisfied." Cyril reciprocated, then added, somewhat heavily, " Some like the bad things, Joll." " Sure enough, but they ain't proper human creatures," came the answer. " When I wur a youngster I wur told by the Dame who taught me to read and write, ' There be angels and devils, and human beings, and pixies ; and betwixt and between all they are other volkses, such as human angels, human devils, and human pixies.' I believe it, sir. 'Tis the human devils what like the bad things, but 'tis sure enough they can make themselves human angels if they want to." He moved to reach the soap, and Cyril for the first time saw that tombstone erect against the cliff. He had never heard of its existence, for Joll was not wont to be garrulous upon this matter. With memory in full play, and all his bad dreams back, with the new year tragic, yet arguing within himself, " not wickedness but weakness," he read the inscription and stood in burning thought. Here, within a few yards of those turves well trodden around the tiny fir, was a memorial to the dead, and more, the JANE'S 55 suggestion of a grave, an unconsecrated plot of sepulture, terrible because it was so near that other. The old man turned his head, showing a face of comic muse creased up with laughter. " Your father," muttered Cyril, " buried here ! " " Underneath/' cried old Joll with joyous chuckles. " There be the head o' mun where I ha' set the pail. Your feet be over his." " He has been dead some time," said Cyril, still staring at the stone, and horrified by this unholy mirth. " Why was he buried here ? And why is the full date not given ? " " Us Jolls be long a-dying ; and when us gets our tombstones cracked avorehand 'tis likely 'em reads wrong." " You must know when he died." " I know his age. It wur two wi* a hundred added." " I never heard of his funeral. Did you bury him here, secretly, without anybody knowing ? " " Dear life, 'tis beautiful," laughed Joll, beating his hands together in sheer delight. " He died in Hartland town when he wur tired of walking up and down ; and he'm buried there." Cyril's countenance cleared and he forced it to a smile. JolTs ghoul-like behaviour was not natural. He would scarcely have given himself over to mirth had his father been lying there ; but the young man's mind was troubled, and he, too, wanted to laugh wildly sometimes, when he went to see how the magic tree was doing, and he thought it was possible old Joll might wish to cover up some weakness of his own by laughing too. " I ask your pardon, sir. I never wanted to deceive you, but when I saw you standing there so serious I had to make my joke." " Is anybody buried here ? " said Cyril. " Us stands on solid rock beneath two feet of earth I put here." ' Then why is the tombstone here ? " " He'nf waiting to go over the grave of my old vaither's 56 WINTERING HAY son," said Joll soberly. " Vaither wur a giirt lad when volks to Plymouth drank the health of the Prussian blue, and his son be living yet. Marriage tames volk, a hard winter tames birds, but it takes a century to tame a Joll. Yonder's my tombstone, sir." Cyril laughed at last, relieved to find the lightest touch of tragedy, if any, for that tough old man of the rocks looked in no need of tombstones. He sought for an ex- planation of the inscription, which was already much in error as to date ; and it came fully thus : "I'll tell ye the tale from the beginning of the world till now. That's what volk used to say, and 'twur just a way of swearing they would speak the truth. This tomb- stone, sir, ha' got a pedigree." " A history ? " suggested Cyril cheerily. " I mean to say he ha' passed through many hands. First of all he lay out on Dartmoor, and he wur wore flat because the pixies danced on 'en. You don't believe that, do ye now ? You'm modern. If you wur as old as me you would believe everything except what volks tell of their neighbours. Secondly he took the fancy of a gentleman var- mer what then lived to Buddleball Barton. He had a notion to put a granite stone over his wife's grave, so he went out on Dartmoor to choose one, slipped up on thikky, being frosty weather and they pixies had made a slide across mun, and said to hisself, ' He'm flat and he ha' called my attention to him by purty nigh breaking my back. I'll ha' mun out on't.' So he went to the granite cracker what used to ha' a yard to the bottom of Voddon Hill, takes him up along wi' cart and tools, and they wrastled the old stone out. Fifty years ago that wur, but I could show ye the gurt hole he wur took from, where the Almighty put mun when He made the world, vor he warn't flat underneath not by any manner of means. While they wur lifting him one of the men fell and broke his leg, and volks said the pixies had done it because their dancing-stone wur being took away. Do ye believe that now ? " " I have my doubts," said Cyril. JANE'S 57 " If you ha' doubts you don't believe. The stone wur took to the yard, cracked and trimmed proper, flat on both sides and round to the shoulders, but the owner never claimed it and his work warn't paid vor. The man wur a middling bad varmer and a worse gentleman, vor he went off and let his wife's grave run to grass ; and the stone lay in the yard just as he lay out on Dartmoor, and maybe the pixies came and danced on 'en again. Then one day he wur bought and took home by an oldish man who wanted to make sure of a gude covering over 'en when he died, but the very day after he put the stone into his linhay, he got a kick from a horse, blood-poisoning set in, and he died. Volks said the pixies had done it sure enough. What do you say to that ? " " There seems to be ill-luck in the stone." " It ain't in the stone," said old Joll. " There b'ain't no feeling in he. Whether he'm dry or wet, clean or dirty, 'tis all the like to he. Do stones grow, think ye ? " " Certainly not." " I ain't so certain. How be it some are big and some little, some as big as a house, and some so small you can't hardly see 'em ? The little ones ain't broke off the big ^nes any more than a blade o' grass ha' fallen off an oak tree. I kept a few little stones in a box vor years, but 'em never growed. Maybe they wanted rain and sunshine on 'em. Maybe they take a long time to grow." " They never alter in size," said Cyril decidedly. " Them gurt rocks yonder ha' worn down a bit since I wur a lad." " Yes, they get smaller." " If the gurt stones get smaller, why shouldn't the little ones get bigger ? " " Go on with your history." " I ha' asked a lot o' questions in my time, but I ain't had half as many answers. I reckon asking be a lot easier than telling. The stone never went over that man's grave ; he wouldn't be here else. The widdie said he warn't proper to put on the grave of a Christian man, forgetting that when 58 WINTERING HAY he wur in churchyard the pixies wouldn't be able to come nigh. Do ye know why ? I'll tell ye. Pixies can't a-bear church bells the noise would kill 'em. Thikky woman wur a bit close, I fancy. Tis a sure thing her never put up any stone at all, and when volks asked when she meant to make the grave vitty her found a way out by saying such a lot of volk had been buried side by side, and her had quite forgot which grave wur her old man's ; but then she had gone and married again, and when volkses get new husbands or wives they don't think any more of the dead. The nexly o' the pedigree of the stone be I bought him vor five shillings." " Why did you want it ? " " He wur to be had cheap. Tis an old custom to get your stone made ready in your lifetime. Vor another thing I warn't expected to live long. Doctor said I wur in decline. So I had the stone got ready, and now he'm all wrong. I wur vulish to think a Joll could be took so early, but they kept on telling me I wur the exception till I believed 'em ; but they'm all dead now and here I be. Old volk, sir, be born, not made that ain't the way it should be put exactly, but what I means to say is that if you'm a Joll it ain't easy to die, and if you b' ain't a Joll 'tis hard to live. The foreign blood us marries into kills we Jolls. If 'twur lawful or proper vor us to marry each other we'd likely go on vor evermore." " Then the stone has brought no ill-luck to you ? " said Cyril. " You means the pixies. I don't take any notice o' they. I'll ha' the date altered this year but I'll tell 'em not to cut it deep." He set again to scrubbing, feeling perhaps that if he re- mained inactive much longer it might become necessary to take some notice of the cold ; while Cyril, who had noticed little else during the past few days, braced himself to perform the business he had come on. Old Joll was lord of that rocky platform, owning the three cottages and all the piece of cliff between Wintering Hay and the water- JANE'S 59 worn trackway. Much of that shelf had been carved out of the rock by those red hands. " I want to speak to you about Mrs. Fley. It seems her husband has deserted her and she is afraid she cannot pay the rent," he stammered awkwardly. " Gideon ain't her husband, sir," said Joll, speaking slowly, and casting a glance around. " He ain't deserted her neither. There be a mune now and that's gude vor his trade. When the nights be dark, maybe he'll come back." " What do you know about him ? " " That," said Joll, pointing to a dock. " No gude. He ha' treated the woman shameful, and if he don't come back 'tis the best vor she." " He has never been away so long." " He went on Christmas night, I fancy." " How do you know ? " asked Cyril, gulping. " Words wur passing. Next day he warn't about. Never took his dog though, and Maria ha' sold 'en since." " He went very suddenly." " I reckon. He had fits wi' his heart. Her's a good woman. Would ha' been better if it hadn't been vor Gideon. He ha' spoilt her life. Well, sir, what about the rent ? " " She has no money. I thought perhaps I might collect some for her." " You take a kindly interest in the woman, sir." " I found her crying in the trackway. She told me she feared losing her home. I am sorry for her. How much rent is owing ? " " A matter of ten pounds," said the old man slowly. " What ! " cried Cyril, becoming normal with amaze- ment. " She told me two weeks." " Two years, and a bit besides. Gideon never paid, but I took no notice." " It was very kind." " If I. had took notice, I would ha' been bound to turn 'em out. That might ha' worried me." " You mean it would have been hard upon her ? " 60 WINTERING HAY " When you treat such a man as he deserves, you'm likely to punish an innocent woman, and that ain't justice. Tis best to take no notice of the man. I'll go round presently, and tell her if she bides she'm welcome. If Gideon conies back think he will, sir ? " " How can I tell ? " cried Cyril, flushing painfully. " A man wi' a heart like his might die sudden. I don't want 'en here, but I couldn't turn 'en out. Living long be expensive, but if us puts by a bit every year us can last. Maria be a gude woman," said Joll again ; and turning from his tombstone, now bright and clean, he added, " You'm fond o' digging, sir." " How do you know ? " " I ha' heard ye often down under digging the brimmles out. Digging be proper work ; so be planting. But you digs vor yourself, and you plants vor others. I ha' done plenty of both." " You can see and hear well," said Cyril easily, confident that the great secret was safe. " Well enough," said the old man, beginning to chuckle again. " And when I hears more than I wants to I takes no notice on't." CHAPTER IV A DAY OF CONFESSION WHEN the soul has a burden Sunday adds to it. The quiet day makes for restlessness of mind : suspension of the ordinary routine, and the sense of a holiday empty, unless occupied with religious duties, more irksome to many than work itself, tend to make folk irritable, and to create a longing for other conditions. The old can settle down with thoughts and diaries the past is for them ; but the young, who have careers to dis- cover, and a religion to find, must seek friends, and if they cannot find them mope. Cyril had no distaste for loneliness on weekdays, but with the dawn of the first day his nature seemed to change, and that outside him lost its charm because there was nobody to share it with him. The soul who could share Nature with his, taking half for the half it gave, was not yet in his life ; and now, with the shadow of a great folly black upon him, would it ever come, and by what trackway? Now that he was lost among the rocks, in which direction would the guiding star arise ? Three miles away across two cleaves the long, white barton of the farm called Burntbeer stood in a warm, green garden which in summer was set aflame by poppies on red earth, blown by the winds to kindle others in the fields. The scarlet poppies of Burntbeer had grown there time out of mind, scattering their seed each year as if working toward some end attainable. In contrast to the beauty of the place, its owners, the Corindons, were an astonishingly plain family : the master thin and haggard, the mistress also thin and curiously 6? 62 WINTERING HAY flat-featured ; George, the son, a dark-haired youth of exactly the same age as Cyril, slightly deformed, and least of all Miss Lilian of seventeen. Towards this family, which was wedded to the land and had fertilised it for three centuries, Cyril walked on Sunday afternoon. He had grown up with George and Lilian, finding his way to them as a child who longs for others will, and he knew George loved him with that strong passion, less sweet than female love, but more helpful in the battle with the physical world. Lilian was George's sister, nothing more, wonderful in Cyril's sight because of her sex, but otherwise without attraction. She was plain and awkward, so shy and silent. When the good-looking housemaid stood beside her it was easy to see what Lilian lacked. She had no title to her flower name, thought Cyril, without grace or beauty or fair colouring ; and yet her parents had done well in naming her. Where is the beauty of the flower without its chief gift, sweetness ? And Lilian had it. Beside an iron gate, scraping rich clay from a pair of massive boots, stood a man dressed like a labourer ; with the hands of one, but not the face, which suggested a lawyer turned husbandman for the week-end. This was the head of the house and the owner of those fields, a thin, sad-faced gentleman, whom wearers of Sunday clothes might have passed disdainfully ; one who made it his business not to interfere with his fellow-creatures, and allowed even the members of his own family to do as they pleased. He did not reprove them unless their actions interfered with his own life : he never gave advice he looked on, observing his wife, son, and daughter choosing their paths, or hesitating between this one and that. Little escaped him. With calm eyes he could watch a human soul fighting its way upward, or sinking to the depths, struggling with affliction, battling against poverty ; but not a word of encouragement, nor a hand of help, would be offered unless they were asked for. Some scoundrel might cheat a friend in his presence, while Corindon would look dumbly on, pitying the friend but declining to assist him. A DAY OF CONFESSION 63 All human beings, even those bound to him by blood and name, he regarded as free agents, whose absolute indepen- dence in thought and action was not to be meddled with. All must go their own way alone, stand or fight, win or fall, alone, and make their light or darkness in heaven and earth alone. Human life was like a seed in the earth, one time heaving in the agony of germination, another time bearing flower and leaf, then fruit if not destroyed before then, and coming at last to the tragedy or the happiness of decay. Each growth, perfect in itself, held life in loneliness, since it succeeded best in soil apart from others ; and was bidden to work out its destiny alone beneath the elements. Corin- don was indeed a labourer ; no man upon the farm had harder hands. His life was spent in the fields, not in the house, and the fifty-two sermons of his year were preached by the grain and plough and scarlet earth : I work, said the plough ; I supply nutriment, said the earth ; I grow, said the grain. And their anthem was, " Rain, wind, frost, sunshine are not controlled by us. We have to struggle towards harvest, submitting to evil, welcoming the good. Nature will settle all." Such was the religion obtained by Corindon during his life in the fields. It must be so when a man of intellect deserts the printed book and seeks inspiration from the coloured pages of earth's great missal. " You are a stranger," he said, with the smile which some called hard and others hospitable. " We expected you on Christmas Day. George was starting for you, but I called him back, telling him you would come if you wished to." " I did want to come, Mr. Corindon ; but I could not," Cyril answered. " Lilian mentioned your custom of taking a long walk upon the moor that day. George could not understand what attracted you, but Lilian knew." " I have never told her." " Lilian uses her senses rather than her tongue. I am on my way to the house. The wheat looks well. You saw 64 WINTERING HAY nothing on Dartmoor to equal that the green blades springing from red earth ? " " Things look dead on the moor now. But I like the wildness." " You read your stories, then take them out with you, and fill the solitude with their characters. I do much the same, only my creatures are human beings, while yours are fairies. I am sorry for the farmer who has no imagination. His life must be a dreary one." " Farming must be hard work I should think." " The hardest of all," said Corindon. " The farmer can never lay down his tools and say, ' I have finished.' The English farmer, who has to face the competition of the whole world, requires brain and muscle, a knowledge of chemistry, physics and biology, with the gift of prophecy. He must understand meteorology and veterinary science. He must be a carpenter, blacksmith, mechanician, and something of a lawyer. No profession in these scientific days demands so much from a man as that of farming. None gives quite such a poor return. Yet it is the natural life. It is the annual drama, poetry or dull prose, if you like of man and the earth with harvest as the climax. All other professions are more or less artificial. Mine is the only one necessary and natural. You can live without sermons and medical advice, but how long would you last without the loaf ? Everything should be done to encourage the farmer and make his profession easier : he should be the privileged person of the community, and instead of being a poor devil of a hayseed he should take precedence of all the squires and parsons in the land. He was better off in the old days, but he is going back now going back fast." " Is that really the truth, or has it just become the fashion to say so ? " asked Cyril ; an impertinent question, but not resented by the man who passed no judgment upon his neighbours. " You must understand what I mean. I am referring to the days wlien my ancestors farmed over a thousand A DAY OF CONFESSION 65 acres of this red clay, much of which has now gone back to furze and fern, though if I had my wish it should all bear corn again to-morrow r . I am living now upon the fortune they built up ; my own labours would hardly produce an income sufficient to maintain us. In those days every village was a self-supporting community out of sheer necessity. The mill was always working, clothes were home-made, the vicar took his tithes, while the resi- dent curate farmed a few acres. Very little money passed because a system of exchange existed. Idlers were crushed out of existence, as they deserve to be. This was the natural life from which we are going back fast. We have indeed gone back so far that any return to it seems impossible. The mill lies in ruins, home-made clothes would be scoffed at even if the women of to-day knew how to weave, the curate has disappeared, and the vicar has to whistle his tithes out of fields of furze, while money has become too plentiful. That's a strange saying you may think, but 1 believe it is true. When the price of commodities increases, and there is no longer any system of exchange in kind, money must become too plentiful. My great-grandfather was regarded as a wealthy man, yet his income never exceeded two hundred pounds.' 1 While Corindon talked, and they sauntered towards the house, he had his mind upon the boy, knowing some great thing had happened, and yet not curious to learn what it might be. Cyril was carrying a burden which made him stoop and stumble ; it was his own, whether he had brought it on himself or had it flung upon him. Had Corin- don found the boy lying unconscious on the road he would have lavished an extraordinary amount of attention upon him ; but when crushed mentally, while in possession of his will, and able to ask for help if he desired it, Corindon's duty, as he understood it, was to remain aloof. " The difference between us is this," he went on, ignoring the difference of years. " You would rather see a field golden with furze ; I would prefer to see it golden with wheat. You are steeped with legends : the furze field is 66 WINTERING HAY where the sleeper awakened with pockets full, as he thought, of gold, but when he turned them out he found nothing but dead blossoms. Your tale ends in tragedy, as, no doubt, my farm will. There is more good gold in one kernel of wheat than in a wilderness of furze, just as there is more real life in the most commonplace action than in a library of books. They are in there," he added curtly, nodding towards the porch. " I am going to the dairy." Cyril entered alone, too much at home there to knock and ring, asking himself whether he liked Mr. Corindon or merely feared him. Overwhelming hospitality had always been extended to him at Burntbeer ; the master welcomed, and was prepared to offer him the best fruits of the garden ; but he did it all roughly, like Nature bestowing gifts in a gale of wind, without sympathy, apparently without heart. Cyril could not understand the moods of a man who went to Nature, not with bowed head and hands clasped to search for a religion, but with eyes insolent and coat off, forcing an alliance with the elements to grow wheat. Surely it was an act of simple grandeur, far above walking dreams and moorland rambles, to bind sun, rain, and air to a few red acres, and to stand over them with human mind triumphant, ordering the miracle of growth and controlling the mysteries until harvest. A merry noise within. Cyril straight from Wintering Hay, like a swallow escaping from October fog and reaching some warm, scented shore, felt the waters of melancholy recede and the branches of fruit approach. The iron gates of Tartarus, that sunless abyss into which his mind had fallen during the night of tree-planting, were opened by those who made music in a happier sphere. Mrs. Corindon was at the piano ; George sang the " Barley Mow " ; while Lilian in the corner, silent with book and pencil, sketched the anatomy of some plant. The spirit of Sunday, as the Mutters understood it, was entirely absent. All this would have been pagan revelry to them ; and to others also who believe that a God without a smile controls the A DAY OF CONFESSION 67 universe ; but not to youths and maidens, not to the young with the sap of a new year's life rising to every sense- centre. The wheat was well above ground, the buds were well formed ; a few more days and primrose spears would lift in sheltered pockets of the hedgerow, and the warm piper of the wind would play mad spring tunes. Mrs. Corindon was no older than her son and much younger than her daughter. Fond of her home, and more or less tied to it, frivolous to a certain extent, careless of the world's opinion, therefore avoided by neighbours, she divided her life fairly equally between music and painting, making the empty spaces of the house gay with the sound of one, and its walls bright with the silence of the other. Domestic duties she abhorred, but with Corindon as master and housekeeper things went smoothly ; his mind arranged everything from the making of a pudding to the painting of a gate. " Cyril ! " cried two voices. " We have not seen you for weeks," said the lady. " I have been trying to skip in time to the music. Here's the rope. Try if you can do it," laughed George. While Mrs. Corindon protested, " No, don't. He's tired. Tell us a lot of news, Cyril. Sit down in father's big chair. Oh, talk, Lilian sweetheart." " I hope you are quite well, Cyril," said the girl, looking up shyly. " We never talk about health. We have just got to be well," cried the lively lady. " Why didn't you come on Christmas Day, you horrid bear ? We made Lilian put on her sweetest frock, and she had her hair up for the occasion " " And looked stunning," said George loyally. " We told her she spoilt the reputation of the family by looking pretty." " Darling, we love to tease you. Draw the curtains, George, and shut out this make-believe January daylight, and we will chat by the fireside. The subject of conver- sation shall be " 68 WINTERING HAY " What we shall do to Cyril for giving us the cold shoulder," George suggested. " We will make a wax doll for him, stick it full of pins, and put it in the middle of the fire. Lily precious, make room for three. Cyril, do something to this jewel of ours to make it shine. You have not told us a single thing, and we are dying to hear of the latest tragedy at Wintering Hay." Cyril winced. One pair of eyes noticed it, and they did not belong to George who stood behind his friend with an air of ownership. " I have not a chance to speak," said the boy, wishing he could take a portion of that atmosphere and release it in his home. " That means we talk too much. Shall we roll him upon the floor for his impertinence ? " laughed Mrs. Corindon. " Cyril never has anything to tell us." " Of course, we have lots of news," said George ironi- cally. " Oh yes ! The myrtle broke loose from the wall two nights ago, and was partially demolished by the wind ; and Lilian gave utterance to quite a long sentence yesterday evening ; and and one of the ewes has given birth to three lambs. That's all I can think of. People who live in the country must understand small talk. We have to tell a fib one day so that we may contradict it the next just for the sake of talking. I read in the local paper how that a certain highly respected villager, Mr. Tubb, went out like good King Wenceslas and found a lovely bunch of primroses, which was a testimony to the wonderful mildness of the season, etcetera ; and the next week appeared an inspired statement to the effect that Mr. Tubb had dis- covered no more than two primroses, although one was an especially fine specimen ; while last week I saw a letter from Mr. Tubb himself giving a complete denial to the report, and mentioning he had merely informed the local correspondent how that he had heard of primroses being gathered upon a certain date. It is all horribly small stuff, but it makes news ; and we can't do much better A DAY OF CONFESSION 69 ourselves. No one ever walks in to tell us of an elopement, or a robbery, or a real murder, which are all matters of everyday occurrence in more civilised places. We are quite behind the world in Burntbeer." Mrs. Corindon, always lively and restless, unintentionally struck her daughter's arm, which was engaged upon the sketch. Lilian looked round with the pleasantest smile, then searched for the india-rubber ; while her mother, with a spasm of a kiss, said, " So sorry, darling," and rattled on: " It is really very easy to talk about nothing we spend half our time doing it. Let us talk about the summer, while we sit here rubbing our heads together. Let us make plans for a jolly good time, when we will all go out on Dartmoor with tents and a cartload of bread and butter, find the very wildest spot, and live for a month like savages in the sweet simplicity of blue paint " " Mother ! " protested Lilian, not daring to lift her eyes. " Father would never leave the farm," said George. " Of course he wouldn't. But what was imagination given us for ? Are we always to be talking about the next meal ? Father, help us," called Mrs. Corindon, as the door opened and the master appeared, looking out of place in the dainty room. " We cannot find a thing to talk about." Making for his chair with head on one side, and an almost surly expression on his thin face, apparently without noticing he had been addressed, Corindon stretched out his legs careless of the connection between muddy boots and his wife's dress glanced at the clock, from that to his daughter, and said irritably, " Put that work away, Lilian." She did not reply that it was recreation, but obeyed at once with her shy smile. The others were silent as if afraid of the master, who stared into the fire with the finger-tips of one hand upon his lips. He was conscious of his authority over the small world of Burntbeer ; land, buildings, and the life in them, were his ; he could rule as he pleased, give happiness or sorrow, make or mar the music, provoke 70 WINTERING HAY laughter or end it. Cyril found himself fascinated by that pinched, brown face. Which way would the man go towards the Mutters or his own family ? But while won- dering who would dare to make confession of a crime to the man who seemed neither hard nor kind, Corkidon said curtly, " Well, Lilian ? " " Yes, father," she replied. " What shall we talk about ? " " The pleasantest time of the day." " Why not the worst ? " " Because we don't talk about things that are worst," she said gravely, while the others had their eyes on her, the father, who understood her best, looking less forbidding, Mrs. Corindon puzzled, George proud of his sister, and Cyril uneasy in mind. Lilian's eyes were beginning to trouble him. " Well, volks," said Corindon, relapsing into dialect, expelling the frosty atmosphere his coming had created, breaking into smiles, and uplifting one long finger. " The maid ha' given me a text, and now I'll preach. I reckon best time o' the day be now vor certain. Tell ye why. 'Tis wintry like outside ; here it be lew." " Not strong enough, father. We are more than sheltered. We are snug and toasting," declared Mrs. Corindon as lightly as ever. " Woman, I could tell in Demshur avore you ever knew there wur a Demshur. Thikky, I ses, be best time o' day, when the room be lit wi' firelight, and us be got together in our Castle of Indolence." " Wrong altogether. Ask Lilian. Dialect will not convey a phrase so weighty." " Verdict, Lilian," asked the master. " Lew will pass," she answered. " Castle of Indolence would get a black mark, if it did not suit." " Lily, dear toad, your mother is not indolent," cried Mrs. Corindon. Swiftly the master changed again. Something in his wife's two monosyllables, expressing reproof and love, A DAY OF CONFESSION 71 jarred upon him. Glancing from Lilian to Cyril, and ignoring the others, he returned to his normal speech : " This is the best time of day in winter. The man who works in the fields, with the sleet over him and ice crackling beneath his boots, looks forward to the failing light and the contrast which awaits him at the tea-table. It's a bit hopeless yonder at times, and when you walk, as I have done, through Middle Marsh, seeing the furze bushes shaking, feeling the reeds beating against your feet, questions come at you. If a man was meant for this sort of fight, why was he given a soul, why not let him be a beast outright? And if his soul can see things around him as they should be, how is it he cannot make the picture real ? That kind of thought becomes a torment. With one pair of eyes you see the marsh as a garden. With another you see the furze and reeds with patches of frozen tog between. You long to get away from the real picture, it becomes too fierce, you desire the artificial life, and so it comes to this : your mind asks for what is false, and the pleasant things of life are shams." He is a strange man and bitter, thought Cyril, as the quick eyes turned from him to rest on Lilian, as if his last remark had been meant for her ; while Mrs. Corindon, unable to object and unwilling to listen, sat and smiled, deaf to all parables. " Are you cold, Cyril ? " George whispered. " Not a bit." " Why are you shivering then ? " " The first comfort we require at this time of day, when work is done, is a good fire artificial heat," con- tinued Corindon. " The next is sufficient light, just enough for each to see the other and no more, a couple of candles or a shaded lamp ; anything strong or glaring, such as the real sunshine, becomes an abomination. We must pander to the craving of the mind for what is false ; and yet we must have Nature with us, the idea of a garden seems in- separable from human pleasure, so we must have the room supplied with flowers, not cut for heaven's sake, but w WINTERING HAY growing in pots, of any colour except yellow, which becomes ghastly in this light. We cannot admit an imitation there. The room of our comfort should be neither large nor high. We seek a contrast, not only to cold weather, but to the lonely fields and the space above. And now to be done with fancy," he said, laughing in a boyish fashion. " This tea-time is all humbug when we play at eating and drinking like actors on a stage, when the women who serve are in- deed actresses, indolently clothed and full of idle talk, having no relationship for the moment v to the woman of real work, she who binds up wounds or carries a load of reek across the moorland. There is a difference, Lilian, between the woman who lisps, ' Do you take sugar ? ' and she who cries, ' Are * you in pain ? ' But all this humbug is jolly, and the pleasure after all is real. Tie body may be uneasy, because it is made for labour in the fields, but the mind accepts all comfort gratefully. It insists also upon an artistic atmosphere. The mind likes to see the piano open and a few sheets of music scattered about it. The mind likes to see volumes of philosophy and poetry lying on chairs and tables. At this time of day it is the intellectual, not the hungry, that we welcome. There must be no guzzling of small cakes/' he went on almost riotously. " Conversation should take place in murmurs, and the sound of laughter should be low. The presiding spirit must be silent ; she attends to a ceremonial, she is a vestal, a priestess of the Silver Teapot. She should be dressed in some material soft and clinging which is drawn across the carpet when she moves ; for there is a sense of mystery in a trailing skirt. She must have perfect arms, fine eyes, and a gracious smile." " This is absolute cruelty," cried Mrs. Corindon. " Lilian shall pour out tea " ; and she drew the child from the corner and made her play hostess, while the master looked on with his quiet smile, well pleased to watch the graceful actions of the girl who was still so young and yet had a mind which could rule them all. Cyril's time was running out. Visiting friends on Sunday A DAY OF CONFESSION 73 was contrary to law, and to be late for supper would pro- voke a sentence. He had come to speak, to lay part of his burden upon a friend and make a scapegoat of him ; a cruel and selfish action, though he did not know it, for his mind was dull then, his sin had him at its mercy and was seeking for another human life to injure. To carry that secret long meant madness ; to share it with another meant relief ; and Cyril looked no further. The master went and Lilian retired to her corner. Mrs. Corindon, always more natural when her husband was absent, declared she must " do something utterly idiotic as an antidote to the lecture," and proposed a dance, but Cyril said he could not stay, and turning to George asked him to walk with him the first mile back. " I'll come too. I have not been out all day," cried the lively lady. " Mother," said Lilian gently. " Stay here, please. I want you to sketch this for me." So Mrs. Corindon remained as she was ordered by the girl who saw most things clearly ; and Cyril and George went out together along the dim drive between hidden fields, and on towards the mountain of high moor. " When we reach the bridge I will tell him," said Cyril to himself, feeling the warmth of his friend's body, and the arm which seemed to be forged like a link of iron with his. George was so strong and free from care, as active as a mountain sheep despite his slight deformity a hump not given him by any power of evil so young and happy, sure of a home and pleasant future. Neither until then had asked himself how far affection went between them. Cyril in his sluggish way regarded George as a loyal comrade beneath him in the matter of intellect. George looked upon Cyril with admiration, not questioning the superiority, nor envying the gift which Cyril had of discovering some form of active life in all the works of Nature. It was Cyril's power and therefore wonderful. Cyril alone con- jured a spirit of romance out of the atmosphere, told stories 74 WINTERING HAY of the stones, and invested the dullest clod of earth with a sense of mystery. His own father could not do it. In the small life-story of George Corindon, Cyril was always hero, Cyril the strong, the martyr assuredly the Mutters were cruel tyrants the model and the friend. " The road is rough again. Father mends it every year, and then comes a flood which tears it up. Isn't it dark ? I wish we had a full moon always. Mother don't like the full moon. Says it makes her creepy to look out of the window. Mother don't care for the country really. She has never been all over the farm yet." So George chattered and jumped about, pulling Cyril from side to side, hitting at roots and brambles with his stick, full of activity which in the last teen of life never gives out. " Hark at the owls ! There are more of 'em about Burntbeer, I expect, than any other place in England. We have an owl for our crest, you know, Cyril, and that shows the birds have been here always. There is a saying in the family that if you see a dead owl you will soon see a dead Corindon, but that's all rot. Father is awfully fond of 'em, and he says one sometimes follows him back from the fields when he comes in at twilight. He calls it the Corindon totem. What does that mean ? " " A sort of symbolism the mark of a family. If a dead Corindon could take the form of any living creature he would appear to you as an owl. That is the idea, I think." " You do know such a lot. I have got more out of you than from all my masters. I'm glad school is over, Cyril. I must get down to work soon, but I hate the idea of farming Burntbeer. Father says we can't last more than two more generations, because we shall have used up all our capital, unless, of course, something happens to make it possible for wheat to be sold at a profit. I've no chance for either of the services, because well, you see, my shoulders ain't quite straight, and I would rather crack stones than sit in an office. Couldn't you and I do some- thing together ? " A DAY OF CONFESSION IB " I have no prospects. Don't talk about the future," said Cyril bitterly. " Why not ? You often talk of it." "It is too dark now. Everything seems to be dead. There is no life at all," the other muttered. " The owls are lively enough, and just look at those grey clouds racing off the moor. You told me once they were swans going down to the woods to be turned into maidens at dawn, and I believed you. I always believe what you tell me." " I have something to tell you now." " What, Cyril ? " " Wait until we reach the bridge. I made up my mind to tell you there. George, could you hate me ? " " That's a queer thing to ask me. The only fellows I hate are those who laugh at my shoulders. I don't know what I should feel like if you laughed at them. I might have a shot at hating you, but I fancy I shouldn't succeed. You have done a lot for me, Cyril. Once the form master asked me where I got all my general knowledge from, and I told him it was from a fellow I knew at home. He had asked the head boy for the epic names of cock, fox, and cat ; neither he nor any other chap knew, but when the question came to me I answered, Chanticleer, Reynard, Grimalkin, and up I went from bottom to the top. I shouldn't have known if you hadn't told me." " That is not knowledge. It has nothing to do with knowing what helps and what hinders." " Oh, you would know all right if you set your mind upon it," replied George lightly. " I'm awfully proud to think I am the only one in your confidence. I could tell things to you I wouldn't dare mention to father. It's jolly to have a confidential friend." " Here is the bridge ! " " Don't the water look ghostly ? We couldn't swim across it now, and during the summer it is only a trickle." " A river of rain," Cyril murmured. " Poured from the heights of the moor, filtered through bogs drop by drop, 76 WINTERING HAY to become a torrent sweeping sand and stones towards the sea. George, it might be no bad thing for me if this parapet gave way and my body went rolling seaward with the sand and stones." "Don't talk like that," whispered the other, as if afraid the white torrent of rainwater might hear him. " You have the blues to-night, and no wonder. If I lived at Wintering Hay a month in winter I should lose my senses. Mother says you must be a saint to stand it. You ain't angry with me for speaking like this ? We dgn't mention it to you, but, of course, we talk about it." " What does your father say ? " " Oh, nothing much. It's hard to understand father." " I know what he thinks : I ought to rely upon myself, leave my home, and make my own life. He thinks I am afraid to do it." " I believe you have made up your mind to go." " I have done so twenty times at least," Cyril answered. " I went out once, last summer, after a day spent at Burnt - beer I thought I could stand the gloom of home no longer but when I got into the road and saw it stretching away in front of me my courage failed. I imagined the night coming on while I was tramping. I cannot escape from Wintering Hay ; I am bound to it for life. I can tell you now, George. I thought just now I should never be able to speak, but as I look down on this water it becomes easy and natural. You know Gideon Fley, the poacher ? " " Why, a man on the farm was speaking about him only yesterday. He has disappeared, and the general opinion seems to be it's a jolly good thing." " What else did you hear ? " asked Cyril coldly. " The man thought he had gone off on a poaching ex- pedition, and had got himself into trouble." " What will they think if he does not come back ? " " Why, nothing. He was no good to the place. Father could have put him in prison half a dozen times had he wanted to." "George," muttered Cyril thickly, ".he is dead." A DAY OF CONFESSION 77 "If he is, what does that matter to us ? Why do you want to talk about him, Cyril ? " " I buried him." They could not see each other plainly. Their bodies, the bridge, the stones about, were merely shadows, and that great white volume of water, flung downhill, seemed alone alive. George, with a shudder, drew nearer his quiet friend, put out a hand to make sure of him, but did not speak. " It was Christmas night. I came upon them. He was threatening to kill the woman. He would not have done so but I did not know. When he attacked the poor thing I hit him hard, George. I was furious with my uncle who earlier had struck me. Don't lean upon me. The man was dead." The torrent went under with a greater noise, but that was the only sound. There was no wind that night, no mist. A few cooling raindrops might have helped. " I had killed him. I am a murderer. It took me four hours to bury the body up at the top of Wintering Hay. The ground was full of stones and roots. Nobody knows, except the woman and she cannot speak." Neither could George. His weight was against the parapet of the bridge, and his eyes upon the wild river which seemed to tear the reason from him. Much water had gone under since their coming ; miles away were those white waves which their eyes had then seen, but who could distinguish them from those then passing ? And the boys, who had come upon the bridge, and were about to depart from it, were the same in form, still two dim, moving shadows in the night, but the man being born in each was new. " He suffered from heart disease. He would not have lived long in any case. But if I had not hit him on the head he would be living now. The shock killed him." A chill, itself like a shock, fell upon Cyril as he spoke. It seemed to him that confession had destroyed the bridge between himself and his friend. They had staggered apart, 78 WINTERING HAY so that George was now in one parish and Cyril in another, and the darkness covered them both, and the torrent divided them ; and when they moved they drew still more apart. Another moment Cyril was running, pursued by sin and echo ; and when a voice at last called after him he did not recognise it because his mind made the sound vindictive. So he ran to Wintering Hay, entered the gloom of the house, and the room of two lighted candles, to find his uncle stretched upon the sofa worn out with praying, and his aunt at the piano strumming an old hymn. CHAPTER V A DAY OF RESOLUTION WITH head and body aching Cyril came late down- stairs. It was supposed he had shirked the family prayers, which were read at no fixed time, but depended upon the arrival of Mrs. Mutter in the dining-room. Im- mediately she entered the servants were summoned, the door was shut, and Cyril was not admitted until after the pause which followed the last amen. Regularity was unknown in . that household ; clocks, even if working, were not seriously consulted ; the Monday breakfast might be earlier by an hour than the same meal upon Tuesday ; but if Cyril was not waiting at the door he fell into disgrace. To enter before his aunt's appearance would have meant discovering Mutter, clad in his semi-clerical costume, with long hair falling over his ears and his eyes rolling, upon his knees. He was no hypocrite, he shaped his life according to the doctrine of pray without ceasing, observing it literally, so that Cyril had seen him often, in time of indifferent health, dazed and exhausted by the long- drawn-out effort to uplift his soul. It would happen also, after prayers, that breakfast would sometimes not be ready ; and as a result the Mutters would pass through the day in a state of anger. Small matters upset them. Either would break from an intercession for savages in some heathen land to poke a smoky fire furiously, or to scold a servant for entering prematurely. That morning breakfast was late as well as Cyril, and Caroline was fretting about the room, unusually excited as well as angry, petulant as a child, pulling the bell, 79 80 WINTERING HAY walking to the door to call, " Bring me my breakfast," then going back to the bell ; while Mutter stood near the window with a letter between his hands. It was a scene of worldliness, although both believed they had excluded the world : the lady almost crying for her breakfast, the gentleman gloating over a letter which informed them that Caroline had been left a legacy of five hundred pounds. " Don't worry me, Cyril," cried the aunt, when he approached for the duty of the morning. " Bring my tea. When am I going to have my tea ? " she kept on calling. " Late for prayers again," said Mutter sternly. " I am very sorry, uncle. I did not hear the bell." " Worthless youth. Ungrateful and godless," said the uncle in his theocratic way. " As a matter of fact, no bell was rung," added Cyril savagely. " After breakfast," said Mutter, " write out the fifth commandment one hundred times before you leave the house." Cyril gave way with a flush of shame was he not in his twentieth year ? but to himself he said, " Thank God, they are not my parents." One trifle angered Caroline ; another soothed her. Having drunk a cup of tea she filled herself a second, and walked about the room, holding the cup for warmth between her hands, sipping between joyful sentences of affection for struggling clergy and benighted heathen. She and her husband were twin souls of charity ; they let the house go shabby in order that they might help some school or mission ; they denied their nephew boots so that some savage might receive a Bible. Begging letters from men who ought to have been ashamed of themselves reached the Mutters almost daily, and were always re- sponded to when there was money to spare, together with a request that the subscription should be entered as anonymous. They gave to God, not to their fellow- creatures ; least of all to their adopted son. A DAY OF RESOLUTION 81 " We will not invest this. We will spend it," cried Caro- line. " We shall be able to do much good.' 1 Cyril, now seated at the table, perceived that his uncle was excited. The mottled hands were trembling. The head, which looked as if made of wood faced with crinkled parchment, and covered with a black wig, expressed feeling by nodding abstractedly, while the lips were murmuring lovingly, " Good little darling. Charitable little dear." They were like children who had been promised a treat. They were happy because they believed they were buying a right to enter into heaven. This man Mutter had still a horrible dread of the future ; death with him meant passing into a place of eternal bodily torment, or into one of everlasting joy ; and he believed that the happiness could only be attained by purchase. It was not for any man to declare him mistaken, although many might have argued that those who could find neither joy nor beauty in the present world might vainly search for these same bless- ings in the world beyond. " Remain here, Cyril," commanded Mutter, when break- fast was over. He placed upon the table a blotting-book, sheets of paper, his own pen and inkpot, drew up in fine handwriting the text of the fifth commandment with many capitals and flourishes, ordered the boy to copy it a hundred times ; and then, withdrawing with his wife to the other side of the room, they knelt in silent prayer. Cyril watched them rise, heard them kiss, and felt disgust, unjustly, for these two were fondly attached to each other, but they were ungainly, and Cyril could only connect forms of beauty with true love. Moving to a side cupboard, Mutter pro- duced a bottle of port wine and glasses. This seemed to strike a lower note, although the enjoyment of good wine, even so early in the day, was clearly lawful. They pro- ceeded then to draw up a list of various charities to be benefited : ten pounds for some church building fund, twenty for a missionary society, as much more to reclaim the Jews, to fight another religion which did not interfere with their own, or to introduce a heresy into some distant G 82 WINTERING HAY and peaceful community. Rapidly the money dwindled to their own glory. It was then time for the morning ser- vice, and they went into another room, locked the door, while Mutter, assuming the role of clergyman, gave abso- lution and benediction to his wife, but not to his nephew who deserved no blessing, and had whispered as they left him to the imposition, " They give their money to any rascal who comes to them in the black coat of a parson. They give nothing to me." Two hours later, while Cyril was warming his inky fingers at the fire, Caroline entered. She was flushed and uneasy. Aware how greatly the Mutters hated any of the responsibilities of life, more especially those which con- cerned himself, knowing also that Caroline was usually chief speaker where any decision regarding him was con- cerned, Cyril felt assured that some kind of a crisis had arrived. He had often suggested something might be done for him, since leaving the grammar school, where he had learnt to hate his fellow-students and but little else. He had pointed out how impossible it was to make a living while remaining at Wintering Hay. The Mutters had hoped, how that with their example always before him, Cyril would have been led naturally to seek ordination ; and it was true their devotion to religion had impressed him, not in the direction they had indicated, but to the seeking out of a new religion for himself. They would have been astonished had they been told that continual prayer, added to such commandments as, " Thou shalt not laugh, nor shalt thou play games, nor enjoy the life which God has given thee to discover thine own vileness," and, " Thou shalt not mix with thy fellow-creatures, who will make thee merry, and thus destroy thy soul," were much too gloomy for a boy. " Your uncle and I have been talking about you/' said Caroline in an agitated fashion. " You are a dreadful disappointment to us. We cannot make you good, you show no gratitude for all we have done, you have no affection for us, and no reverence for holy things ; and we A DAY OF RESOLUTION 83 are so afraid, Cyril, God will punish you in some fearful way." The boy had nothing to say openly. He leant over the sheet which contained the sixtieth repetition of the fifth commandment, noticing the words Father, Mother, God, his mouth moving as though it chewed hard curses ; while his aunt ran on : " You have all your father's faults, and none of your mother's virtues. She was a meek and holy woman, worthy to be your uncle's sister. He was a man who could do no good, and you are promising to be like him. You were left to us by our dear sister ' To my brother I leave my baby son Cyril, praying him to adopt the child and to bring him up in the fear of God.' ' She had now mentioned the three leading name-words which stared at the boy from the white sheet of his own handwriting, but she had by no means suggested he should honour the parent who had given him the gift of life. " Your uncle proposes sending you to Canada," she continued, turning upon him eyes unkind, yet promising to be softer soon. " What for ? " he asked sharply. " To farm. What else are you fitted for ? You can at least dig." He flushed, and for some reason began to think of George. That spade was always being flung at him. " I have no capital," he hinted. " Your uncle says you could work for some farmer until you had saved enough to start for yourself." Then it was all clear to Cyril. Mutter hated him, had always done so, had only adopted him because he could not refuse, and this was the plan of ridding himself of the nephew for ever. Cyril's memory cast a light back upon those dim, early years, when he had been too young to know of evil, and had felt the natural desire of childhood to laugh and trifle ; and saw that man regarding him as so much invisible air when he was silent, and shaking him or ordering his removal if he skipped about in play. Never 84 WINTERING HAY had his uncle smiled upon him, taken him upon his knee, or pointed out a single thing of beauty. Never had he uttered one kindly word. Never had he shown any of that love and mercy which he occupied his life in praying for. The truth was written on the simple face of Caroline. Mutter had hated, before seeing, the nephew, who would bring discord, noises of the world, and sin into the gloom and silence which he had gathered about himself, and forced upon his wife until it became an atmosphere of salvation which she, too, rejoiced in. And now he said through her, " Get out to Canada. Be poor and needy if you will not be like me. Become a labourer, sweat and dig, and die and be forgotten." Good word that labourer ; word of duty and happiness, passport to the greenest gardens of the heavens, if the Creator had anything at all to do with Nature, but what was it to Mutter ? What tool had those arms wielded, what sweat had rolled in the toil-marks of that forehead, what thought had won him fame or title to sound sleep ? If to repeat an apology for existence, and an acknowledgment of his likeness to an 'earth-worm, many times a day gave title to the dignity of labour, why, then he had it ; but as for other matters, any deed of work in the way of the world, any service to Nature as a beautifier, a gardener, he had removed no thistle, bound up no plant, nor even idly had observed the wonder of growth, nor searched for the heart of the flower ; and still he told his nephew to go forth homeless and sweat, to be a man and dig, to earn his bread ; while he prayed on that the round of labour might continue, with himself on the heavenly side. " I will not go," said Cyril, thinking of the wilderness of brambles and his guardianship of a grave. " What do you mean to do then ? You seem content to live on here in idleness all your life." " I do not wish to be a burden. I am ready to work," he said coldly. ><. " What at ? You have no brains. You seem to us to be almost an idiot you read stupid books, and moon about with your mouth open." A DAY OF RESOLUTION 85 " I think there is something to be learnt from the imagination of others," he replied. " There is only one book which teaches, and that one you neglect. If you will not go to Canada, we had better buy you a horse and cab. You could earn your bread that way." Cyril rejected the answer which came easily. His aunt was angry, but at the same time not far from tears. Away from her husband she was often inclined to be a natural woman. The boy was quick at reading faces ; he saw her eyes, felt she was masquerading, struggling to reject emotion, which was wrong, since it implied sympathy for a sinful being, striving to remain a loyal disciple to the master who was bringing her towards salvation. Nature was there still, blowing tenderness upon her anger. Some flower was left all was not thorn and twisted root some blossom with a dewdrop like a pearl upon it. " Do you want me to go to Canada ? " he asked, looking down with a frown upon the imposition. " It seems the best thing for you." " Do you want me to leave this country ? " he asked in a more kindly way. " I do not see how else you can make a living." " Is it your wish that I should go to Canada, and never see you again ? " he went on, looking her in the eyes. " I do not want to go, but if you say it is your desire to be rid of me, I will go and be dead to you." Caroline hesitated, and when Cyril perceived the poor face quivering he could have pitied her. She, too, was in bondage, willingly as the nun in a cell with a spiked cross next her skin, but when the sunlight burst through, and birds were in song, and there came visions of the almond tree in bloom, the body, if only for a moment, rebelled against this discipline. Laughter did not always jar upon her, the perpetual whispering was irksome sometimes, and there came hours in that half-lit life when the world of flesh and devil looked a fair place. Her husband had cast chains about her, golden ones easy to bear, but there 86 WINTERING HAY might come a time when, with her nephew gone, they might turn to iron and rust. " You must do something," she said irritably. " We cannot have you here always, living like a heathen, spending our money." " Would you rather I remained in England ? " he insisted. " I should like you to do what is best for yourself." " To stay ? " " If you can find some honest employment," she con- fessed. " I must find it in manual labour. All the learned professions are closed to me." " You are unworthy of the Church," she said quickly. " I know that," he replied, angry again to think how willingly they would have lavished money upon him had he been like themselves. They would have spent liberally upon a training for ordination, but not a penny to procure him a qualification for law or medicine. " I will look to the land for a living. I will rely on Nature." He looked up and spoke more boldly. " You know the wood above called Thirty ? It is divided into three parts, upper, middle, and lower ; and the centre part consists of about six acres, all on a gentle slope, without any trees, but covered with furze and brambles, with patches, some of them large like lawns, of smooth turf. Middle Thirty is a glorious place," he went on with real enthusiasm. " It is a big, sun-warmed bank, twelve hundred feet above sea-level, but sheltered on two sides by the Scotch firs, on the west by a hill, and open only to the south. From the highest point you can look right over the tops of the trees of Lower Thirty, and on a clear day you can see three counties, and sometimes the flash of the sea. The place belongs to old Mr. Sharley, who cares nothing about it, and I believe never visits it, for there are scores of trees rotting in the two woods, and tons of fuel which he does not trouble to sell. If he would give me a lease of Middle Thirty I could make a garden there, and grow vegetables for the market. A DAY OF RESOLUTION 87 It is an ideal place ; it is warm and sheltered, the soil is splendid, the rocks have been cleared, and there would be no difficulty about drainage because of the slope and the subsoil of gravel." " You seem very excited," said his aunt coldly. " Well, I have told you my idea," Cyril went on, be- coming sulky at his aunt's lack of interest. " It would be hard work, but I should like it, and I would put my whole life into it. If the venture promised to be a success I could put up some glass, and in time, perhaps, buy the place and build myself a house. There are drawbacks, of course ; no trackway goes up to it, and I should have to get manure taken up in dung pots, but I like it all the better for its solitude. It would take me some time to get rid of the furze bushes, but you can do a lot of work in a month of fair weather. God meant the place for a garden, I am sure," he murmured. " You want to be a gardener, a common man to sell vegetables. We have given you a good education which has been entirely wasted." " You propose sending me out to Canada as a labourer." " That is quite different. Gentlemen can work there as they may not do at home." " I should be my own master. Let me have this chance, aunt. If you will promise to pay my rent for the first few years, and give me a little money to start with, I will visit Mr. Sharley this afternoon. I could work in my garden all day, and return here to sleep." "And use the house as an hotel," said Caroline sharply. " I will speak to your uncle and ask for his advice. I cannot promise to waste money on you and your wild schemes." " You waste it on savages," said Cyril to himself as she left him ; but he went on with his task more easily, for he had at least a plan, something definite to aim at, and his heart grew happy with the thought of working upon Middle Thirty surrounded with golden furze and sunshine, looking down when he needed rest upon the red and green map of 88 WINTERING HAY three counties unrolling towards the sea. Life in that house would then be more endurable ; and every morning and evening he would pass the cottages upon the cliff, and re- main the guardian of that patch of bramble where the tree was planted. Caroline did not return before the midday meal. After it Mutter went out rather more quickly than usual, as if still anxious to evade all responsibility, while his wife remained looking hard and angry. " Your uncle dis- approves of the idea," she said. " He regards it merely as an excuse for wasting your time." " Cannot you allow me even ten pounds that I may show you I am in earnest ? " he asked. " We both agree that it would not be right to give you money which you would spend in idle pleasure." " You have a poor opinion of me, aunt." " You have never shown us any gratitude." " What will you do for me then ? " " Your uncle says it is our duty to turn you out that you may struggle with the world." Cyril left the room with a hot face, and his eyes were filled with tears. Mutter stood in the gloomy hall, un- observing him, calling in a helpless fashion, " Dearie, I cannot find my goloshes." This man, who had found the great things so easily, who had secured happiness and the key of heaven, could not find his goloshes, because it was too dark to see into the cupboard. Cyril went out to the side of the roaring moor ; for wind had come up since noon, and was then at full strength, flinging pellets of sleet which stung like pebbles. The pathway was wholly lost. The perfect life was a goal beyond attainment. Without light, or hope, he struggled on, having no wish to live, seeing in the dark clouds the allegory of the soul, swept from one night into another, conscious only of the gales which passed it quickly out of darkness into lif e then away into nothing. He was accursed, born with a Friday's mark upon him, born to sin, to shame, to be a sport of the lowest influences. He was a murderer, A DAY OF RESOLUTION 89 he had no home worthy of the name, his only relations were planning to drive him out, he was alone in the presence of Nature, which now hated him, and drove its tempest at him a moment he paused, and lifting his wet, stung face laughed wildly. The message was there, around him, thundering from the height, crashing the wood of Thirty with its tremendous meaning, stunning his body with its eloquence, " Like this, Cyril Rossingall. Like this." What was lack of means, what were unkind relations, when he was about to enter manhood, to inherit his share of the world, his portion of strength, his allotment of rain and sunshine ? "By this conquer," was the message of the wind. " I will make my way in spite of them," he shouted, turning to face the roaring sea of fir branches. " I enter into partnership with Nature ; I will force myself upon Nature like Mr. Corindon. I will have my garden there." He hurried from the moor, determined while that en- thusiasm was hot within him, to seek out Mr. Sharley and force his sympathy ; but when he reached the road, descending in gentle curves towards the village, there came the sound of a pony cantering, and he saw a few moments later young George of Burntbeer charging against the wind and sleet, taking punishment like a brave fellow with his head held up. " I have watched an hour to see you, Cyril," he panted, descending from the saddle to the mud. " I have not been out so long. Hadn't you courage to ask for me ? " " I know your people hate any one coming you told me so, and I don't want to make things worse for you. How angry you look, Cyril." " You don't look particularly happy/' " I had no sleep last night. I have felt miserable since we stood on the bridge." " I had to tell you," said Cyril in a less surly fashion. " If you keep that sort of secret to yourself it ends in madness. I feel less guilty now I don't care. It is done." 90 WINTERING HAY "It may be found out." " Who is going to dig among the brambles of Wintering Hay ? Nobody cared for Fley while he lived. If the body was unearthed it would be discovered that the man died of heart disease, not from the blow I gave him." " That is why I want you to own up. Please go to the police and confess, Cyril. Do it for my sake I think I feel this more than you. Say you lost your nerve, and hid the body because you were frightened. The medical evidence will clear you." " And take away my roof. Don't be an ass, George. When it is discovered that Fley has disappeared for good, people will talk a little, then forget." " You will never forget. Neither shall I." " Don't talk about it any more. My conscience does not reprove me, and you must not. Do you understand, George ? Fley is dead in every sense, and you are not to raise his ghost." " Yesterday you seemed wretched Lilian noticed it and when you told me on the bridge I thought you were sorry. Now you don't seem to care." " You will keep my secret ? " " Of course I shall," came the answer, almost fiercely. " That is all I want. I have come to a crisis at home. It is a fight now. My uncle wants to turn me out to beg my bread, while I mean to stay and beat him. I am on my way to see old Sharley ; I want to get hold of Middle Thirty, turn it into a garden, and scrape a living by selling vegetables. They won't give me a farthing, so I must dig up the Philosopher's Stone, or coin money out of sunbeams." George stared at his friend with dark and faithful eyes. Cyril had always been reticent concerning his relations and home troubles, therefore it was all the more surprising to hear him speak so frankly. The boy whose home was happy put out a hand, with a moan, and cried, " Oh, Cyril, come to us." " Don't talk such folly." A DAY OF RESOLUTION 91 " It is not folly. Father would welcome you." " Come, George ! Be practical," laughed Cyril. " May I always be welcome to the house of the owl, but it is not, and cannot be, my home. I shall not starve. If things come to the worst I will cover my body with a hut of stones and feed it upon vegetables." " Then let me join you. We will work together, Cyril, and you shall take all the profit." " Thank you, dear old lad," said Cyril, tender at last. " But this is my own venture. I am going to play my hand alone against my own relations." " You cannot start without money don't be cross with me. Old Sharley will never give you a lease unless he is sure of getting his rent. Then you will want a lot of tools, and you must employ labour to clear the ground, and you will have to buy manure and get your plants. You will want at least fifty pounds." " See there ! " cried Cyril, pointing through the sleet at a hill of cleared fields, all of them enclosed by curved lines of dry walls. " Those are gardens of a kind, and they were made by labour, not by money. What the men of the past have done I can do. I am getting stronger every month. I can shift rocks and grub up roots. My arms are good enough to tame the wildest acre in a year." " Things were different when those fields were taken in. My father would tell you so. Nothing can be done without capital in these days," George replied. " A memory has just come to me. Turn back, George I'm not in the mood to visit old Sharley now. I re- member going out as a youngster heaven knows when it was, or whether I only dreamed it getting lost and finding myself somehow in a garden with a quaint old gentleman beside me. I don't know how I got there, or what happened to me afterwards. I merely remember seeing the old fellow he limped, I fancy and a pond with a fountain, and on the grass a tree with fragrant foliage. I could not reach the leaves, so the old man lifted me, and when a bunch came against my face I kissed 92 WINTERING HAY it because the perfume was so wonderful. ' That is a beautiful tree,' said my companion. ' I will show you another, and then you may understand what possibilities there are in yourself.' In a few moments we were inside the house, and through the window I could see the pond and the fragrant tree beside it, while the old gentleman handed me a tiny box, saying, ' Open it.' I did so, but could see nothing. ' It is empty,' I said. ' Look again/ he replied, and I did so, but still found nothing. ' There is a tree in the box/ he said. ' There is nothing/ I declared, until he turned it over on his palm, and showed me what had fallen out. It was a seed, an almost invisible seed, and he told me what I did not then believe that the tree beside the pond, with its trunk and branches and fragrant leaves, had proceeded from a similar speck of dust ; and locked up in that tiny grain upon his palm were all the life and beauty of the tree outside. I suppose that old man is dead now, but the teaching he gave me lives. I am going to sow the seed of my life upon Middle Thirty, and Nature will give it growth." " Now you are Cyril again. You are speaking like your- self," said George, taking his friend's arm and smiling for the first time. " I know you will succeed, and I am going to help you all I can. I shall ride over on my pony and dig up the furze roots but we must think of the business side. I believe old Sharley is quite a good sort, but he cannot be expected to rent the land to a stranger for nothing, even if he has no use for it himself." " He is well off. I would improve the property, and pay him when I could. Good God ! is there no brotherly feeling in the world at all." " We shouldn't do it. You know you would not, Cyril. Don't go to Sharley yet. Try your uncle again." " I'll have no more of him. I wish he were dead that I might go and defile his grave," said Cyril passionately. When they parted Cyril held his head up, ready for war, while his friend looked down. It was as if Cyril had taken the burden and flung it upon George ; and the weight A DAY OF RESOLUTION 93 of it brought tears to the eyes of the deformed boy, whose blood was rich with the simple traditions of many genera- tions of Corindons, who had always been husbandmen, tillers of the soil, attendants upon the wheat plant from seed to seed. They had done what they could on the side of Nature to assist life and growth. They could not create, but they had helped creation ; and if it was good to aid a lower form of life, how much better was it to aid the highest form ? The duty upon George was to help his friend, to save him from the consequences of one act ef sin and folly, to assist him towards the attainment of his ideal. The path which Cyril had lost might be found for him by another ; but upon what height, along what wilder- ness, through what tempest, rushing clouds, and darkness was that goal to be achieved ? First came the material hand, for that need was urgent it was as April between the two, and the soil of affection was eager for seed to nurse and nourish then the spiritual hand, the unseen force which drew life up and caused it to turn a face of flower towards the sun to find religion, a baptism of sparkling dewdrops at the dawn, a crown of triumph at noonday, a perfect evening of peace, and so to the light again, the light of the end, for what was death but a dawn lost to living sight in the glory of the sun ? Corindon came off the fields, his boots and hands scarlet with clay, and at the last gate George was waiting for him. " Father," he said, " I have made up my mind. I wish to be a clergyman." The farmer said nothing for some moments. He made a motion of his head towards the house, and they walked on side by side. " Reckoned it all up ? " he asked at length. " I might do good. I have no taste for farming, and you say yourself it is hopeless to continue the struggle with the land." " Spoken to Lilian ? " " This is the first time I have mentioned it." 94 WINTERING HAY " You tell me it is your desire to become a clergyman ? " " Yes, father." " Just as you like, my boy." They went on into the house. Corindon entered his private office and shut the door. There was no fire ; he sat frowning in the company of his breath and thoughts. His family had never been conventional ; he himself worked on a Sunday, and regarded the Established Church as little more than a hindrance to agriculture ; and now his son, who would be master of Burntbeer after him, had expressed a desire to seek ordination. He could not in- terfere, or issue his veto, without destroying the rule of a lifetime. If George continued his longing for orders he must consent, give him the necessary training, and wish him well. It was bitter to know that the atmosphere of Burntbeer had brought that message to his son, but since it had come, like a threat of a bill of sale of the old home and fields, he was forced to yield. Time would come, he felt sure, when the blood of the Corindons would assert itself and George would discover his mistake. " If not farmer, poet," had been for long the motto of the house, and George, the only son, was for the poetry, giving it a meaning of his own. " This means the end of Burntbeer," muttered Corindon. Still an hour was left before dinner. It was necessary to get used to this idea, and to become settled again in his mind so that his wife might not suspect that the opinion of another had touched him. Leaving the office he passed to the drawing-room, and called, " Lilian ! " The girl was lost, as usual, in a book beside the fire. " Put on your boots and wraps. Come out with me." She rose at once. It was wild upon the moor, but sheltered at Burntbeer. Snow was falling in phantom flakes. The girl appeared with her wealth of smiles and sympathy. Corindon drew a muffler round her neck, and took her out with him, holding her arm and letting her fingers lie in his. " Which path, father ? " A DAY OF RESOLUTION 95 " The straightest." " Beside the yew hedge ? " she whispered, knowing he had something to fight down. " Not the yew trees, darling. The path through your garden." " It has no flowers now," she said softly. Not another word was spoken. Side by side they paced up and down Lilian's garden, where no light showed, and all the flowers and birds seemed dead. The girl was very cold, and yet she warmed him. Sometimes she sighed and lightly pressed her father's hand, but he made no response, nor did he seem conscious of her nearness, and yet without her he could not calm himself. They left the sodden grass path, and returned to the house. Lilian, like a mystic spirit white with snowflakes, entered the drawing-room where Mrs. Corindon, gaily dressed, was chattering to her silent son, and the air was soft and summerlike. Corindon was smiling now and at his ease. " Lily sweetheart ! What has father been doing with you ? " cried the lady. " I suppose we shall have to come to church when you preach your first sermon," said the master scoffingly. " Has George told you, my child ? " he went on, turning to his wife. " He has decided to decorate the bench of Bishops with the name of Corindon." Then Lilian understood why she had been taken out into the snow. CHAPTER VI THE GRAY CROSS OF WHISTLY DOWN AFTER a long night of strife awake, and struggles with rooted adversaries in dreams, it was a joy to find upon a last awakening the real letter : " Forgive me, please, for my silence in the past and for writing now. I know you are in trouble, and I should so like to help, if I can, and may. When you came on Sunday I saw you had changed. You seemed so lonely. The first time I looked at you, I thought of a plant which must be watered at once. Then you suggested one which must have a support, but has broken loose and is being bruised by the wind you know I think in flowers. I wonder if you would like to tell me. It is not likely that I could be of any use, beyond listening, but when one has an aching mind sympathy does help, just as a headache is easier to bear when a kind cool hand is held upon one's forehead. It would be splendid if I could help in the littlest way. I should feel as if I had raised a new flower, a perennial all my own. Let me do something, Cyril this is selfishness really, for it is I who need help ; I must learn to talk and get over my shyness, and live for others more. I must not give my life to flowers entirely. We are your friends, and George, as a boy, has your confidence. May I have some of it too, enough at least to show that you forgive my awkwardness and the silly part of me which has always made me run from others ? Rain, snow, or sunshine, I will ride on Tuesday afternoon to the Gray Cross by half -past two, and if you are there help me to help you, ancl if you are not there the silly part will be very much 96 THE GRAY CROSS OF WHISTLY DOWN 97 relieved, and the other part will certainly not be a bit offended. Only a shy girl does these bold things but we have known each other all our lives very nearly. Only please find me quickly, run up and begin to talk, and think of something to make me laugh." It was a strange thing, perhaps, but Cyril kept this first letter of Lilian's in his pocket for many years ; at first, because it was the natural place for it, then as a companion, later as a charm. He did not regard it that first morning as a talisman, but as a piece of kindness which warmed and cheered. It was like the first primrose, yellow with promise of golden days to come. Other feelings gave way to amazement when the sound of quarrelsome voices reached his ears. In the cold hall stood his aunt and uncle, the lady much disturbed, the man as calm as stagnant water. Caroline had made some slighting remark concerning an old portrait, which deserved no praise artistically, and Mutter, loyal to the dead, had answered reverently, " She was my mother." " Hang the picture somewhere else. You have me now, and I am more to you than she ever was." " My mother was a meek and holy woman," he said, pulling at his long hair. " Well, I am good enough for you. Think more of your living wife than your dead mother and learn to control your temper," she cried, working herself into a passion which was her only form of recreation, pushing forward as if she would sweep him against the wall. " My dear, compare yourself to me," he said calmly. " Your face is red, your eyes are swollen. Last night you would not take the medicine I recommended, consequently you are now bilious. You think you should be allowed to have your own way, but those who think so are fools." " Andrew ! How can you speak such blasphemy ? " " My Master used that word. I may follow His example." " Cyril," called Caroline, her nephew appearing at that moment, " tell the servants we are ready for prayers." The incident was over and forgotten, leaving the Mutters 98 WINTERING HAY refreshed after their manner and pleasant for the re- mainder of the day. Caroline, indeed, suggested that it was good for walking, and asked Cyril whether he intended to take a ramble. No remark was made concerning his future, which had ceased to be a matter in suspense since the question had been faced fairly once and discussed. It might now be left for settlement with the disposing powers. Another year or two might pass before the sense of responsibility would arise again. Freedom came when the door of the sitting-room was locked, and the sound of voices psalm-singing reached the hall. Cyril walked to the kitchen to get his boots, and met the housemaid, who told him, " Mrs. Fley came along this morning, and asked to see you." " What did she want ? " he asked. " Said she would be pleased to see you." " I promised to help her with the rent if her husband does not come back soon," he explained, afraid of any scandal spreading. There was frost in the air, but it was warmer to Cyril than the atmosphere of his home, as he went out, not immediately towards the cottages on the cliff, preferring first to wander up Zigzag Cleave, reach the moor, and pass through Thirty towards the deep trackway where Gideon Fley had fallen. He lingered long with fancy, so that half the morning had gone unused before he reached the stone steps where dripping water seemed to record the flight of time beneath a film of ice. Again he lingered to admire the bubbles, forced under the glassy screen-work of the frost to burst as they reached the air, until he heard a mocking sound of laughter so near that he turned quickly, almost prepared to find some water-sprite balanced upon a twig or gliding down the ice. He was alone and saw only the trackway, white below with cold, dry stones, and above decorated by the magic of those who make herbage out of atmosphere in January and freeze the pot upon the fire. That laughter proceeded from the Chapel. When Cyril pulled open the door he saw Maria standing with arms THE GRAY CROSS OF WHISTLY DOWN 99 folded against the wall, and before her three women. He felt the eyes of this jury upon him and flushed, knowing by instinct that these women were relations of the man who had disappeared, unfriendly to Maria, and likely to be hostile to him if he stood up for her. During those few moments of silence it was hard to be natural. A child could have tossed a stone from where he stood to the grave where the tree was planted ; a careless word, a sign of weakness on the part of Maria or himself, might give these women a hint to work upon. " Good morning," he said, putting a hand to his throat. " Good morning, sir," replied the matrons. " Have you heard any news of your husband, Mrs. Fley ? " he went on. She gulped, and grew dark in the face as she muttered, " Nought." " Have you heard news of 'en, sir ? " came the swift question from the woman who was chief inquisitor. " Oh no," he said more easily. " I thought maybe you had come to tell Maria Gideon wur found." " I have come to speak to her about the rent." " I don't bother my head about that," Maria flashed out. " She'm independent, you see," another voice muttered. " She is left here alone," Cyril continued as calmly as he could. " We at Wintering Hay are her nearest neighbours. We are sorry for her and want to help her." " I won't take charity. I'm young yet and strong," cried Maria. " It is only fair that JoU should get his rent. I thought," said Cyril, turning to the jury, " that we could collect a little money for her " " I'll have no charity," broke in the young woman fiercely. " I'll work and put by shillings till me and Joll are quits. I ha' got a place, and I'm going into it to- morrow." " Where are you going ? " asked Cyril. 100 WINTERING HAY " Blackerton. I'm going to help a dressmaker, vor board and lodging first six months, and a bit of money afterwards." " Suppose Gideon comes back ? " suggested the youngest of the three women. " He cannot expect his wife to wait here for him," said Cyril hurriedly. " She ain't his wife," said the leading woman. " Gideon don't need to come back, and Maria Athberry don't have to bide here. They ha' lived free, and they'm free to part." " Put your hand before your mouth," Maria muttered. " You hear ? " remarked the woman pleasantly. " That's the tongue what drove Gideon out of the parish. Us all knows what went on here talk and nag and spitting. Gideon ha' said to me often, ' I won't stand much more of it. I'll clear out and leave her.' 'Tis the talk of the place how you used 'en. The poor chap wur afraid to come into his own home, and sit in his own chair, and speak to his own servant. You can treat a man as you ha' a mind to when you wears a ring, Maria Athberry, but without one 'tis best to keep your tongue quiet. Gideon won't come back, not for a long time, anyhow, and I ses 'tis our duty to make sure of his things." " What writing have ye ? " asked Maria, miserably defiant. " Us don't need a writing. We'm his relations, and you'm nought but the woman who kept house vor 'en. You ha' no right to sell Gideon's things, vor they don't belong to ye. They belong to us. That's right enough, I fancy, sir ? " " I know nothing of the law," Cyril answered, afraid of giving offence, or of dropping any remark which might arouse suspicion. " Would it not be better to wait ? " he suggested. " She will be taking the things off with her to Blackerton. There's a bedspread what belonged to my mother, and I ain't^going to let that go out of the family." THE GRAY CROSS OF WHIST LY DOWN-, 101 " How be I to furnish my room to Blackerton ? " asked Maria piteously. " It may be the law vor ye to take Gideon's things, but it ain't charity to rob me." " Warn't you saying you wouldn't take charity from nobody ? " " Take the old stuff," cried Maria, flaming up again. " May all the sticks carry curses along wi' 'em. Them what strips the orphan may God leave naked." And she flung a shawl about her and went out. Cyril followed, although he had obtained the infor- mation she desired to give him, namely, that she was about to leave ; and they stood beside the dry wall at the part which he had torn down and rebuilt, seeing below the spruce fir waving upon Gideon's grave, while the relations divided his late possessions in the house. " Give me your address," Cyril faltered. " How much money will you want to furnish your room ? " " I'll take no help from you," she said sullenly. " I b'ain't honest or respectable, they ses, but I ha' my pride. I'll take nought from the hand what struck my master." " You know it was an accident done to save you. No suspicion exists that Fley met with foul play he did not, but the law might call it that. He had said it was likely he might disappear. They don't expect to see him again. We are both young, we have our lives to make, Miss Athberry." She started away from him, smiling drearily as she murmured, " Aw, that's true. 'Tis my name, but I can't use it, vor I ha' the maid to think of. I'll be Mrs. Fley till I marries agin no, not agin till I marries." " You will soon forget Fley," he said impatiently. " I'll mind the days he courted me," she answered. " You will be courted again. Let me send you some money. I have taken your home from you. I must do something to help you." " I'll take nought," she said strongly. " What will be your address ? " 102 ;, ;//.* 'WINTERING HAY " Number thirteen, Cross Street. If you send me money, I'll post it back." An ominous address, he thought, suggesting ill-fortune and a hard way through life. " Then I may only wish you good luck and a happier future," he said. " He won't leave us," she moaned, turning away as the women staggered one after the other from the house, each laden with a bale of those household articles she had tended so carefully and repaired so often. " They don't rest when they'm put away in the dark. Twill be bad times for one of us when he begins to walk." " Don't look that way." " Let 'em break up the home and steal," she cried scornfully ; then Nature prevailed, and, leaning against the wall, she sobbed until the loose stones shifted, while a triumphant voice was borne to them, " We'm coming wi' a cart this afternoon, my dear, to fetch away the heavy things. Us be weak women, and they old tables and chairs need a man to shift 'em." The sound of a hooter heard faintly from a mine far distant forced Cyril away, anxious to preserve peace at home, and aware that nothing upset his aunt more surely than his lateness at meals. After all, the drawn-out tragedy of Gideon's end had made too deep an impression upon him. The man had been struck down by Nature, he himself had been little more than a witness ; and it was right, if not duty, to preserve his own fair name, and to retain his home, at the cost of some deceit. Maria was about to depart from Wintering Hay, and once in the small moorland town of Blackerton she would leave his life, that grave would become surrounded by brambles more unclimbable than a fence, the incident would be ended by the arrival of a new tenant at the Chapel ; and he would be free to continue the quest of the pathway which would lead him towards the most beautiful thing, and bring him happiness at last. Work waited for him ; the first rung of the ladder was presented to his ready feet. From Middle Thirty to THE GRAY CROSS OF WHISTLY DOWN 103 heaven seemed a long climb, but was it not after all a matter of ascending through sunshine, the distance nothing from the earth, since they were near enough to come together passionately every year at the time of the marriage between heaven and earth called Spring ? Cyril the boy had been murdered by Gideon Fley, and Cyril the man was born in his stead. The business of the morning had banished Lilian. Not until her fresh letter crackled in his pocket did Cyril remember she would presently be awaiting him beneath one of the stunted arms of the old Gray Cross, which stood upon Whistly Down days before history, once to remind savages of a religion, and then to instruct civilisation where two parishes were divided. What was the shy, seventeen-year-old girl to the man who was conscious of the beard forming on his chin, and the strength of his limbs increasing ? He had taken little notice of her until then. A girl in the corner, he had thought her, a plain girl unwilling to join in games, a book eternally upon her lap, and elbows propped upon her knees when she was not playing with earth around the roots of plants, turning it over, levelling it, pressing it down lovingly after seed- planting. What was her strength ? Could she uproot furze bushes, break and trench new ground, and roll out the rocks to build a wall ? The disdain of strength for weakness of muscle dictated these questions. It was not yet time for women. The garden of work must be planted before the garden of pleasure could be thought of ; and in that garden must be beauty, not of a face thin and freckled, but one completed and endowed, a flower in form as well as name. So Cyril went unwillingly to Whistly Down, knowing little of the life within him, carrying fire and tempest undiscovered, taking head and mind conceit and little heart to the old Gray Cross. He wished it had been George awaiting him. The burden had been lighter for Cyril since the confession upon the bridge, and now that Maria was about to remove herself it seemed to have departed alto- ioi WINTERING gether. He felt even happy, and moved with the stireness of one who is conquering. George could have listened to his plans, but what could he say to Lilian ? Still the questions came : why has she written, how does she think she can help me, why does she want to meet me in that lonely place ? He had read the words of Lilian's letter, but had not been able to interpret them. Her help, her sympathy, were as the "tekel" and "upharsin" upon the wall of the king's palace, meaning much to the true prophet, nothing to the false. Yet he walked more slowly as he reached the down. Something was in the air beside the frost, something questioning, stronger than anything he had known, bringing with it a sense of terror. So much Cyril was able to define, but then the ground was haunted, and according to tra- dition no man could till the down. Many had tried, it was rumoured, but immediately the furze was removed it grew again, and as the moorland was repulsed upon one side it advanced upon the other ; and if a man progressed too well in the endeavour some evil fate befell him. The story had a sound of folly, yet it suited the place : furze grew there into trees, imitating in form of trunks and knotted roots the oaks of the lower ground, rocks lay about resem- bling gigantic sheep in the dim light, heather knee-high and besom-like swept the air. Rain fell perpetually upon Whistly Down, big drops which beat out runnels and made sponges of the peat, lightning played fiercely on summer nights around the crooked birches, and thunder shook the green cones from the firs. At the head of this wild scene the Cross presided, a symbol more of human faith, younger than granite but more lasting, than of any one religion, casting its shadow across the lonely place which was in its small way a world where it was difficult to walk, where the tempest raged, where the ground was rough. There was no pathway to the Cross. The people of two parishes abandoned it to the scourges and thorns of brooms and brambles, because the soil was too fierce to be tamed THE GRAY CROSS OF WHISTLY DOWN 105 by tillage, and because of the stories, told possibly by savage men to children savage in aspect only in the cold hut- circle : how the Black Hunt met on nights of half-moon beside the Cross, how the whist hounds had their kennels on the down, and how rocked by the wind the flowers shook out their spirit forms to laugh and tease all night. Surely stories of beauty were told as well as those which grew from darkness, for there was always light in the world of man, always sunshine, and upon the other side of the storm and the baying whist hounds were the life and fragrance of the same wild flowers, and the spiritual hours of love. Cyril did not walk towards the Cross, but hid himself behind some furze, his eyes upon the great stone symbol which he dared not stand by ; for that sense of fear re- mained, and it seemed impossible to wait at the appointed place and to watch Lilian walking slowly up the hill towards him. It would be easier to approach while she was waiting. He tried to imagine her riding up, lashing her pony through the heather, with hair freely flying and a fine colour on her face ; dismounting with a laugh of joyous life, and calling, "Oh, Cyril, I have come at last. How splendid it is to be here ! We can be natural, we can shout and laugh, and do what we please. Away with all trouble ; forget it, declare it has no existence. We cannot always do what is right, but if we are not always happy we have only ourselves to blame." It was a fine picture, he thought, but not Lilian, the shy girl of books and garden corners, who could not look at him, but had lately trembled at his touch, and was then on her way to meet him in the loneliness with a strange idea of adding to his life a certain sweetness of her own there, in the wildest garden of that district, with the humanising Cross above, and around the rough upland as the Creator left it, when the garden of innocence had failed, adding to the original testament the codicil, " In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread." What could her weakness add to his new strength ? He had gone to the highest moorland, into the clouds, to learn 106 WINTERING HAY of the winds, and to get his character built up by elementary forces ; while she had gone to the garden, the fields, the woods, the gentle stream, to learn the lore of plants. And he had killed the poacher, not wilfully, but as an elementary force knowing no human law ; while she had repaired the damage done by lightning. Silent Lilian she had well been named. There was no sound above the wind, and yet she had come and was standing near the Cross. Cyril remained in his hiding-place waiting for courage. It was the first time he had met any girl by appointment, and this act seemed to be charged with more than kindness on her part. The natural desire of human nature entered into it and made it terrible. So Cyril lingered, feeling that his approach might frighten her away. How small she looked ! Walking with a some- what weary step, starting at every gust of wind or shaking of the bushes, putting a hand sometimes to her head, she seemed too young and helpless to withstand the atmosphere of Whistly Down for long. Her gods were those of the valley, and his were of the mountain. Was it not too bold to think that she could conquer him there ? No such thought was in her mind, felt the watcher, and yet she was moving away. Cyril ran out, but could not call, and she never looked back as she hurried with the wind behind her into shelter ; while Cyril, maddened at his weakness, pursued, still almost hoping he would not find her, glad to stop when he saw a scrap of paper fastened to the thorns beneath the Cross, addressed in that writing which was growing beautiful, " To Cyril." He snatched it from the rack and read : " My heart has failed me. This place is too strong it has made me miserable and you are not here to help me. Go home and forgive me, please. I am useless after all." A new strength, something tender and much finer, came upon Cyril ; and he ran to the edge of the furze bushes, calling, " Lilian." THE GRAY CROSS OF WHISTLY DOWN 107 Never had he seemed so utterly alone ; never had Nature as a friend been less congenial. Dark clouds went past, so early the light was failing ; he saw white stems of last year's grass moving feebly, he heard the green spines of the prickly shrubs scratching the boulders, once the scream of a wind-swept lapwing, but nothing satisfying, neither footfall nor word which would have fed that new and pleasant, if somewhat awful, form of hunger. He^went on calling, and sped about the maze of rocks and bushes, coming out near the Cross again, breathless, the backs of both hands bleeding ; and as a bramble snatched the cap from his head, as if bidding him do homage to the Cross, he saw Lilian sitting upon a rock, with hands clasped upon her lap, and her eyes looking down ; and her face was without colour, and she seemed to tremble as if she was being hunted for her life. " So I have found you, Miss Corindon," he gasped. " If I had missed you I believe my life would have been spoilt for ever." She remained in the same position, her fingers locked together in her usual attitude of reading, with a little mist about her mouth to testify that breath was in her, and she answered as if taking words out of the open book of the hill before her : " I heard you calling among the furze bushes, and I tried to run away because I was frightened. Is it wrong to meet here, Mr. Rossingall ? " " Wrong/' he repeated, trying to make his voice sound easy, feeling a vast relief at getting those first words over. " How can it be ? We have known each other since we were quite small children." " You have known George and my mother." " And your father." " A little, perhaps." " And yourself." " No, it was my own fault. I would not let you. It was to conquer this this false nature in me I asked you to meet me here in this wild place and to show I trust you 108 WINTERING HAY and to ask a question if I may," she said more clearly, and at last looked up. Her hands had been marred by contact with the soil ; but none of it was in her eyes. " You have always called me Cyril until now." " You called me Lilian. When you found me, why did you change ? " " You looked different so much older. I remembered we are friends, and not relations." " Friends are relations, I think." " You must not sit there. The rocks are cold and damp. Shall we walk among the bushes where it is more sheltered ? " She looked back at the Cross and trembled. " Walk through that labyrinth ? " " As you would with your father or with George." " I will. Cyril, I am Lilian I must conquer. We are here to help each other. A few minutes ago I was sick with fear shyness, nothing else. Thank you already." " What have I done ? " " Given me courage and self-confidence. I am much older oh, much. This makes me grow up fast. It is solemn here, like the yew walk at Burntbeer, but the air is very different." " Why did you walk, Lilian ? " " I was in walking mood." " Why have we been strangers ? " " I could not find myself." " What has changed you ? " " The change in yourself has helped." But she faltered in the confession, while Cyril looked ahead, and so they went on for more than a minute without speaking. " I have changed ? " he said at last. " I am conscious of it. I, too, am much older." " So is George," she murmured. " You know how he loves you." " The dear fellow would go through fire and water for me." THE GRAY CROSS OF WHISTLY DOWN 109 " Will you tell me ? " " Tell you ? " " The secret." " Why, I have none." " Cyril ! " " I have none," he repeated sternly. Gideon Fley was in his own place, and forgotten. The deed in the dark was over like a dream. Memory would have no more of it, that record was closed. Did the God of salvation demand him to make a new confession, to see this new Lilian shrink away, to see horror in those gentle eyes, and her face, new-born to him, with hatred on it ? No God of mercy would ask for such a sacrifice. " George went out with you on Sunday evening. I knew you had something on your mind, and when George came home your trouble was his. On Monday he went to see you, and when he returned told father of his intention to be ordained. He feels, I think, that spiritual help is the highest form of assistance one can give. What you told him that night made him resolve upon ordination. He believes the time may come when he must help you." " By the time he is ordained if he does not change his mind we shall have forgotten these days," said Cyril earnestly. " Perhaps what you said aroused his sympathy, and suggested to him that he was destined for the Church. He may have looked upon it as a call. Cyril, if I can help, will you tell me also ? But if I cannot help you, do not speak." " I spoke to George about an act of folly, not of wicked- ness. I told him I had lost my temper and harmed others. His sensitive nature exaggerated it, made him feel that consequence serious to myself might follow. I am almost sorry that I told him, but my own relations give me no sympathy, and we get hungry for it some- times." " George helped you ? " " It was a relief to tell him of my folly." 110 WINTERING HAY " Cannot his sister help ? " " Not in this, Lilian. In everything else she can." " This matter is a secret between George and your- self?" " It is." " The sky is getting darker," she said, frowning a little. " Before we part there is another matter this plan of yours, this splendid plan, of gardening. Is that another secret ? " " It shall be if you like. Between you and me." " But George knows ; and when you begin the world will know," she said quite merrily, and again he saw in her eyes that light which the earth could not spoil. "Is it another trouble ? " she added. " Yes, because I have no capital, and my relations are against me," he answered quickly, glad to substitute the molehill for the mountain. " It was their idea to send me to Canada as a farm labourer, but when I mentioned my plan of labouring here they thought it not respectable. The truth is they want to get rid of me." " We have chatted about your scheme, and I think it splendid," she repeated. " But why Middle Thirty, Cyril ? " " I have set my heart upon it." " If you cannot get the place, you will not have the garden at all ? " " I could not even think of any other place." " Will you tell me why ? " "It is part of the moorland, and it is the centre of a district which has become dear to me. I have spent the greater part of my spare time wasted it, most people would say roaming about the slopes of the mountain, studying the moods of its weather, learning its life, guessing at its romance, and making my own stories about its past. The stones and peat seem part of my own existence. I used to believe as a child that if I walked there long enough I should come one day upon a path which would lead me to a cavern, and inside it the good fairy of the THE GRAY CROSS OF WHISTLY DOWN 111 mountain who would fill my pockets with gold we cannot help believing in these foolish stories, and this idle way of getting wealth, and even now they cling to me." " You have not mentioned all," said Lilian. " First, you must find the key of the cavern, and that is a blue flower, so small you would hardly notice it, growing beside the path. They call it forget-me-not. It draws down the lightning, and with that it strikes the rocks open." " What is this flower really ? " he asked yearningly. " The best thing of all ; the one and only thing which helps us on and makes our happiness certain. You see that in its name forget-me-not it whispers as we pass by, but the flower is so tiny, and its voice so weak, that we go on, seeing and hearing nothing." " But what is its name to me ? " " I do not know." " Is it work ? " " I do not think so. You must work. You cannot overlook that or forget it." " The motive then, the inspiration ? " " That may be it." " Is it love, Lilian ? " " Oh, I cannot tell you," she murmured, shrinking and glancing into mistland. " Whatever the message of the flower may be, you will hear it because you must. We are all children of a tale, and it is necessary for us to end happily. You are quite right to dream about the mountain. You have not wasted your time. The sun grows wonderful things out of the earth we live on. I am quoting, Cyril. You know I am not clever, but I go from my books to my garden, then back to my books, and if I did not learn something I should be very stupid. I know how you feel about Middle Thirty. It is the centre of your dreamland, your own corner of romance, your home-place. You feel you have made the moorland friendly by trying your hardest to understand it. You can work there as you could not elsewhere. The crock of gold, which you have dreamed is hidden there, will be turned up one day, just when it 112 WINTERING HAY must be found. Oh, you are right, Cyril, splendidly right. You will find the path, good fairy, gold, and all." , " Not alone, Lilian." " Yes, alone. It sounds hard, but is not, because the pathway will lead to the best thing. You will come across it on Middle Thirty. You will find it while you look for something else." " I have not got the land. It is presumptuous to suppose that I shall get it ; and yet I do think so." " Oh yes, you will get it," agreed Lilian, nodding wisely. " You see, Cyril, it is necessary, therefore Sharley will let you have it. The mountain is your friend remember, and it will crush the consent out of him." " To-morrow morning I will ask him." " He will consent," she said joyously. Then her note changed, shyness returned, and she murmured, " Here we are back at the Cross." Above, wreathed in mist like a sign upon the sky, appeared the grey stone column and stunted arms, worn by a world's history of wild weather. They had wandered through the labyrinth of furze, heedless of direction, and had come out at the meeting-place ; but Cyril thought he would gladly be lost there to roam on with Lilian for longer than a day. " We forgot the winter in our talk of summer. I must stay no longer, or I shall be caught by the night," she said nervously, for the thought of farewell frightened her. " I shall walk home with you." " Not all the way." " To the gate of Burntbeer." " Let us start then," she said ; but Cyril did not move. She turned to go, and he called her, " Lilian ! " " Why, that is how you called when you thought I was lost," she murmured. " When I got your letter I was astonished. I thought you took so little notice of me. I did not understand how you could help me," THE GRAY CROSS OF WHISTLY DOWN 113 " I saw you were in trouble. Sympathy is not hard to offer. I am very grateful to you, Cyril." " Why, Lilian ? " " You have helped me so much. I came here in absolute terror ; I waited for you, trembling ; I felt I could not face you or any one. You have helped me to win a victory over my weakness." " We have been friends since we were small children, and yet we have been strangers." " My own fault. I seem to have grown up suddenly. My shyness and silence shall be buried with your troubles at the foot of this Cross." " You must not be grateful to me," he said strongly. "I, too, was frightened. I hardly dared to meet you. It was only when I realised you were going that I found my courage. I knew I was losing you." " We must go. The clouds are getting very dark, and I smell the rain." " I have not thanked you." " We can talk as we go along the lane." " No, here upon Whistly Down. You have given me something, Lilian. I hardly know what, but it is over- whelming, something magical and heavenly. I feel so strong, a grown man, almost a giant. I feel as if I could break up Middle Thirty in one day." " Have I done that ? " she cried, changing at once into a spiritual body, coming towards him, meeting his eyes without fear, and not trembling, but full of gladness and girlish wonder, and the enchantment of youth and beauty borrowed from her soul. " Have I really given you strength ? " " You have given me something better, Lilian. You cannot hide it from me now. You are the flower beside the path. You are the key which unlocks the cavern. You are the path, good fairy, gold, and all." " It is too much," she murmured. CHAPTER VII THE GARDEN QUEST A HOUSE geometrically square, a gentleman of angles, and a lady whose figure suggested a fair circle were the obstacles between Cyril and his garden. Sharley was a man of property, rich enough to have his simple wants supplied, and too old to consider any plans of adding to his income. Being somewhat infirm he rarely left the fields and garden around the house, finding there all the amusement and occupation he could desire ; while the outlying acres of wood and moorland were left unvisited, and regarded almost as property in some distant land. When younger he had been wont to walk through Thirty once a year, noting the condition of trees and hedges, and reflecting in a sluggish fashion what a fine piece of pro- perty it was, even though he had never made a penny out of it ; but more than ten years had passed since his last visit, and during that period he had only occasionally seen the Scotch firs tossing on the height when the calm influence of some warm evening had tempted him to shuffle a mile with his good round lady along the road. His normal position was beside the window, much of which was choked with plants ; but at a corner purposely left vacant a chair was placed, beside it a table bearing all the comforts a smoker could require ; and here the white face, itself unseen, watched the road which was his Gazette of births, marriages, and deaths, of courtships even, of the coming of strangers, and of accidents. Sharley knew all that went on, and he acquired most of his knowledge THE GARDEN QUEST 115 by shrewd peeps from that flower-decked window ; while the good lady sat upon the other side, knitting as she had done for many years, listening to the master's comments, and giving her opinion when it was asked for ; sometimes without, but not often. That morning the table held a tin box, containing docu- ments tied with boot-laces in lieu of tape, and letters quaint enough to deserve a museum, pleasant to the old eyes which could hardly read what was written in ink gone yellow, and business-like to the hands which sorted them by a simple process of aimless shuffling. Sharley was excited, but he spared time to glance from the window, and when any footstep seemed to hesitate near his doorstep he would shut the tin box, at the risk of guillotining some fragile memorandum, and push it behind the curtain as if he had been dealing with stolen property and sat in fear of the heavy tread of justice. He could not find what he wanted, but that was not wonderful, for he had already looked through the same bundle of letters many times, placing them when examined beside the box, looking out of the window, picking up the identical bundle, and finding the same papers fresh and interesting, possibly incorporating a few fresh deeds with the idea he was sorting the contents of the box very thoroughly and refreshing his memory adequately concerning the metes and bounds of every particle of property. " Here's young Mr. Rossingall," his wife whispered,\ with her mouth at the crack of the draughty door. " Where ? What's he doing ? " cried Sharley excitedly. " I hear him scraping his boots." " Bring him in. The bottle of cider presently not for half an hour," ordered the old man, straightening his waistcoat and trying to look severe. Cyril was no stranger, since Sharley had seen him passing a thousand times, but as a visitor he was the rarest kind of bird. " Please to come in. Take a seat near the fire," he said hospitably. " Warm with walking ? Ah, 'tis good to be young. I kept the heat in me as long as most, but this 116 WINTERING HAY last year or two the chill has got to my bones, and when it comes at my age it bides." Cyril seated himself and began some small talk, con- gratulated the old man upon the neat appearance of fields and garden, making himself as pleasant as possible before proceeding to the audacious business which had brought him. " You will never guess why I have come to see you," he said at last. " Pure cheek brings me here, Mr. Sharley ; that and an honest desire to make my own living. I may offend you I hope not but in any case I shall surprise you." * " I know, Mr. Rossingall," the old man chuckled. " Yes, I know. I may be a bit blind, but I can see it on your face. You are after a bit of my land. You ain't the first, not by a long way, but what I was born to I hold. I get little out of the land, but I like to feel I can walk upon it." " If that is your last word it is useless for me to con- tinue," said the discouraged Cyril. " Except Thirty," Sharley went on. " It is Thirty I want to speak to you about." " I can walk about the fields, but I can't climb up to Thirty. I'll never walk through it again. I'll tell you the story of Thirty if you would be pleased to hear." Cyril was anxious to go on with the business, but since it was necessary to humour the old man, who seemed in the kindliest mood, he yielded, and Sharley, drawing a chair to the fender and placing himself upon it with his feet almost in the fire, and his eager fingers tapping his own knee, or that of his visitor impartially, rambled happily on : " I don't know how long Pitland Down has belonged to my family, for there are no deeds, not an inch of parch- ment nor a drop of ink, Mr. Rossingall, though the Lord Chancellor himself couldn't take it from me, for we have held the place time out of mind, which is the best title hereabouts. Pitland Down is the right name, and so 'tis marked upon the map, but it got to be called Thirty a long while ago, and I'll tell ye why. I'm the eldest of THE GARDEN QUEST 117 three, and the only one left ; Mary came second, and Peter third ; and Mary stayed second, for Peter died first and she went after him, while I have been spared, and so you see the last became first and the first last." " There are three Thirties as well," said Cyril, when the old fellow went off into chuckles, which threatened to be interminable. " That's right," cried Sharley, nipping his visitor's leg and grieved to discover his sensibility was so dull. " There are three Thirties because there were three children. When I was born Pitland Down stretched from Zigzag Cleave right up on the moor as far as the longstones. No one has ever measured it out, but there must be pretty nigh a hundred acres, forty in Lower and fifty-five in Upper, and five in Middle, which is a little plat, but a proper one, and he belonged to Mary. Middle was for Mary, sure enough, but I don't know as she ever set a foot upon it." " Middle is the one I want," said Cyril boldly. " Want to buy Middle, do ye ? " " Not buy. I have no money." " Bless ye. Don't talk so much. I can't think of twenty things to once. Ah, Middle was for Mary, and Upper for Peter, and Lower for me ; I was the eldest, so I had first choice. Pitland Down had been cleared from the Cleave to the top of Middle. The rocks had been broke back, but father never did it, nor yet his father, and there is no man to tell us who did the work which must have taken best part of a century, I reckon, but the folk who did it must have been wonderful fond of straining their backs." " Upper Thirty is full of boulders," remarked Cyril, wishing he could keep the tedious old fellow to the subject. " Bogs too. There's hardly an acre of firm ground in Upper. 'Tis a whist dark place under the old black trees, with mud coming over your ankles, and the owls screaming at noon. The place ha' scared me many a time when I was a youngster. Upper Thirty was for Peter, but it never did him any good, and for years and years the whole place 118 WINTERING HAY has belonged to me, but it has never done me any good either." " There are tons of dead wood lying about, Mr. Sharley. Rotten trunks are on the ground everywhere, and numbers of trees have been partly uprooted by the gales and are leaning against the others. The dead wood alone should be worth a good bit of money." " There is no trackway. You couldn't get carts and horses to Upper Thirty, and that's the point my father overlooked. He was a shrewd man, but he had a bit of money, and when a man don't have to worry his brains as to how he's going to get a living he makes mistakes. I have told you how he planted the trees " " You have not," interrupted Cyril. " Bless my dear life ! I thought I had told ye the whole story. Well now, I'll start again and make sure of it. There were three of us, Peter, and Mary, and me, though I came first and now I'm the last. When I was born some gentleman told father the prettiest thing he could do was to plant trees for me, so that the trees would grow while I was doing the like, and when I was grown up the trees would be ready to be cut down. Trees hereabouts always did fetch a good price, because there's all too few of them. Father asked how long they would be a-growing, and the gentleman told him thirty years. So father planted the lower part of Pitland Down, made a hedge across to keep the beasts out, and told the neighbours he had done a bit of good business for me, and by the time I was thirty the trees would have grown and be worth a few hundred pounds. Father wasn't exactly a silent man, and he told the story so often that at last folks got to caU him Old Thirty ; and then the part of Pitland Down he had planted was called Lower Thirty ; and that's how the place came by its name." " How is it no trees were planted upon Middle Thirty ? " enquired Cyril. " Because Mary was a maid," came the surprising answer. " She was born the year after me, and that made father THE GARDEN QUEST 119 cautious. He fancied the Almighty might be going to bless him with more children then he craved for. You see, Mr. Rossingall, it never was the fashion to make provision for maids. When they grow up they marry and go out of the family, and if you make your land over to them they take it away with 'em and' give it to strangers. Father marked out Middle Thirty and called it Mary's plat, but he never planted it, and he made up his mind to take it from her if it should be wanted for another lad. Then Peter was born, and father planted Upper Thirty for him ; and after that mother died and father knew he couldn't have any more children, so Mary kept Middle Thirty, but 'twas no good to her, for she couldn't sell it by father's will, which was a cunning one, and left the land so that it should come back to the sole surviving son, and that's me, Mr. Rossingall, the first of the family and the last." " Why have you not done anything with the property, Mr. Sharley ? " Cyril asked. " The whole place came to me late in life, when I had done with business," the old man answered. " I didn't have to sell or let it, not wanting money, and besides, I take pride in the place. I'd no more have cut down one of the trees than I would the limes and chestnuts in my garden ; and, as I told ye, they wouldn't hardly pay for cutting down because there's no trackway up there. There's no profit in a load of wood what breaks the cart and kills the horses. Father never saw that until it was too late. Once a report got about that I meant to sell the trees for what they would fetch, and what do ye think happened ? Why, a deputation came to me from the parish, and the spokesman said, ' Don't ye cut down the trees on Thirty, Mr. Sharley. 'Tis the greenest and beautifullest bit of the country hereabouts, and all the folk down under have got so used to seeing the trees that 'twould be a cruel pity to deprive them of the sight and to make Thirty like the bare moor around it.' And I answered 'em, ' I'll never move a stick, nor yet a fir cone, out of Thirty all the days of my life.' And they stood outside on the road there, Mr. 120 WINTERING HAY Rossingall, and cheered me 'twas the prettiest sound I ever heard in my life, and I reckoned father hadn't done so bad when he made his mistake about planting those trees." " You ought to write a history of the neighbourhood," said Cyril, while Sharley went on chuckling. " Now will you hear my story ? " " Yes, sir," replied the owner of Thirty somewhat sharply, sitting upright, and making queer faces in an attempt to frown. " You know I live with my uncle and aunt at Wintering Hay " " Kind folk, they say, but not neighbourly," observed Sharley, who did not like to play the part of listener. " I have no private means," Cyril went on hurriedly. " My relations have suggested I should emigrate to Canada " " Don't ye go," interrupted Sharley excitedly. " I don't mean to go." " That's right. Bide here, sir. A man's own country is the proper place for him. If he can't make a living among his own folk he don't deserve to make one at all. You are a fine, strong young gentleman, and we don't want to lose your blood. The likes of you we want to keep. I hear of plenty of young fellows going out of the country, and building up homes and good strong families in foreign lands they are foreign lands to us, sir, even if they are our colonies and they are always the best young fellows, the ones we can't afford to lose. The chaps we could spare don't go. You stay among your neighbours, Mr. Rossingall, and God will bless ye all the more." " I can only stay if you will give me what I am about to ask a lease of an acre or two of the most sheltered part of Middle Thirty." " What for, sir ? " demanded Sharley, nipping the wrong leg again. ' That I may make a garden and grow vegetables for the market." THE GARDEN QUEST 121 " Ncf money in that," declared Sharley in the most hopeless fashion. " There is a demand, and hardly any opposition. I think with hard work I could get a living. Money is my difficulty. I have practically none, and I must have tools and ought to have some glass. But labour conquers all things," he added, with a smile which made the old man's frown sit awkwardly, because he had longed for a strong young man as son and had not been sent one. " You want Mary's plat. What is it like up there now ? " " The furze has got hold of most of it, especially at top and bottom near the line of the trees. The centre is still fairly open. A good fire on a dry day with a southerly wind would clear off the prickly stuff ; then I could go for the roots." " Has the fern got back yet ? " " A little on the upper and lower part, but not enough to give trouble." " Brambles have got in, I reckon ? " " Plenty, but they would come out easily, as there are no rocks for them to get their roots under. It is a grand soil, Mr. Sharley ; all black loam as soft as silk." " It has never been tilled," said the old man thoughtfully. " Not during the last hundred years, anyhow, though I fancy the men who broke back the rocks must have raised some crops there. How about the wind ? " " It is broken by Upper and Lower Thirty. I have seen the tree-tops raging when there was nothing but a breeze across the Middle. It slopes towards the south and gets every bit of sun." " You have done a lot of trespassing on my land." " Every other day almost I am up there," confessed Cyril. " I have done no harm, and several times I drove ponies out and mended holes in the walls." " Thank ye, sir. Suppose I leased you Middle Thirty, all or none, what rent could you pay ? " " Not a large sum," said Cyril frankly. " I have no WINTERING HAY means, as I told you, but I believe my aunt would help me." " If I offered you the land for nothing would you take it?" " Oh no," said Cyril, getting red. " My pockets may be dead, but my pride isn't. I'll pay a rent if I have to get the money by begging." Sharley was pleased with this answer, but he persevered in the frown, which to the other was first cousin to a smile, as he remarked, " You shall have the land, Mr. Rossingall, for twenty pounds a year." It was a good sum, much more than Cyril had expected, enough, he thought, to destroy all hope of profit, and that year at least no return of any kind could be looked for. Yet he accepted with the kind of confidence which makes success, sure of his own strength and of his inability to fail like others, ready to invest the property of his body in the ground, and to leave the issue to be decided by his allies. " I will try, Mr. Sharley. I will do my utmost to pay. I owe you something more than money for your kindness." " You will find me a hard landlord," declared the old man, making a savage noise with his foot among the fire- irons. " If the rent does not come regularly I'll take the land back, improvements and all. I'm kind enough to those that pay, but my heart is as hard as granite to those who fail me. We have made our property pay, Mr. Rossin- gall, by keeping to one rule if a tenant is no good, put him out and get a better. Mark me, sir ! I am pleasant and hospitable to neighbours, but in any matter of business I'm a Jew. You have my land ; I'll have your money." "You shall have the rent, Mr. Sharley," said Cyril coldly, though he had no idea as to how it would be obtained unless he could thaw his uncle's heart. " You must pay for the lease," continued this terrible gentleman, thumping the table, and apparently trying to lose his temper entirely. " You shall have Middle Thirty up to the day of my death, with the option then of THE GARDEN QUEST 123 purchasing the place for thirty pounds an acre. That's a stiff price, I fancy, but Mary's plat is not to go for nothing, and if you can't pay that sum you must get out. I'm a hard man, Mr. Rossingall, but I'm just in my dealings. I don't tickle you with any false promises. 'Tis right that a young gentleman should have a stiff struggle to show him what the world is like and to give his fighting blood a chance. Go in with half a crown in your pocket, and come out with a fortune but you must take your coat off, and stink with sweat a thousand times, before you do it." " I know all that," growled Cyril, growing restive beneath the sermon, and the discovery that his landlord's character was, on the whole, an ugly one. " I shall do my best, and if I fail you will have the satisfaction of turning me out." " It would not be a satisfaction, but I should do it, certainly I should do it," declared Sharley, continuing his assault upon the fire-irons. Then, shuffling to the door, he called for refreshment, and discovered his lady occu- pying the whole width of the passage, with a bottle and two glasses upon the oilcloth beside her, listening, according to recognised custom, to her good man's oratory. " He sees you're an old sheep trying to roar," she whispered, with a gentle nudge. " You keep your tongue quiet, will ye, woman ? " came the retort, loud enough for Cyril to hear. " Yes, sir, I'm master of my land," went on the old bully, slamming the door and banging the glasses down. " And I'm master of my house, and I'll bide master as long as I live. Take a glass of cider now, and I'll give ye a toast, for that costs nothing. Here's to the land, the true land, the red land, what makes the men grand." But the old fellow spluttered so much that he spilt half the cider upon the carpet and down his best waistcoat. " Don't ye wonder now," he said, when Cyril was about to leave him, " how 'tis I'm going to let you have Middle Thirty ? Many have asked me for it, but I've always re- fused. I said I never would let it as long as I lived, and 124 WINTERING HAY now I have promised to give you a lease of it. You don't know the reason ; but I tell you, Mr. Rossingall, I tell you, sir, that if I was twenty years old, and a fine, strong young gentleman, and you came to me asking for Middle Thirty, and offering a hundred pounds an acre for the land, you wouldn't get it, sir, you wouldn't get a yard of it. I'd see you blessed first." Cyril escaped from the presence of the Sharleys in a turbulent mood. All Burntbeer must hear of this at once, Middle Thirty must be taken possession of, consecrated, and attacked before the day was out ; a few strips of turf must be cut, one furze bush at least demolished, and some bramble roots heaped to make an evening sacrifice. The new era of work could not be inaugurated by a day of idleness. Uphill the road went on the way to home, and most of it he ran, winning another hour to himself, and using it by speeding through the damp and darkness of Lower Thirty, coming out on his own garden site, rolling on the short turf for joy, thrusting a lighted match into the decayed growth near the roots of furze bushes, and cursing impatiently when the stuff spluttered and went out, cutting one scrap of turf with his pocket-knife, the only tool he possessed, carving two initial letters, one round the other rectangular, then going at full speed for home, to be sobered by the contrast, the prospect of that ill- smelling room darkened with heavy curtains as if the winter had too much light to send, the stagnant face of his aunt, the sight of his uncle shuffling in huge slippers, sweeping the carpet with the ends of loose trousers, holding a volume which he desired to place in a vacancy of the bookcase, but lacking energy to perform the action. " Where have you been, Cyril ? " asked Caroline. " A long walk," he answered. " Did you see anybody ? " " A few people passed me." ' Tell me some news," she said impatiently, " I have not heard of any." Had his uncle not been present, Cyril might have THE GARDEN QUEST 125 astonished her with information, but he could not speak then, knowing that the dumb figure standing with bent shoulders near the window would listen to every word. They could not notice his excitement, for he kept it down. High spirits were to them a form of drunkenness, and laughter was a sin because the God they worshipped always wept. A nail protruding in one of Cyril's boots hindered him from getting away immediately after the midday dinner. While beating it down he espied his uncle walking in the garden. Three times a day Mutter went outside to pass in the same direction along certain paths, always wearing the semi-clerical frockcoat and tall silk hat, which would sometimes be snatched from him by the wind or caught by an overhanging bramble. He was pausing to stare at the ground, and to poke some object with his umbrella. Could this be observation ? It looked as much, yet he brought no knowledge in with him. Mutter seemed interested, almost agitated. He was hurrying along the weedy paths where leaves of last autumn still reposed in sheltered corners ; and Cyril heard him call affectionately, " Little me ! Come into the garden and I will show you something." Caroline appeared, with the eagerness of one summoned to a function, a strange black hat upon her head, an old shawl round her shoulders ; and together they went to a bank beneath some birch trees. Mutter never called his wife by her Christian name, preferring all manner of quaint expressions as witnesses to his devotion for the woman whose character he had formed and whose life he had narrowed. They loved each other, they were entirely happy. Strange in their manner of existence they were, and inexplicable to others, yet they had found happiness and reached the perfect life. To Cyril it meant misery, for their light was his darkness. In June of flowers, or December of cuts and scars, they were the same ; while he, as a mere worshipper of Nature, lived for sunshine. 126 WINTERING HAY Waiting for them to depart, afraid of being detained and ordered to some employment, he watched them returning presently arm-in-arm, wonderfully peaceful, and Caroline was holding a few primroses which Mutter had discovered upon the bank. So, in a sense, they could feel the appeal of Nature ; the coming of spring was some- thing to them, the first of flowers was able to reach their minds with a message ; and Cyril became more hopeful, realising that the uncle after all was human, feeling it still possible he might relent and help the toiler and the tenant of Middle Thirty when he saw him work in earnest. In the primroses might be found an ally. " I will look for some on my way to Burntbeer. If I can bring them home a bunch, then announce I have taken my garden, they may at least be sympathetic," he mur- mured as he watched them out of sight. But he found no blooms of yellow in the lanes, for spring had not returned outside the gardens, the fields were still exhausted from the labour of last year, the buds which had formed at the fall of the leaf were not yet awakened, and the land looked desolate ; but if the earth lacked life the water was full of it, and all the way to Burntbeer streams were ringing with a merry May-day noise. Mrs. Corindon was in bed with a cold ; George and Lilian were making a rose-bed ; and Cyril discovered them digging and panting, their boots and hands red with the rending of the soil. George made for him at once, but Lilian went on working, though it was to her that Cyril called, " I have done it. The land is mine." " Of course," she answered gravely. " Sharley could not possibly refuse." " I am so glad," said George. " To-morrow I shall come over with a mattock and have a go at the furze. Lilian has half a dozen books for you ; one on vegetables, one on glasshouses, another on manures. You have a busy time ahead. But what's the rent ? " " Twenty pounds." " That is far too much," said Lilian. THE GARDEN QUEST 127 " A fraud," George declared. " I asked father what the rent ought to be, and he said ten pounds at the outside. It is only rough moorland. It will take you all summer to prepare one acre. And we thought Sharley was a kind- hearted old fellow." " He pretends to be, but in any matter of business he's a Jew. I have a feeling things will be all right. If I must get the money it will come somehow." " Of course it will," said Lilian scornfully ; and this feeling was so unlike her that George looked at his sister, then at Cyril, and began to wonder. " I say, Lilian " he began ; but there Cyril broke in : " Shall I tell George about the Cross on Whistly Down ? " "So that is where you went to," cried the boy. " She wouldn't tell me. That is where you hatched the scheme. It was there, young lady, you got your hands scratched." " George must know but only George," said the girl, coming up to them. " He is the keeper of all the secrets. Tell him how you like, Cyril." " How I like. Then there is only one way." And taking her clay-gloved hand Cyril kissed it. " Not a word, George," whispered Lilian. " This is the greatest of all the secrets. Father and mother must not know yet, because Cyril and I are proud, and we mean to fight our own way and win a splendid victory alone." George stared at his friend with large, dark eyes, while the thought he had tried to banish came rushing back, and he heard again the confession upon the bridge. Could Lilian forgive ? The clay on George's hands became like ice when Cyril frowned at him, and Lilian, looking down, saw nothing, and felt only happiness at the prospect of struggling with one who loved all Nature like herself. " I know now why you are going to be a parson," said Cyril lightly. " You will be able to marry us. We shall have a long time to wait, but the day will come." 128 WINTERING HAY " You must not say anything to father and mother yet/' said Lilian, "but you are allowed to speak to me." " I am so glad, darling," George blurted out, taking his sister's hand. "It is the very thing I wanted. That's the truth, Cyril," he went on loudly. " I do want it, and I think it will come to pass. You and Lilian will be happy you must be. I will do all I can." " But why so serious, dear old George ? " she murmured. " A minor prophet has need to be," laughed Cyril ; then whispered, " Sweetheart, have you any primroses ? " " There are plenty beside the kitchen garden." " May I have some ? " " Come with me and pick them." They moved off, leaving George treading on the clods, pretending to dig while they remained in sight ; and Cyril forgot him, but not Lilian. She looked back and called him ; he made a motion with his head, then, going away by himself into the fields, washed the blood-red earth from his hands in a brook and prayed that the burden of his friend's secret might not be too great for him. An hour later, Corindon proceeding along the lane, driving bullocks like a rustic, came upon his son waiting at the first bend from the gate. " Doing nothing, George ? " he called. " Like to drive these bullocks for me into Sand Pit field ? " " I will, if you want me to," the boy answered. " Stay with your own business," said Corindon, having gained from his son's manner the information he required ; and he went on to the gate, let the bullocks roam, and watched the road descending to the house until Cyril and Lilian came along with primroses ; and they were walking somewhat closely, side by side, and talking eagerly. Corindon drew out his knife and cut a stick, paring the small branches off as he moved away, saying, " Primroses, and a spring feeling in the air and two young ones. Only one thing could have brought Lilian out of herself, THE GARDEN QUEST 129 killed her shyness, given her a tongue. I thought she was too young, but this season she is a woman." He looked up, his thin face marvellously pinched. " I cannot lose her too. Wife, son, and Burntbeer, all may go I must keep Lilian. Primroses ! A pretty excuse for picking at her fingers. George going to the slums to hear the drivel of the dying, Burntbeer to the sale-room when I die, Lilian to Wintering Hay, the Corindon owl to the geese. This young Cyril is playing the devil with me and my fields. A weak lad too, bent the wrong way, and growing like it." He went back and saw Lilian walking slowly towards the house. He called and she turned at once, then ran to him full of the joy of life, but changed since yester- day. " I left you and George at work upon the rose-bed," said the master. " Then Cyril came with good news. He is tenant of Middle Thirty now, and we had to forget roses and talk cabbages. He has just gone." " It seemed to me you were talking primroses." " He took some as a present to his aunt." " Where is George ? " " We left him in the garden." They went back a little in the direction of the gate before Corindon spoke again : " Old rustics used to say that the first touch of spring made children men and women. You have grown up, Lilian ; you will be eighteen this year old enough for sorrow." " Oh no, father. For greater happiness." " How do you define that ? " " Making others happy. Father," she went on, " you are worrying about George." " I was thinking about this," he answered, holding out the stick he had cut from the hedge. " On the day that you were born I planted a tree, and I cut a stick such as this as a support for it. By spring time the tree was dead, in spite of the care I gave it, and the stick was putting out bunches K 130 WINTERING HAY of leaves. As you go back you will see on the right-hand side of the porch, near the bed of rhododendrons, a solitary mountain-ash." " Its branches blow near my window. I have always called it my tree," said Lilian. "It is your tree. It is the stick I cut from the hedge on the day that you were born ; while the tree I planted for you went on the rubbish-heap. Think about that," said Corindon, as he walked off to find his beasts. While Lilian was doing so, knowing that her father had guessed the secret not that she desired to deceive her parents, but this was, after all, a boy and girl affair which might so easily be nipped, for Cyril might fail in life or love, and Lilian was very conscious of her lack of physical beauty the subject of her thoughts was in the lane, facing George, who had waited for him, and immediately Cyril appeared with a headful of dreams, had come forth from the hedge to begin at once : " You must tell Lilian. It will be awful, Cyril, but you must." " Lilian shall not know," replied his friend. " She must." " I wish I had not told you. We shall quarrel " " I would never quarrel with you." " Will you tell Lilian ? " " Of course not unless you wish me to." " Then, for heaven's sake, say no more about it. I try to forget that Christmas night, and I have pretty well succeeded, except when you come along and recall the whole business." " What you told me is under the seal of the confessional. I cannot divulge it," the boy went on earnestly. " Oh, George ! Drop that." " I can never marry you to Lilian." ' You look a long time ahead. Unless something un- foreseen happens ten years must pass before we can be married. However steady my progress may be, it is sure to be slow. Long before then you will have changed your THE GARDEN QUEST 131 views, while Gideon's body will have rotted beneath the roots of my Christmas tree. George, old boy, I am happy to-day, I feel as if I was starting along the right road, and you must not try to hold me back. Be your own cheerful self again, give up this idea of entering the Church, and follow your father here at Burntbeer. Farming may be a poor profession, but it is better than thumping a pulpit, and, anyhow, you would save the home." " Cyril, do tell Lilian. Do it for my sake," George pleaded. " You ask me to make her miserable. I will not do it." " If the secret should leak out ? " " Then I am done for ; but it never will." " You would not face Lilian then." " I should get out of the country to hide myself. The secret is safe ; the affair has blown over already: Mrs. Fley, as they call her, has gone to Blackerton. I have been punished enough for my wickedness if you like to give it that name and I will endure no more," said Cyril angrily. " I will not lose everything because I was a coward that night. What would you have done ? Gone to the police and said, ' I came upon Gideon Fley assaulting his wife, and to save her I hit the man and now he is dead ? ' Gone into Wintering Hay and told your aunt and uncle that you were guilty of manslaughter ? Why be disgraced eternally, and sent out into the roads to beg your bread, merely because you had done your best to protect a woman from a ruffian ? I had to tell you to relieve my mind, but I could not confess to others. You know I could not. And I cannot confess to Lilian now, and see her turn against me." " She would not. She would stand up for you against the world." * " In her heart she would despise me." " She will turn against you, Cyril, if she does find out, not because you hastened the man's death, nor yet because you hid the body she understands how difficult things are for you at home but because you did not tell her, 132 WINTERING HAY because you could not trust her, because you, told the secret to me and not to her. If you tell Lilian now, she will forgive you. If you do not tell her, and that dead man rises, she will riot forgive. . You will break her heart as you did Fley's." " Shut up, George. I cannot reason with you." " I must say what I think." " You don't want me to love Lilian." "I do, Cyril. I want you to love her, and marry her ; but until you tell her all, I think you have no right to love her." " Well, I refuse, and that's the end of it. Come, George, wake up," said Cyril, laughing harshly. " Get out of the bad dreams, forget and help me to forget, or we shall spoil our lives with melancholy. Lilian is happy, and I cannot be the one to make her miserable." " You will be the one," whispered the frightened boy. " Shut up, George," cried the other again, more fiercely ; for the early evening was beginning to close around them, and the clouds were creeping downwards from the moor, and the Corindon owls were out for mice, giving tongue like the whist hounds of old tradition. The lane, which had suggested the fragrance of spring earlier that day, was falling again into the clutches of winter, the hedges looked dark and dead, the season of new life was upon the other side of the rains of February and the black winds of March. " It is brutal of you to spoil my happiness to-day." " You must be the one to hurt Lilian if you will not speak," went on the boy doggedly, though it was pain to hurt his friend. " The secret cannot lie in the ground for ever. I must do all I can to help you, for you are my friend and brother. You will never find the path to happiness, you will never marry Lilian, if you do not con- fess now, before it is too late, before all the^world knows, as it|will Jone day, how that man died and was buried. It is a secret which cannot be kept for ever. Come back with me now, Cyril. Come back and tell Lilian. It is THE GARDEN QUEST not too late, but it will be soon, and then you will lose her, your home, and your garden " " Stop it, George," Cyril broke in fiercely. " I'll have no more of it " ; and he went off, waving his bunch of primroses defiantly, on the way back to Wintering Hay, and Middle Thirty, and the place where the fir tree was planted. CHAPTER VIII A FAMILY AFFAIR /'"CAROLINE and her candle were alone when Cyril \^/ entered, like a herald of spring, with his handful of flowers. Mutter was wont to burn his candle in soli- tude during certain evenings, composing hymns infinitely simple, or preparing sermons which were rolled up and stored away in a cupboard, for his wife to discover and enjoy if ever she should be left a widow. The lady looked up, half ashamed to think that her nephew's entry was not unwelcome it was like a mountain torrent suddenly agitating a stagnant pool and her face softened when she saw the primroses. It pleased her to know that Cyril had gone out of his way to gather the flowers with some thought of her. Excited by the incident she rose, allowing her Leg^n^s of the Saw/s to slip upon the carpet, pealed at the bell as if the place had taken fire, merely to order water, fidgeted with a dozen articles of pottery, before selecting the most grievous specimen of the mantelshelf, a shell- shaped chariot supported on either side by Teutonic cherubim attired in wings and waistcloths. The table was desolated, and half the room upset by the process of placing a few flowers in water ; a simple matter, but an event in her life. " Where did you find them ? You are like uncle you know where to look. What a muddle ! " as the water splashed the covers of some books. " Tell me where you have been. Did you see anybody ? Haveyou heard any news ? " " I looked in at Burntbeer," said Cyril, as brightly as he could. A FAMILY AFFAIR 135 " Did they tell you anything ? What did you and Mr. Corindon talk about ? You never open your mouth here, but I expect you talk away to them." Reproof that moment carried no sting, for Caroline was in her best humour. As the Corindons belonged to the world she knew nothing of them, but guessed they were godless folk, lax in Sunday observance, fond of music and dancing, and likely to keep her nephew's face more per- versely set towards the darkness of unbelief. She and her husband stood in terror of such people, who ventured to play instead of pray, and to set an example of cynicism for ignorant folk to follow. " I did not see Mr. Corindon," he answered, and added uneasily, " I talked over my prospects with George, who has decided to enter the Church." " How thankful I am to hear that," exclaimed Caroline. " What a great mercy ! You mean he intends taking holy orders we enter the Church at our baptism you speak so carelessly, Cyril, just as if you were an infidel. I am very glad to hear he is your friend, and I hope you will prove yourself worthy of him." " I have decided on something too," said Cyril in a low voice. " Not ordination," said Caroline sadly. " That is quite impossible for you. You have taken the wrong road." " I know," he said hastily. " I have decided upon the garden, aunt, and I have visited Mr. Sharley. He is willing to accept me as a tenant. To-morrow I am going to dig." Caroline put up her weak face, and it seemed to Cyril that it was also frightened. This looked to her like re- bellion, the coming forth of manhood, saying, " Strength was given me to wrestle with the angel in the soil." It was the threat, " I will not be driven, but will go my own way." That boy, his face in that light as fair as any maid's, spoke of going forth against the mountain with a spade. She turned, not in anger, for there was a woman hidden in her partly stifled, bidding her give way, play the mother, 136 WINTERING HAY send the boy forth with a message of kindness, give him money, furnish him with tools. Cyril came towards her eagerly, affectionately, asking for the past to be forgotten ; would have gone upon his knees at her side and taken her hand ; might have conquered her completely but the door opened, and with an intolerable shuffling of ill-fitting slippers Mutter advanced, saying, " Dearie, the new church in Korea, to which we have sent a subscription, is to be dedicated to St. John the Baptist." As acid dropped upon a bud will destroy its life, so did the coming of her husband destroy the tenderness in Caro- line. She remembered her duty to him. Human affection had nearly closed her eyes to spiritual matters. With anger she looked at Cyril, who had sought to prevail over her during a moment of weakness, and was then bent upon casting his education to the winds and turning to clods to search for gold to their disgrace, and said in a different voice, " We told you to put that idea out of your head." " I must work," said Cyril, becoming sullen, and con- scious that Mutter was actually paying him some attention. " I have been ready to start any time during the last three years, but I could not find the way, and you never sug- gested anything for me." " I mentioned the Civil Service several times," said Caroline. " I know nothing about the Civil Service. Where was I to go for information ? If you will get me work I will go at it ; but if you cannot help me, I must do what I can for myself." " Utterly hopeless," said Mutter to his wife ; and then addressed his nephew, although without looking at him, "Go to your bedroom, Cyril." The boy hesitated for a few moments, during which his uncle stood in peril, then obeyed, awed by the silence, crushed as usual by Mutter's helplessness and lack of intellect. Already the new path was blocked ; between the garden and his eager hands grew a great thorn hedge, which flesh and blood could not easily hew down. A FAMILY AFFAIR 137 A long hour passed, and then a voice called, " Cyril ! step this way." It was his uncle accepting responsibility. There was no light in the passage ; there was no light in the hall ; a murmur of wind merely, and beyond a door half-open, and within the suggestion of a flickering candle. The struggle in that other room was over, some decision had been arrived at, sentence was now to be pronounced ; but Cyril could hardly believe Mutter would face him alone and speak plainly. Yet he saw the man standing beside the table, his arms hanging loosely, his head down ; and he heard the order, " Close the door." If you were a man I could argue with you, thought Cyril. If you were a prickly shrub I could root you up. If you were a lump of rock I could crack you. I do not know what you are. ^Mutter did not speak. Duty urged him on while slug- gishness held him back. Any form of activity seemed to him dangerous and difficult : to walk into the garden was an incident, to address his nephew was an event ; while to crush the pride in a creature of sin and remove the strong devil of free-will was a work. A big volume, the edges of its binding frayed, lay before him open at the title-page, between two candles of unequal length, both lighted. Cyril smiled at these preparations for a ceremony, suggesting that he was about to be cut off from the congregation of the faithful, but he remained near the door, determined to make his uncle's task as difficult as possible, leaning against the wall, plunging his hands into his pockets, supposing this silence was a form of torture, ignorant that Mutter was far more nervous than himself. The one clock made sound enough for many ; a cinder fell into the hearth with the noise of a lump of granite ; while the master of Cyril's destiny pulled at his whiskers, staring at the book, and said at last with an effort, " Cyril, come here." He was holding a black ruler, with which he pointed at the volume, and when Cyril gazed at the spot where this 138 WINTERING HAY index rested, ready to start back if it should be raised to strike him, he read the yellow signature, " Kezia Mutter, 1780," and straightway wondered, unable to believe he had been summoned, at such a time, that matters of family history should be shown him. Silence was maintained, but the black ruler lifted, a mottled hand turned the leaf, and a long list of names became revealed. Across them passed the ruler without a pause until it reached the name of Andrew Mutter. Himself, thought Cyril. Then Elias Mutter ; and the boy, interested in spite of himself, reflected, so he has a brother. The next was Judith Mutter. " My mother," exclaimed Cyril aloud. The ruler hovered, shuddered, and descended with a shock upon the three last names, written clearly in ink as black as the wood which pointed to them : " Alice, elder daughter of Simon Rossingall, and Judith his wife. Eva, younger daughter of the same. Cyril, son of the above." " I have two sisters," cried Cyril hoarsely. " Alice and Eva, my sisters. Where are they what have you done with my sisters ? " Mutter placed the ruler upon the table, and it rolled and leapt upon the floor. He was bending low, as usual, and in that position blew at the shortest candle which was guttering and extinguished it. " I have two sisters, both older than myself," Cyril went on passionately. " They are not dead. What has happened to them ? How is it I have no memory of them ? Uncle, will you tell me, please, where I can find my sisters ? " Mutter appeared to be disturbed. He bent so low that the spectacles slipped from his nose, while with his left hand he rubbed his long hair until Cyril could see the dry scurf raining on the book ; and at last he heard a voice : ' ' The home should have been most helpful. The teaching was excellent, but they ran away. They would not be guided by our prayers." A FAMILY AFFAIR 139 Cyril looked up and saw his uncle slowly shuffling from the room. Dazed he stood, between two pictures of Alice and Eva, fair girls both, laughing and teasing, yet always holding out hands to help and guide a weaker brother, dear sisters nearer even than Lilian, because his by blood. It was true he knew nothing of his earliest life, but poverty was plainly marked upon his memory. He remembered shabby clothes, and cold feet caused by leaking boots ; squalid streets, iron railings, gravel walks lined with seats, a patch of grass not to be walked on, and discoloured water in stone basins ; a railway bridge rigid upon mighty columns, and beneath it houses black with age and smoke ; behind them a river, noisy, sometimes like the sea, hurling muddy waves against wharves and over cobble stones where slime was thick, and bottles, pieces of rope, wood, and corks were often lying ; a deep cupboard under some stairs infested with rats and spiders ; his own pitiful accents, " Oh, mother, not there not there, on my sore arm." Strange memories for a boy of gentle birth. But there came no vision of fair sisters. Caroline, sent by her husband to complete the work, came in, without any mood of tenderness because here was duty, and a hard heart, she thought, would never yield to kindness. Cyril came out of his dream and faced her with the question, " Why have you told me nothing of my sisters ? " Caroline seated herself by the fire and poked it vigorously. She was exceedingly sorry for the Rossingalls, she prayed for them every day, and if that could not assist them what other course was left ? " We thought it best to keep you in ignorance," she said in a mumbling voice. " You could do nothing for them. We tried and failed." " Where are they ? I must find them and go to them." " If you do this house can no longer be your home," she said clearly. " Do you know that your father was nothing but a labourer ? " " He was a gentleman," said Cyril angrily. 140 WINTERING HAY " He was born a gentleman, but he made a failure of his life and sank low before he died. He was an ignorant man, nothing like so well educated as you are, thanks to us, and he never became fitted for the society of gentlefolk. He was a man of violent temper ; once he was sent to prison for assaulting a workman ; he had no religion ; he drank at the village inn ; his children, your sisters, would have gone about half-clad had it not been for your uncle and myself.'' " What was his occupation ? He was a man, even if he was not a gentleman," growled Cyril, stroking his forehead restlessly. " In those days he had a hop-garden, which grew smaller as he was forced to sell the land. His father left him a hundred acres, but he failed in everything, and some of the land had to go every year. He drifted at last to the East End of London, and existed on casual labour until he died a few months after you were born." " He gave me something," said Cyril defiantly. " I am not a Mutter. Perhaps I am not practical, like my father, but he has given me beautiful visions and fine dreams and it was not his fault that he gave me nothing more. Not every parent gives as much." Cyril spoke blindly and in anger, but not foolishly. Caroline was not to know what the eternal part of that dead body had been mixed with. Simon Rossingall had not been the man to succeed in the low quest of the crock of gold, yet while he clung to his patrimony he found happiness. In spite of violent temper, misanthropy, and perhaps a little insobriety, he reached, in his own rough way, the heart of Nature, and rode upon it till the fall. Instead of working he would lie upon his back in a wood and listen to the nightingales. When either little daughter ran to him for love he would turn from her to caress the flowers instead. His passion was the hop plant, from the time when young bines came crawling from the roots to the season when grape-like clusters swayed in golden glory from the poles. When the morning found him planting sticks to each hill, A FAMILY AFFAIR 141 'or training the brittle bines along the twine as tenderly as a girl might bind her hair, it found a poet. During the moonlight of summer he would walk and run sometimes in terror of so much beauty about the fragrant garden, between and beneath the goldings, lost in the intoxicating bowers, his face brushed by the pale grape hops and yellow with bitter pollen, a fugitive from civilisation, loosely bound to it by passion, but then free while the moonlight lasted and the dew made poems upon the spiritual cones, searching for a gaping tree-trunk to receive his body and absorb his soul, melting it into mist, and sending it forth from the tips of quivering leaves to meet the sunlight and to be resolved into the stuff that gods are made of. Such nights he was a mystic and a priest. Nor was he dead in the ugly sense of funerals. His life had been a lonely call to Nature " Let me go forth and find the perfect thing, and with it stay" and Cyril, his son, had caught the message from him. " Your father gave you nothing," said dense Caroline. " He brought children into the world and could not provide for them. He could not even clothe his wife." " I know nothing of my mother. She is dead, but my father lives. He may have been a drunkard, but he won't die while the world lasts. Where are Alice and Eva ? " cried Cyril bitterly. " His daughters there's something in them too." " You do not remember either because they were re- ceived into a home. We paid for them," continued Caroline in a hard voice. " Had they remained with their father they would have starved." " Have you photographs ? " " We have nothing of them. We did all we could, we were kinder than their own parents ; and they repaid us, as you have done, with ingratitude. They ran away from the home. They were discovered, sent back, and again they ran away." " Where are they now ? " " I know where Alice is. She is honest now, and I hope repentant the wife of a chimney-sweep in Islington." 142 WINTERING HAY " Alice Rossingall, my sister ! " moaned Cyril. " Honest and respectable what has she done ? What sin was it to escape from a place for paupers ? Eva ? " " She is not honest, and, I believe, will never be repen- tant." " Eva is younger than Alice," said Cyril simply. " She is wicked, unspeakably wicked," shuddered Caro- line. " She is outside all sympathy." " I know," cried Cyril, feeling a cold drop trickle down his forehead. " I have lived here in this house of inno- cence," he went on wildly ; " still, I know the story of young women, gently born or basely born, turned out upon the streets " " They went to it." " They were forced to it. They could not escape except by way of hateful charity. So Alice is honest now, and Eva is outside all sympathy, looking up at the sky now, perhaps and asking all that is behind it why homeless girls are damned. Two are for her, one at each end of creation God and myself." " Hold your wicked tongue," cried Caroline, shocked by this blasphemy. " The Almighty is not for your sister. We have prayed for her, and still she does not repent." There was no answering that. If she could think that human prayers without a human helping hand were likely to raise the fallen no argument would serve. Already Cyril felt sorry that emotion had been forced from him. He should have treated the matter solemnly indeed, but without the least display of feeling. The girls had been wicked. A home had been found for them, possibly a prison to such as loved the air of liberty, still comfort in a sense, food to eat, clothes to put on, shelter against storms ; and education had been offered, a training in domestic duties given, with the prospect of presently going forth well equipped for service in areas and kitchens among pots. " Why did you not give them a home ? " Cyril burst forth. A FAMILY AFFAIR 143 " They would have run away from here," she answered sharply. " That is true." And Cyril muttered to himself, " They have more courage than I." " Where are you going ? " called Caroline, as her nephew moved towards the door. " Into some solitude to think about Eva." " Stay here." Cyril stopped and half turned, shrinking from the road and the night, although the young girls, his sisters, had gone forth twice, fleeing from charity to dishonour. " Why did you adopt me ? " he muttered ; while Caroline looked at the fire and was dumb until he repeated the question, and then she said, " We decided to take one, and I chose you. Now I am sorry for it." " Let me go then," said Cyril brokenly. " I must be alone. Why have you kept me in ignorance all these years ? Why have you poisoned my career upon the day when I had hoped to begin it ? What you have told me will not break my spirit, will not take away my independence, will not defeat me. You have fed and clothed me, but that is all. You know that I must work for a living, yet you refuse to help me, and now that I have made my choice you tell me to put it out of my head, though you offer me nothing in its place. I will work in my garden, and when I have a little money I will not help to build churches in Korea, but I will go to London and bring Eva from the gutter. Lilian, I cannot speak to you again," he said incoherently, his voice thick with tears. " May my uncle feel this when he dies. I am going," he said fiercely. " May I stop here to-night ? I want no food. To-morrow I go and all the neighbourhood shall know. Good night, aunt. God bless you both," he muttered, and went out, stumbling over a chair because it had become suddenly too dark to see. To be alone was a kind of freedom. No message came and no voice called for him. The day s which had come with a good prospect ended in despair ; yet, behind the 144 WINTERING HAY revelation of his uncle and the battle with his aunt, rose the story of himself, a struggle of his own body with life. Cyril looked out upon a lonely prospect and was not frightened, for fancy was with him, imagination remained, and the wilderness ahead became a garden of free sunshine. He had to conquer the influences of his birth, to rise above the atmosphere of his home, to make a place for himself, and to win his title to Lilian tell her the truth ? Why should he ? Why allow the dishonour of his sisters, and the death, not the murder, of Fley, to destroy his share of happiness ? To-morrow he would leave that house, with his capital of youth and strength and a few pounds he had saved, birthday presents, and some coins dropped by clumsy Caroline, found by him and kept as lawful pocket- money ; visit Joll, and secure from him the tenancy of the Chapel ; buy a few tools and start to work. The splendid madness of youth made the scheme simple. To rent first a piece of land, then an unfurnished cottage ; to consider the purchase of implements, food, and clothing ; to commence a business which could bring him no return that year, to ward off the arrows of adversity, in short, with no other weapons than his hands all splendid, but not sane. This was not life, but the idea of it. Life told him to follow his sisters, to escape from the house, walk along the road, and fall into the first employment which was offered ; but that would mean leaving his friend and his enemy, breaking his spirit free from Burntbeer, and his body from the grave. The dead man held him fast. The bell for supper tolled, a knock came upon his door, still he did not move. To fast with Eva was better than to sup with the Mutters. Becoming cold Cyril undressed and went to bed, fell into a doze, and started from a dream to find Caroline standing at the door holding a lighted candle. " It is time for prayers," she said. Cyril did not answer. " Why have you gone to bed ? " " I was cold and tired," A FAMILY AFFAIR 145 " Are you hungry ? " " Not now. It has gone off." She came nearer, set the candle upon a table, went to her knees beside the bed, and recited the Lord's prayer earnestly. No hypocrisy was there, and yet Cyril could not respond ; but when she had finished, and was looking up at him, he said hoarsely, " I am going to-morrow. We cannot get on together." "It is your own fault." " I will go to Joll's cottage, and show you I mean to work." " What nonsense ! " she said angrily. " Where is your furniture coming from and your food ? How will you pay the rent ? You have no money." " I can pray," muttered Cyril. " You tell me that is the way to make a living." It was true, yet Cyril was astonished at the outburst which followed. Caroline lost her temper completely and abused him, advised him to place himself under the protection of the powers of darkness, told him to get out and follow the career of a crossing-sweeper, or appeal to " your brother-in-law who cleans chimneys for a job " ; and then she went on to pray for him and to wonder why the God of mercy could not reach his heart. In the morning Cyril came down as usual, and break- fasted in silence with his relations, who did not once address him. His aunt, he thought, looked ill, and there was an expression on her face which suggested some concern. Mutter was the same, mumbling over his food ; but when the meal was over he turned to his nephew, actually looked at him, and said, " You shall struggle," then shuffled out leaving Caroline to explain. " You may have your wish," she said with the utmost coldness. " You may go to the work which you have chosen. We will not be ashamed of you while you remain honest. Your uncle thinks you may be called to this work." 146 WINTERING HAY He rejoices at the idea of getting me out of the house, thought Cyril. " As you have chosen the life of a labourer, we shall regard you as one." She took out her purse and placed eighteen shillings upon the table, adding another florin as if absently. " That is the weekly wage of a working man in these parts. We will allow you that amount each week for a time at least. You can take the furniture in your bedroom," she went on somewhat unsteadily. " I hope you will have good luck." And with this very human phrase she followed her husband, holding a handkerchief to her eyes. Cyril called after her, what he hardly knew, but it was meant for gratitude. He was certain then that Caroline, in spite of her hard words and outbursts of temper, was fond of him ; he knew the money was her gift. Mutter would have turned him out without a shilling because religion, as he read it, taught that unbelievers, or those who behaved as such, deserve destruction. The gate of liberty was at least ajar ; hard work would force it open. Cyril hurried up the trackway, passed the cottage which was to be his home, and hastened towards the u immortal Joll, whose back he perceived half-bent beside the cliff. " I ha* got a lawsuit," the old man began, putting out a gauntleted hand ending in a hook. " There's a firm of lawyers yonder, and I'm going to cut 'em out on't." " Brambles, you mean ? " said Cyril. " Us calls 'em brimmles, but I reckon they'm most like lawyers, vor if any of that trade lay hold of ye they don't let go. Lawyers and brimmles be the like they'm after your blood. One ses if I don't get my fee I'll take your land, and t'other ses if I can't have your land I'll take your blood. Don't ye ever refuse a lawyer his fee, sir, or he'll draw your blood instead. My vaither got off paying a lawyer's fee once, and I fancy he wur the only man who ever done such a thing. 'Twur a little bit o' money 'tis true, but times wur bad, and he hadn't got it. ' 'Tis no use beating watter vor butter, master/ he ses, ' I can't pay, A FAMILY AFFAIR 147 and that's the end on't.' This lawyer wur going to get married, so he ses, ' Well, there, Joll, if you don't pay my fee, how be I going to pay the parson ? ' A little joke, you see, sir, but when a man jokes wi' a Joll he gets the worst on't. ' Why, master, you'm paid already/ ses vaither. ' Vor I reckon the best fee you can give to a male is a female.' Lawyer ses he wur beat, and gave vaither a receipt." " I have come on business, Joll," said Cyril. " Well, sir, I didn't hardly think you wur come to see me on pleasure." " I want your cottage, the Chapel, where the Fleys lived; Don't say you have let it to anybody yet, because I must have it." " What would you want it vor, sir ? " " Why, to live in." " Young gentlemen don't live in old cottages." " I am not a gentleman, I am going to be a labourer. I have got a lease of Middle Thirty, and I'm going to till it and grow vegetables." " Go on, sir," said Joll, when Cyril gasped and paused. " I wur your age once, and I reckoned then I wur going to till the world. It lasts till you'm forty, and then you fancies a little bit of garden is enough." " May I have the cottage ? " " Aw, I won't make any trouble about that." " And the rent ? " " I won't take any notice of that." " But I must. Eighteenpence a week, Joll ? " " That or nought, 'tis the like to me. The roof be vunny sometimes when it rains." " I'll take no notice of it," Cyril laughed, happy and excited again. " I won't ask you to do anything to the place. It is sound enough for me." " There ha' been a lot of rain since I built him," said Joll. " You buHt it ! " " Sure enough." 148 WINTERING HAY Cyril looked at him, and recognised that old age was beginning to assert itself. Joll had an idea that every cultivated piece of land below that rocky ledge had been cleared by himself ; every cottage and linhay had been erected by his own hands. He regarded himself as the creator of that spot, although the Chapel was built of cob which had been mixed many centuries back ; but, all the same, old Joll had built the place. " What about Wintering Hay ? " asked Cyril. " I built him too. I laid out the garden and I cut the paths ; and I made the road what leads up to it." " What would you say if I brought you an ancient map which marks the road ? " " I'd call it a liar/' replied Joll, so seriously that Cyril respected infirmity and left the subject. " I am coming to the Chapel at once. I shall sleep there to-night," he said. " You'm welcome, sir." "I'll clean the place out vor ye from top to bottom," cried a voice with a merry noise to it ; and there was the ripe, red face of Betty glowing from the window. " I'll go in straight wi' the broom and scrubbing-brush, and get it vitty by noon. Soap be what he wants, and soap he'll get." " Wait till you'm asked, woman," her brother scolded. " When would you men-folk ask a woman to clean a house ? " demanded Betty. " You ask us to cook your meals, and mend your clothes aw, and to be your wives but you would live in dirt till it grew on ye avore asking vor soap and watter. Don't ye move a stick into the Chapel till I've been there. Fleys be the volk what lived in him, and fleas be what they left." " Don't ye hearken to she," advised Joll, annoyed to think his sister should show humour. " I am very much obliged," said Cyril, stepping near the window, " but I mean to look after myself at present, and I can do the scrubbing " No more was possible, for the good soul began at once to scream her ridicule : A FAMILY AFFAIR 149 " Hark to 'en, Jane "so she styled her brother' 4 hark to the gentleman. Thinks he can look after himself. Thinks he can clean a house. My dear soul, what do ye think a house be ? Tis a place vor women, not vor men; A man don't live in a house, he don't know what to do in a house, he'm in the way when he comes into a house, and the sooner he gets out of it the better. He comes under when 'tis foul weather, and vor his food and his sleep, but it ain't his place, vor your home be where your work is, and a man's work be outside. Set a man to clean a room, and he'll tear the place abroad. I don't care who he be, let 'en be the cleverest in the world, and let 'en call we women vulish, but give 'en a needle and scrubbing-brush, tell 'en to use one on his clothes and t'other on the house, and, my dear soul, you'll see a pleasure-vair. You get along to your proper duties, sir. I'll scour the Chapel vor ye and drown they fleas in soap-suds." " Talk to 'em, my dear," chuckled her aged brother. " 'Twill do it quicker than soap-suds. I ha' lived wi* she vor twenty years," he added in the confidential manner, " and the reason I b'ain't dead is because I take no notice of her talk. You can listen to a woman and live, but if you answers her back there's no old age vor ye." " I thought you were a champion of women," said Cyril, while Betty ran about inside, collecting various articles for purification, apparently doing battle with each one. " You can't live without a woman, and you can't live with one, if you argues," said the old man. " When a woman talks 'tis like rain falling on a roof, and the man must be like the roof and take no notice. What my old vaither said wur true, ' The best fee you can give to a male is a female,' but avore you take the fee you have to be certain you'm getting gold and silver. Many a man gets paid wi' brass and tin, and finds himself the poorer vor the bargain." Why were these people kind to him, thought Cyril ; why was Betty anxious to clean the cottage for him, and why did her brother accept him as a tenant, and show 150 WINTERING HAY himself indifferent as to rent ? Was it because they knew no other way, being naturally good at heart they could not refrain from friendliness ? Very different were they from his uncle and aunt, who were good, even saintly, in their lives, yet hostile and apparently cruel to himself. Which were right, he wondered : the Jolls, who knew little of religion, and relied upon their friendly hearts to win them heaven, or his relations who left no religious act of tongue undone, yet withdrew from their fellow-creatures and gloried in their hatred of those who could not think as they did ? Surely the Jolls. After all, there were many sinless people in the world, sinless in the large sense of harming themselves a little only and their neighbours not at all, sinless like the plants and animals who merely obeyed their instincts, and were seemingly not punished for their faults. It was a cheering prospect to Cyril as he faced his life. The great sins of passion were committed by the few : the sin of blasphemy, the contempt of life, and the cursing of the giver of it surely the greatest ; the sin of taking away that life, either by suicide or murder "No, I am not guilty," he cried. "The man died a natural death." He was near that portion of the wall which he had torn down and rebuilt on Christmas night. He recognised each stone he had removed. Going forward he looked down. The grave was beneath, half covered with dead and sodden bracken heaped about the tiny mystic fir ; and beside the tree now Cyril was moving, not voluntarily, but with shudderings, for his eyes saw more, and the light became horribly clear, and it seemed to him as if he had sinned indeed, and the dead man had risen with a voice accusing him, and the whole country knew what was beneath the tree, knew that a grave was there, a place where the dead lay hidden, a murdered body beside the tree a simple tribute, an almost foolish token of affection or remem- brance, a pot which had once held jam, and crammed inside it a handful of greenstuff, a sprig of holly with berries and the silvery seed-pod of a stalk of honesty. Maria must A FAMILY AFFAIR 151 have gone into the grounds of Wintering Hay to leave that tribute, which any eye, glancing downward from that wall, could hardly fail to notice and here was Betty hastening forward eager to be the one who should make the great discovery. Cyril kept his nerve. He even took the old woman by the arm and led her to the cottage, closed the door upon her, then collected stones and returning to the wall hurled them fiercely at the token of remembrance. He dared not leave the place, lest Betty in his absence should find out what was there. Already she had opened the door she was coming with her face inquisitive, calling, " Whatever be you throwing they stones abroad vor, sir ? " " An old jam-pot," shouted Cyril in an agony. " Aw, sir, what a waste of time." And still she came forward. Another stone ! He had used them all. Dragging a rock from the wall he hurled it forward, short of the mark, but it bounded on and struck the silent witness and de- stroyed it utterly ; while Cyril snatched off his cap, wiped his forehead, laughed and cried, "I am light-hearted to-day, I am starting out to make a career for myself ; so you must not be astonished if I seem to play the fool." CHAPTER IX A VISIT TO BLACKERTON A> weeks went by, one differing from another in the matter of weather only, and Cyril saw his black patch of garden extending daily, he understood how peace can be brought by toil. Work claimed every energy, drawing him out early, releasing him late, allowing him no time to think ; so that the lives of his sisters struck lightly against his memory, and Lilian only entered when she was present in body. Cyril had dedicated y hands to tilth, supposing he would keep mind to himself ; but Nature, refusing to be satisfied with mere limbs, demanded the soul as well. That was to be invested in the garden plat besides strength and money ; therefore, while working Cyril could not think of his relations, fortune, or him- self. Surrounding him upon the height of Middle Thirty were gorgeous cloud and sky romances, the poetry of green things, the tragedies of storm, with little stories of rock- breaking rain, legends of mist and histories of atmosphere. The toiler was changing the face of the ground while the surroundings were changing him. He thought he was tilling the soil when Nature was cultivating himself. He called his body a gardener, and was not .to know the work was making him a poet. Even the break, to him unwelcome, of Sunday did not mean release, for Cyril had home duties and clerical business to claim his attention ; and sometimes there were walks to Burntbeer, and always a visit to Wintering Hay, where, in the absence of his uncle, he would report progress 152 A VISIT TO BLACKERTON 153 to his aunt. These weekly tales would be coloured with poetic fiction ; each period of six days made a volume of success ; next year he would be getting money, the year after much, but in the meantime the financial way was the roughest of all the trackways. The bill from the ironmonger of Blackerton was heavy, a quarter's rent for the land was due : this garden upon the mountain side insisted upon worldly difficulties ; manure was necessary ; and, as no stream had carved a road towards Middle Thirty, Cyril found himself compelled occasionally to hire a pony, also to order from a cooper, old enough to remember the art of bygone days, a pack-saddle with accom- paniments of crooks and dung-pots to take the place of a cart. " Are you sure you are working in the right way now ? " asked Caroline, who put very little trust in her nephew's intellect. " One has only to plant in good soil, and Nature will do the rest," he said with confidence. " Who has taught you ? " she continued. " No teaching is required. Any man can dig and sow seeds. I have only to work and await results." " How will you sell your vegetables ? " " I will load them in crates upon the crooks, and the pony will take them down to the road, where they will be loaded into a cart which will carry them to the station. There is a demand for good vegetables in the towns upon the coast." " It will cost a great deal." " There will be a profit. I have worked it out." " Well, I hope you will succeed. I see you can work, you are not afraid to soil your hands. I am proud of you," admitted Caroline ; although this mood did not last, and she was soon in an ill temper because Cyril appeared to prefer his " dirty cottage " to her society and the shelter of his home. Two letters arriving by the same post, addressed to Wintering Hay, were sent up to Cyril as he worked in the 154 WINTERING HAY garden ; and when he had read them the day was ruined. The first was from Sharley : " Dear Sir, I would have you remember a quarter's rent is now due. Mind what I told you the man who has my land must pay upon the day, or out he goes. This is just a little reminder, as I hear you are very busy, and it's likely you may forget. Some tenants do have queer memories about quarter-day, but that sort of game is of no use with me. Cheque by return, dear sir, if you please, or I'm your enemy." The second letter, addressed in sprawling characters, bore the postmark " Blackerton " : " Mr. Rossingall, dear sir. Folks be asking where be Gideon to and I be getting tired of it and I feel as if I cant keep silent any longer. I'd be pleased if you would come over and talk to me about whats best to be done, 'tis all very well for you Sir your a gentleman and they dont think anything about you but tis hard for me I feel any day policeman may walk in and say I have come for you and God knows I have done nought. I feel sometimes sir as if I was going off my Head." Cyril dropped his tools, went into Upper Thirty, and walked through the bogs. Storm was upon him. The lightning of Sharley was followed by the thunder of Maria. He had not the money to satisfy the one, nor the words which could ease the other. Who would pay the debt to Sharley ? Who c aid save him from Maria ? After an hour of a .nless wandering, with the screams of the lapwings in his ears, Cyril descended to the cottage and wrote to George, who had gone from home, enclosing Maria's letter, and mentioning they would possibly not meet again. He also wrote to the woman promising to come to Blackerton the next day. There was no more work now that thought was free again. Already the garden was like a toy he had taken in a childish mood, had broken and thrown away. The afternoon he sat with head between A VISIT TO BLACKERTON 155 his hands, staring at the window till evening came and painted the glass with bright sky-pictures ; and as the first dark shadow swept the warm light away, footsteps came along the ledge, the latch rattled, the door burst open, and a thick voice shouted, " Gideon, my lad ! What luck ? " A dirty, unshaven man stood there, aghast at the sight of Cyril: Kit Coke in long and ragged coat, spotted neckerchief, patched breeches, and boots split to the toes ; the fingers of his right hand clutched a rowan twig ; a bunch of fresh flowers was pinned to the greasy cap which he pulled off suddenly, while his face underwent a marvellous change, unseen by Cyril in the gloom, as he straightened his body, placed a hand to his forehead, and said, " Your servant, sir. I ask your pardon for my mistake." " You expected to find Fley ? " said Cyril heavily. " I knew him some years ago, sir. I was told he lived here." " Who are you ? " " My name is Ambrose." " Are you sure it is not Kit Coke ? " asked Cyril, with a sudden flash of memory. " Ambrose an old soldier, sir. I have served my country," replied the tramp as readily as if he had re- hearsed the part. " You have been here before ? " " Never, sir. This is my first visit to Dartmoor." " What did you want with Fley ? " " I hoped he might help me to find work an old comrade, sir. I have tramped from Plymouth an old soldier, sir. The country leaves me to starve. Is there any work to be had in this part ? " " Shut the door," said Cyril ; then he rose, lighted the lamp, and looked at the pathetic figure, for it was pathetic in its rags and dirt with its drawn face and weary eyes. Cyril was easily duped by this man who lived in roads and fields, this poacher who slept in barns and burnt haystacks for his pleasure, this tramp who knew nothing of honest 156 WINTERING HAY work, but was clever enough to evade the law, and had a trick of the tongue which disarmed suspicion. Unhappy himself, Cyril was the more disposed to feel sympathy for the man who was then what he might be if flight should be forced upon him. " Sit down," he said ; and Kit placed himself upon the edge of a chair staring at the young man patiently. " How long have you been like this ? " " Since leaving the army with a good character, sir. My poverty has been unspeakable. Lately I had a job upon a tramp vessel. I was cook, sir. When I was dis- charged with a good character, poverty forced me on the roads. An old soldier, sir. Not a bad mark against me. Look at these clothes, sir these boots. You cannot think what it means to be forced upon the road, to beg your way, to lodge in doss-houses with the scum of the earth, thieves and poachers, and me an old soldier. I shun the villages, sir. I dare not pass through them, to see the sneers of the men and the smiles of the women. Children run after me and call out ' tramp.' I cannot bear it. I could face the enemies of my country, but I cannot face my own countrymen." The man's face was quivering, and his eyes were filled with tears, which he could bring at will when touched by the pathos of his own fiction. His voice, admirably trained, shook in the right places. His speech was quick, his sentences were short, forced from him, it appeared, by passion or emotion. He was a homeless wanderer, while Cyril was a gentleman ; he was the one in need, the other in a position to give. Kit was too old a rogue to make an error. ' You speak well," said Cyril. " I have enjoyed the privilege, sir, of attending gentle- men like yourself." " Have you any profession ? " " Gardener, sir. I have a knowledge of natural history, I know the flowers and birds of this beautiful country. I have been tramping Dartmoor from west to north. A VISIT TO BLACKERTON 157 I could give you the names of the birds and flowers. I have educated myself. I make no pretence, sir, to the Latin." " You should not be long out of employment," said Cyril, amazed at the brilliance of this uncut jewel. " Give me some names," he added. Perceiving that Cyril had his eyes off him, Kit winked, grinned, and knew that this young fellow was a fool. In a flash he resumed the mask of patience and went on : " Heather of sorts, sir, not yet in bloom, the furze, the broom commonly called besom, the sorrel, ferns of sorts, toadflax, liverwort, speedwell, lichens, and saxifrage. In the bogs the bean and violet, the sundew, rattles, sedges, and mosses. To mention a few, sir. The flora is extensive. With the birds I flatter myself I am more familiar. I like the birds, sir, but the moor is not much frequented by them. There is the ring-ouzel, sir. It shuns the haunts of men as I am forced to do. It adds a charm to the desolation of the moorland. The dipper which sings as it works ; it imitates the water rushing among the rocks. The wagtail is visible along the rivers. There is also the chiff-chaff, friend of the lonely wanderer, sir you know its note, chiff, chaff, chaff. Some call it the poachers' church-bell. Yes, sir, I know them well. I have heard the owl snoring, and seen the sparrow-hawk hovering. I have heard the thrush singing, far-away, go far-away. I have heard the laugh of the woodpecker, and found the nest of the goldcrest, and listened to the devil's screamer wheeling overhead. But I like the goatsucker best. The night crow they call him. The man who shoots a night crow kills his luck. 'Tis a shy bird, sir. Only those who are out late hear him young folk who get into lonely places and forget the night is round them. The night crow rings the bell for lovers. That's the reason 'tis ill-luck to kill him." Cyril was all wonder. This rough man with the husky voice had opened the book of Nature and read it well. A naturalist tramping the roads in rags, seeking employ- 158 WINTERING HAY ment in vain, asking pathetically for work of any kind, a human treasure brought to his cottage, one who might be turned to good account, for Cyril was sorely in need of aid, a man who would obey since he had been trained by discipline, a man in such dire need that he would not ask for wages, a man who would be thankful for shelter and some food. " I want assistance," he said slowly. " You are looking for a home." " Well, sir ? " said Kit respectfully. " Can you cook ? " " Rough cooking, sir. I have no skill." " You see I am living in this cottage. Above I have a garden, but the work is rather too much alone. I am not well off, but if you would care to stay with me for a time, and give me your services until you hear of something better, I would give you food, clothes, and a little money for your pocket." "To be your servant, sir ? " " If you do not drink." " Sir, I have forgotten the taste of alcohol." " It would be better than tramping the roads and sleeping on the grass." Hearing a movement Cyril looked round. Kit was standing erect beside the chair, his shoulders straight, awaiting instructions. While seated he had talked with a certain familiarity, as if he had been more or less on an equality with his listener ; but now that he was engaged he stood before the master in the hired man's attitude. Cyril's general knowledge of men and their ways was not large, so that the spectacle of that weary, middle-aged tramp, struggling to keep his feet and shoulders straight, gazing ahead with a look of infinite faithfulness, his mouth twitching, his body swaying as if with exhaustion, brought pathos only ; and when he heard the question, proceeding as he thought from an eager sense of duty and great gratitude, " What would you, please, wish me to do ? " he^would have staked his life that the old soldier was as true as steel. A VISIT TO BLACKERTON 159 " You may prepare my supper," he ordered somewhat grandly. " To-morrow I must go away on business, and you will look after the cottage in my absence." " I am ashamed to serve you in these clothes, sir." Cyril went upstairs, and took out a suit which he could hardly spare ; but the coming of this man, who would act both as comrade and protector, made him foolish. He returned with the garments to discover his honest servant leaning against the wall rubbing his side tenderly and moan- ing until the master appeared, then lurching forward and muttering respectfully, " Beg pardon, sir." " Is there anything the matter ? " asked Cyril. " An old wound pains me, sir. I have been upon my feet for days. An old soldier, sir deserted by the country." " Sit down and I will cook the supper," said Cyril with deep sympathy. " Here are clothes for you. As for bed you must manage for the present with a couple of blankets here." " I will do my duty now and always, sir," declared the man, with a skilful groan which had complete success ; so that a few minutes later Kit Coke, tramp and poacher, lover of Nature, scoundrel of the road, was seated at his ease as master of the cottage, while Cyril, the servant, waited on him and cooked the food. The clever rogue lived easily and well ; homeless and penniless, he yet passed through life happy and careless like a bird of prey, knowing no sorrow but foul weather, no care beyond a thirst, no love except for appetite. Cyril awoke late next morning, but the faithful servant was still snoring. He complained bitterly of increasing pain and nervous weakness. " The change has done it, sir. I kept up when I had to. Your kindness, sir, the food and shelter, have broke me down. I will get up if it kills me." He did so and lived. He attired himself in Cyril's clothes, and even built the fire and boiled the kettle, though it was pain to move. " I will conquer the weakness, sir," he said thickly. " When I regain my strength you will 160 WINTERING HAY find me a handy man, rough and ready, but honest, sir. I am a good gardener. I know how to dig." " You had better stay indoors to-day and make the place tidy. I must go to Blackerton," said Cyril. " There's going to be rain." " How do you know ? " " I feel it in my bones. Men driven by misfortune to the road know when the storm is coming. We have to know." " I must chance the weather. Have a good meal for me when I return." " What shall I prepare for you, sir a dish of trout, grilled steak, a bird, and a few pancakes ? " This dusty rambler is a treasure, thought Cyril ; and taking out five shillings he gave them to Kit, and told him to do his best. Then he set out for Blackerton to settle the matter which was even more urgent than the question of Shaiiey's rent. It was a long walk, and tiring because of the nature of the ground, but many beautiful pictures were spread around, and the solitude was great. Cyril went by moorland road, by rocky passes and green paths, by furzy commons and weedy trackways, meeting with no man, seeing only quadrupeds browsing and free birds passing and butterflies sporting their day away. It was no pleasure to reach the main road, where carts rumbled past and labourers stared. Here Cyril hurried until the town started up in front, apparently quite close, yet separated from him by two steep hills, one to descend and the other to climb. A viaduct would have brought him to the curved Fore Street of Blackerton in a few minutes, but as no such convenience was offered he had to walk for half an hour merely to regain the level he had lately quitted. It was past noon when he reached the tiny moorland town. It was a black place indeed : shops were low and dingy, houses dark with age, and the hill surrounding looked as if sprinkled with soot ; heather and furze had A VISIT TO BLACKERTON 161 recently been burnt. Blackerton was still in the dark age. There was hardly a sound in its narrow streets ; patches of gardens were so much trampled peat ; healthy women gazed with sleepy eyes from the windows. A stone cross in the middle of the town might have stood as guardian of the graves. Blackerton was not always silent. In winter the wind roared and swept the narrow ways like grapeshot. For days together its inhabitants had to shout to make themselves heard ; and so when calmer weather came they were glad to rest. Cyril found Cross Street quickly. It was marked in sunshine or moonlight by the shadow, growing enormously long and black towards evening, of the symbol of its name. Number Thirteen was a thatched cottage jutting forward, with a porch and parvis chamber taking the right of way, presenting a lamp supported upon a corroded iron bracket to warn passers-by at night that they walked there in peril of masonry. A card in the window bore the one word, " Dressmaking." Cyril knocked, and the door was opened by Maria herself. " Mistress ha' gone out," she said. " Please to step in." They went into a dark room full of musty odours, looking out upon back-walls and drying yards, black and barren as any slum without a flower or leaf. A great city might have been* around them instead of open moor- land. It was very different from the Chapel, with its twenty-mile view of fields and pastures. " Please to sit down," said Maria sharply, bringing a chair forward. Either Blackerton or the new life had changed this woman. There was no longer any air of resignation about her, and her face had altered as well as her voice. She was pale and thinner, yet more refined and better- looking, possibly because she was fairly well dressed and her hair was arranged neatly. Cyril perceived she stood in no awe of him, she had lost the respect due from a cottager, and was intending to speak what was in her mind ; and he also comprehended that he was entirely in her power. M 162 WINTERING HAY " I have kept my promise," he began. " What am I to call you Mrs. Fley, or Miss Athberry ? " " Mrs. Fley to volks. Miss Athberry to you," she answered. " What do you want to say ? " " I want to say this," said Maria, with a strong motion of her arm, as if she had been sweeping obstacles away. " I can't bear it any longer, and I b'ain't going to try. Volks be asking right and left, ' Where be your man ? Where's he to, woman ? ' and I can't answer them. When I ses, ' He'm gone/ they laugh. * Ah, you drove 'en away. Nice woman you be,' they ses. I got this job, being useful wi' my hands, and 'tis a poor one, sure enough; and now mistress ha' been telling to me, ' Volks be saying all manner of tales about you, Maria. Tis bad vor custom, and you'd best go.' Where be I to go ? Be I to tramp the land looking vor honesty ? I had a home, and wur fond of it because it wur a home, and a man I could do with because he wur mine while he lived, and you ha* took them both away, and you ha' drove me to this, and now you'm driving me to a life no decent woman can do with. I want to ask you, Mr. Rossingall, what be you going to do vor me ? " " I offered you help. You would not accept it." " You offered me money. 'Tis the first thing I want and the last. I wouldn't take it from you, and I won't now. I want proper help. I ask you to do your duty. You be a gentleman, and I'll ask ye to act like one. You ha* made me a widow, and you ses, I'll give ye a few shillings to say nought about it. Gideon be dead, and you and me be the only ones what know how the man died, and if you won't do your duty I'll tell the whole land. I'll send the police to dig in Wintering Hay " " You would not dare," cried Cyril. " Think what it might mean to you." " Prison would be no worse than this. I'd as soon be hanged as lead this life and face what's coming. I ha 1 no character and no home." A VISIT TO BLACKERTON 163 " You can go where you will not be known. A woman can always get work." " Aw, 'tis all work. I worked in service, I worked vor Gideon, I come here to work vor myself, and now mistress ses I ain't respectable enough to do her work, and you tell me to go and work where I b'ain't known. I'll bide here," she said angrily. " I ask you again, what be you going to do ? " " Tell me what you want. I am ready to help you, if I can ; but I cannot bring Fley back to life, and I cannot give you back your home." " You can bring back my honesty. You can give me a character." " How can I ? Tell me," said Cyril nervously. " B'ain't we man and woman ? B'ain't we partners in this putting away of Gideon privately ? We'm together, you and me we'm together, I ses, partners in sin we be. You ain't going to stand while I falls that ain't the way, it ain't fair, it ain't right in the sight of God or man. If you'm going to stand, take me, give me a home in place of the one you took away, save me from the tongues of neighbours, make a decent woman of me. That's what I ask. Tis no more than my right, and 'tis so I tell ye the price of my silence." " You mean you mean " gasped Cyril, but could not finish. " I mean your name. One man ha' cheated me, but I'll ha' no more of that. I b'ain't a young and vulish maid. I'll ha' my rights." " It is impossible. The people suppose Gideon is alive. They would call it bigamy," he said wildly. " The country knows I wur his keep. I won't ha' my happiness and my life torn abroad by you men, whether you'm high or low," she went on passionately. " Gideon took me, and he had to, but he gave me no ring, vor I wur in his power ; and you'll take me on account of his murder, and give me a ring, vor you are in my hands now ; and I'll talk, Mr. Rossingall, I'll tell the tale abroad if you ses no to me." 164 WINTERING HAY " I cannot marry you. I am bound to another. A young lady has promised to be my wife/' said Cyril, turning his white face from her, hardly knowing what he said. " Promises can be broke," Maria answered. " I ha' nought to lose. I be down, and I'd as soon be dead as go on wi' this life." " Give me time to think," he pleaded. " That's fair enough. I'll meet you t'other end of Cross Street four o'clock. There's a heap of rocks just outside the town." " I will be there," Cyril muttered. He stumbled out, away from the rotting porch, out of the street marked by the shadow of the cross, and so upon the moor into the sweet wind and fragrance of the furze blooms ; and throwing himself across the grass-grown entrance of a ruined hut he wished for death. That surely would be better than union with Maria Athberry, who had lived with the poacher Fley, and was then neither spinster, wife, nor widow, but a poor wronged woman seeking, like himself, the path to happiness. How could he find the way with her, a woman of low birth, nearly ten years his senior : an illiterate woman, with nothing in her but the breath of Nature which made her long for decency ? Maria for Lilian ! A fall through space was there. " I must go out into the world to find my sisters, not to help them, but to sink beneath them," he muttered. " Even if I married this woman I should have to go tramp the roads with her. Oh, Lilian ! I have prostitutes for sisters, I am to marry a labourer's mistress and I aspire to you." Should he escape, Maria might tell her story, that grave would be opened, the police in every part would search for him. Discovery would be certain. Maria came at the appointed time, neatly clad, with a certain rough beauty, but with the same determined air and stubborn bearing. By then the sky was threatening, and Cyril remembered the warning of his man that a storm was near. A VISIT TO BLACKERTON 165 " I will tell you my position," he said firmly, when they were hidden among the rocks. " You think I am a gentle- man, and life with me would be easy, but I am only the adopted son of my relations at Wintering Hay. I have quarrelled with them, and now I live in your old cottage upon an allowance of eighteen shillings a week." " Is that right ? " she asked suspiciously. r< You may come over there and see for yourself," said Cyril angrily. " It is impossible for me to marry. I have no prospects ; I believe my guardians will leave me nothing." " You'm promised to a young lady," she said sharply. " We are both very young, and can afford to wait. If I married you I should be destitute. My relations would cast me off, and I should be compelled to leave Wintering Hay for ever." " You'm a man. Why can't you work ? " she said contemptuously. " I have no profession ; I know no trade." " What be you going to do then ? " she asked, when he paused. " I am in your hands. If you tell the police what happened on Christmas night we are both ruined." " I be ruined anyhow. I won't put up wi' it, and so I tell ye. If you can work vor your young lady you can work vor me. It don't cost much to keep a woman, and I'll be a gude wife to ye ; I'll cook your meat and make your clothes and keep the home clean." " I could not give you a home. I should have nothing, not a penny," cried Cyril. The storm was coming on, and the first large raindrops were tapping the dock-leaves. " You must take me," she went on fiercely. " I'll have no other chance maybe. I b'ain't a maid, but I be young yet, and I ha' some looks. I'll love you true." " I cannot do it. For God's sake let me go, Miss Ath- beny." " I'll ha' my character back. I'll bear a decent name. Money I cares nought vor." 166 WINTERING " I tell you we should have to tramp the roads." " You needn't tell your volks." " We should be living ahnost at their door." " They needn't know," she said, putting a hand to her hat as a gale of wet wind shook the place where they were standing. " I'd call myself your housekeeper. I'd tell nobody I wur your wife while your volks live. I'll care nought vor the tongues of neighbours when I can feel I'm honest." " Let us go back. You will get soaked."' " I ain't afraid of a bit of rain. I'll bide here till I hears your answer." " No," he cried, as strongly as the wind. " You don't mean it." " I cannot marry you. It would be a life of misery for us both." They were hurled together by tempest. Maria flung her passionate arm about his neck, and they struggled among the rocks. " I mean what I ses," she whispered, without love. " I will tell, I swear I will you'll see 'em to-morrow in Wintering Hay wi' digging-picks." " Spare me. Let me go I could never love you." " It ain't love I'm after. 'Tis a home. 'Tis shelter and a gude name." " No, I must have my happiness, my own life. Oh, Lilian ! " " You ha' got to say Maria I will, Maria. I be drove to this," she cried fiercely. " I would spare you if I could. Look here ! Ain't I a proper woman ? Ain't I gude enough vor any man ? Your young lady would never cook and clean vor ye as I will." " I have no money. I am ruined soul and body. I could not pay for a wedding licence." " Eighteen shillings a week be plenty. I'll hear your answer, Mr. Rossingall, avore us leaves this place, and I'll hear it ' yes.' " " Anything except marriage. Spare me that." A VISIT TO BLACKERTON 167 " I must have it. I will have it. Tis the one thing a ruined woman craves vor." " It was while trying to protect you I killed him." " We'll be struck on the eyes by lightning" she screamed. Cyril tried to move, that he might run, but she clung to him ; and again they fell against the rounded rocks. She dragged his head round and kissed his shuddering face, not like Lilian, but wildly, perhaps unconsciously, mad like the wind itself, muttering, " I'll go with ye to prison or to church. Which will ye have ? " No avenue of escape was open. The time for confession had gone by, and that body, if unearthed, would tell a tale like murder ; and who could have buried it in the wild garden of Wintering Hay except himself ? Maria might have struck the blow, but who would believe she had also wielded pick and spade ? " Give me a little time," he pleaded. " Let me have at least a month that I may put my affairs in order and say good-bye to life." " I'll give ye time if you promise to marry me." " I will. I must," he panted, and threw out his arms as if asking the storm to take his body and carry it away to the land of beauty which seemed now closed and lost for ever. Never would he forget those hilly streets of Blackerton, swept by the wind and running with hot rain ; a town of storm-tormented death, for human life seemed absent, the windows were blind eyes, and the place of crumbling houses looked as if history had done with it. The sky above was black ; the ground beneath was blacker, as Cyril, with the wind behind him, sped along unseen through the principal street of that town of lichen, racing the bubbling river of rain, stung on the back by the gale, beaten by pieces of dead heather, never looking back at the cross-signed street or the house with the parvis chamber. The storm might be fierce, but what was its strength to the power of one weak woman ? The road might be torn into holes, the houses might rock, but Maria, the homeless 168 WINTERING HAY woman, without character or friends, was mightier than all tempest. That would only toss the body, while she could make a wreckage of the soul. To return was hardly possible, although some hours were still wanting to that lesser form of darkness known as night. Cyril was worn out. Conscious of a sign-board creaking overhead, he burst open a door, entered a low room quaintly furnished, and found human life. An elderly man appeared before him, and behind in a recess a dame sat with sewing on her lap, looking up in wonder. " I am caught by the storm," cried Cyril. " Can you take me in for to-night ? " " Us don't let lodgings, sir," the old man answered. " This is an inn. I saw the sign-board." " Next door, sir. You ha* come the wrong way." It was always so. He had taken the wrong way again. " I am sorry to trouble you," he murmured, and went out. The evening was spent by Cyril writing again to George, telling him the result of the meeting with Maria ; a selfish but necessary act. He could not keep the tragedy to him- self ; George must have it heaped upon his shoulders with the rest. George was the friend made to carry burdens the weight would not press on him, could not ; for he was free, he had done nothing George would at least give sympathy and advice. Some way of escape might suggest itself to him, for George had a brooding mind. Cyril knew nothing of the stuff his friend was made of ; knew nothing of that intense, almost insane, sense of duty which bids some souls sacrifice all life, happiness, health, and property to save a friend. That letter was simply a cry, " Help me ! " It did not read to Cyril as the demand, " Give up your life for me." In the morning the wind, but not the rain, had ceased. One of the dark periods which trouble Dartmoor, and fill its bogs many times a year, had set in. Out of the few shillings saved to pay his rent Cyril settled his account and started off for home. His prospect was more dreary A VISIT TO BLACKERTON 169 than that of Dartmoor, filled with low-lying clouds and sweeping rain-mist, yet underlined by passing gleams of sunshine. The owner of Middle Thirty would have no mercy upon a bankrupt tenant, the Mutters would curse their nephew for failure at the outset ; and if by some miracle they could all be merciful, Maria would not let him go. Success in business, then, meant failure ; freedom from others increased the bondage upon him. Life was still waiting, but its light was hidden, and for Cyril the sense of beauty was then lost. Clouds had put out the sun, and, however brightly it might shine, warmth could not come down, its mantle could not make the landscape golden, because of the watery mist which looked like sorrow in the form of Nature's tears. |&) " I have a month of liberty. I have proved upon Middle Thirty what a lot of work can be done in that time," murmured Cyril at last, when a gleam of strong light flashed for an instant down the side of the mountain and made him remember life. " George will soon be home, and together we may find out a plan." The rain increased as he drew near Wintering Hay and hurried up the stony trackway to his cottage, glad to feel that a fire would be awaiting him and a good man pre- paring a meal, anxious to make his master comfortable. Cyril came upon the ledge, but did not hasten to his door, for strange noises reached his ears and made him hesitate. Presently he went on slowly, again listened, and heard a drunken voice, singing in perfect happiness : "Another drink, another drink ! Another drink will do me good. I'll have another drink." He flung the door open and went in. Kit was taking his ease beside the fire, intoxicated, a jug of strong ale upon the floor ready to his hand. The room was in disorder and filled with fumes of strong tobacco. Cyril did not say a word. He stared at the man, feeling heart-broken. He had shown kindness to this creature WINTERING HAY and had trusted him, had taken him off the road and promised him a home. The rogue looked round with bleary eyes and grinned, being too far gone in liquor to feel fear, only conscious that he must speedily escape. " Didn't expect the boss," he muttered. " Thought the weather was too bad. An old soldier, sir a bit touched with heat in the tropics." " You have spent my money upon drink," said Cyril miserably. Kit snatched up his long brown coat, pulled the cap on his head, and made for the door. " I'm going for the meat, master. I ain't forgot a dish of trout, a grilled steak I can cook, sir. I'm a good gardener." He started to run, stumbling from side to side, reached the head of the stone steps, paused there a moment to recover himself, then descended, plucked a flower, pushed the stalk into his mouth, and rolled away with a swagger ; while Cyril, following slowly, scarcely able to believe he had been duped by this child of Nature, heard him laugh and shout : " Father was a man of the road, and he said to me, ' Stick to the road, my lad, and you'll live easy. There's no need to work. Keep going along the road,' he said, ' and you'll never starve.' " CHAPTER X MANY DISCOVERIES THE tramp went one way, Cyril another, and Kit was far the happier of the two. He feared neither rent nor women : life had no serious problem for him, as he passed along, ignored by the power which deals out punish- ment, allowed by heaven and his fellow-creatures to do pretty well as he pleased : to search for pheasants' nests and steal the eggs, which could be sold some miles away ; to net the birds and wire the trout. Never to be caught red-handed, nor to be seen in the company of bad charac- ters, nor to carry a gun. Like the snake, he could move silently ; and if fairly cornered by the farmer and his dog, and compelled to strike a blow for liberty, the rule was simple. With one hand to conceal the face, with the other to aim at the dog by so doing keeping clear of the law but always to hit the man by accident. Joll came shuffling up to enquire about the stranger whom he had seen on the previous day approaching the Chapel with a burden of strong ale. " I ha' seen 'en avore," he said, " but I don't know who he be. Names ha' no hold on the likes of he." " He told me he had never been in these parts before," said Cyril sadly. " I took him in, gave him food and shelter, and money to get me food. He spent it on drink, and now has gone, taking a suit of my clothes and leaving me his rags." " You took him in, and he did the like to you," the old man chuckled. " He wur a fellow of the road vor certain. I know the trade. There warn't many when I wur a lad, vor us used to whip the rascals out of the parish, and the 171 172 WINTERING HAY next chaps would whip and pass 'em on. Now they'm all over the land like fleas in a parcel o' rags, and 'tis assault if a decent man puts his finger on 'em. ' How do, mate,' he calls to me. ' I b'ain't your mate/ I ses. ' What be you doing into master's cottage ? ' ' Minding it vor 'en,' he ses. ' Getting in plenty of meat and beer.' He wur minding hisself, I fancy." " He has robbed me of five shillings." "'Twill learn ye," said Joll gleefully. "A stranger b'ain't never any gude. 'Tis an old saying, and a true one. Give your hand to a neighbour and your foot to a stranger, master. A man of another parish ain't ever to be trusted, and a man who ain't got a parish be no better than a louse. Us had a visitor yestersun. A proper old fair day it wur," he went on quaintly. " Mr. Sharley came up along to see how I wur doing." " Sharley," cried Cyril. " Are you sure he came to visit you ? " " He come here first," old Joll admitted. " He drove up along the trackway in a little pony-carriage, wi' his best coat and hard hat on, and the chap what drove 'en helped 'en up over the steps, and he had a mighty fine umbrella, and he rapped on the door wi't " " Did he see the tramp ? " cried Cyril. " I reckon he did. The fellow put his head out of the window and shouted, ' What cheer, mate ! Ha' a drop o' gude beer ? ' " " He will have no mercy on me now," muttered the boy, more wretched to think that even his act of charity might be brought as a sin against him. " Then he come on, and I showed mun the garden ; and he went under and took a cup of tea wi' me and Betty " 11 What did he say about me ? " " Not a word, sir. Never mentioned your name. I told 'en you had gone out courting likely," laughed Joll hilariously, " but he looked at the handle of his umbrella and said nought." MANY DISCOVERIES 173 To-morrow's post, thought Cyril, will bring a stinging letter ; but I can stand it. The worst Sharley can do may be nothing to me now. He changed his damp clothes, partook of what food he could find, and hastened into the valley towards the square house and his hard landlord, now the judge who must declare the case against him and condemn him to pay costs. The old white face was nodding at the window, but it vanished when Cyril drew near the door. A certain commo- tion followed before the round lady, in manifest person all aglow, admitted the visitor, to escort him along a dark passage and deposit him in the presence of his landlord. Sharley rose with some labour, held out his hand, and said, " I gave myself the pleasure of calling on you yesterday. I had not been that way for many years.' 1 " You found only a drunken wretch. You must have thought I keep strange company," said Cyril in a voice so faltering that Sharley found it necessary to assume the wisest sort of spectacles that he might scan the debtor's face more closely ; while Cyril hurried on to tell the story. " I know the man," said Sharley. " He passes this window several times each year. Wait one moment, please." And going to the door, he called, " My dear, how many times a year did I tell you the tramp with the brown coat passes, the one who wears flowers, and generally looks half-drunk ? " " Five times," said a voice in the distance. " My memory is not to be depended upon," said Sharley. " Five times each year this rascal passes. I suppose he has a regular round, and never goes far from Dartmoor. He lives on those who are foolish enough to give. Never give, Mr. Rossingall not a single penny, sir. It is not business. Pay your debts and keep the balance for your- self. That has been my motto. But then," he added, with that frown which looked like laughter, " I am a hard man. I have a heart of stone." 174 WINTERING HAY Nervously Cyril forced a hand into his pocket, and felt the hot coins which were many in number, but of gold not one. Some fifteen shillings in all, and Joll had not been paid lately, and his debt to Sharley was five pounds, and a woman was proposing to place herself under his pro- tection. There was a vast difference between the one old man who took no notice of the rent and the one who had sworn to pounce on every penny. Even that quiet smile suggested malice, and beneath the gentle manner lurked misanthropy. " I have come, Mr. Sharley " " To pay me," added that terrible tongue, while the man himself struggled with the tin box of unknown documents, clasping it to his heart, staggering along very much like an ant dragging a piece of stick ten times larger than herself, depositing it upon the table and panting trium- phantly across it. " The money became due two days ago. Yesterday I hired a pony and trap, which cost me three shillings, sir, that I might hear your excuse for this delay. I find you away from home, and instead of receiving my rent I am insulted by a drunken ruffian." " Your land cannot run away," said Cyril unwisely. " That's the pretty thing about land," replied Sharley. " It bides, as you say. A bad tenant may spoil your house, or destroy your furniture, but the worst he can do to your land is to neglect it. Here is your receipt, Mr. Rossingall. 1 To one quarter's rent of Middle Thirty, five pounds ; to the hire of pony and trap, three shillings.' You see, it is already signed and stamped. Kindly place that amount upon the lid of the box." " You have no right to charge me for the hire of the pony and trap," said Cyril indignantly. " I am not so sure ; I think I have the right. I collect my own rents, and if a tenant puts me to any unnecessary expense he must pay. I claim the three shillings. I will fight you in the law courts. I will spend a thousand pounds to win three shillings. I tell you, sir, I have no pity for the man who owes me money." MANY DISCOVERIES 175 " Why are you laughing, Mr. Sharley ? " asked Cyril suddenly. " Laughing, sir ! If I appear to you to laugh, it is because I am old and nervous. I am trembling with anger. Because you are a gentleman you think it right to ignore me, to disregard my letter, to keep me waiting for my money. Pay me, and take your receipt. You are playing with me, sir. I will not submit to this mouse and cat business." " You have not given me the lease yet," Cyril reminded him. " I am my own lawyer. I look after my own interests. A lease would bind me, and I do not choose to give you one. When you have improved Middle Thirty, and made a nice garden, I want to be able to turn you out." " It seems you are playing with me," said Cyril, bringing in despair the handful of shillings from his pocket and scattering them noisily upon the lid of the tin box. " Here is your money, Mr. Sharley all I have. You can sue me for the rest." The old fellow shuffled forward, arranged his spectacles very carefully, and took a census of the coins. Then he looked up at Cyril's face, saw dark shadows beneath his eyes, came a little nearer, and glanced at his hands ; then said, " You have worked, Mr. Rossingall." " I have done a lot," said the young man hoarsely. " You understand now it is not easy to make a garden upon the slopes of Dartmoor ? " " The ground is hard to clear." " But when you have cleared it. You know Dartmoor is covered with slugs ? " " I have seen them every evening." " You cannot get rid of them. Then there are moles." " Yes, they are everywhere." " And rabbits." " Netting would keep them out." " And mountain sheep. They get over walls as easily as birds." 176 WINTERING HAY " I had forgotten them/' said Cyril ; and again Sharley arranged his spectacles. " At your age, Mr. Rossingall, it seems very difficult to make a living," he went on. " It is easy to work." " Quite right ; but there appears no prospect of the money coming." " I cannot expect the money yet. Next year I shall have my garden planted." " You will buy your plants with the money which should come to me. The moles will uproot them. You will plant them a second time, and the slugs will eat their hearts out. What they leave the rabbits and sheep will take," said Sharley, as it seemed, maliciously. " You have apparently not studied the history of horticulture upon Dartmoor. You have taken upon yourself a labour which no man has ever succeeded in bringing to a success- ful ending." " Why did you not tell me this before ? " " Because I was once your age, and when any old fellow said to me, * Youngster, you can't do that,' I would reply, ' Others cannot, I dare say, but I can.' Now, sir, let me go on. Let us suppose you conquer the slugs and sheep and moles ; and you raise a healthy crop of vegetables. By the time they reach the railway your profit has dis- appeared. By the time they reach the market you are out of pocket ; and here is something I cut from a newspaper to show you several tons of vegetables unsold or disposed of for a few shillings as food for pigs. Let us suppose your crop reaches the market at a time when it is over- stocked. You are ruined at once. You have nothing to fall back on and I do not get my rent," he added, with a return to his quaint fierceness. "It is possible to make a bare living. I have worked it out." fy. " Take paper and pencil, and you will soon work yourself out a millionaire. You are like some young fool backing horses, sir : on paper he is bound to win, in practice he MANY DISCOVERIES 177 never does. You cannot be sure of your profit until it comes into your pocket. Yesterday I reckoned on paper, five pounds from Mr. Rossingall for one quarter's rent of Middle Thirty, and I am offered fifteen shillings." " I am very sorry, Mr. Sharley. You do not know how I am placed, how hard my life is ; but you shall have the money. I will get it from my relations. I am sure to fail at this business I always do but you shall not lose." " I do not intend to lose. I have you now, Mr. Rossingall. You are in my debt, and I may bother you as much as I please. I think you are a weak young man, I think you are a foolish young man, and I rather fancy you are a bad young man. I believe you are going to the devil, Mr. Rossingall." " I do not know what right you have to speak to me like this," said Cyril hotly. " I am your landlord. You take my land, and when rent-day comes 'you pay a few shillings, and ask me to be an optimist as regards the balance. I warned you what to expect. I told you I am hard upon my debtors." " It is true," Cyril muttered. " I must prove my words," cried Sharley, thumping the tin box. " I will make you pay, I will issue a County Court summons, I will disgrace you." " My relations will settle." " Where is the money, then ? Of what use is it coming to me with that story ? Am I to go to Wintering Hay and beg for the money which you owe me ? " " You can do your worst," said Cyril, moving towards the door. " Come back, sir," called Sharley. " I may not have much charity in me, but I do not like to see a young man going to the devil. Sit down, if you please, and put those miserable fifteen shillings back into your pocket. If I cannot have the whole sum I will take nothing. No, no," he cried at the fluttering door. " It is not time for the cider yet. The young man is a defaulter, my dear ; he tells. 178 WINTERING HAY me to whistle for my money. We do not give cider to our bankrupt debtors." " I will not stay/' said Cyril, almost in the mood to take the old man by the throat and throw him against the wall. " You will stop a little longer. I have not finished with you yet. Listen to what I am about to say : I have reached a decent age, sir, and I have sat beside this window many years watching the life pass, and I have picked up a bit of knowledge, though I may not be a learned man who knows languages and reads books. You have gone into this gardening business just because it was the first thing which came into your mind and it seemed the easiest, but when you took your paper and pencil there were a good many things you forgot to reckon with. Because you have been to school and learnt Latin, you thought you could compete with market-gardeners who bring a lifelong knowledge to their business. Because you were born a gentleman, you fancied you could beat the labourer at his own work. I tell you, sir, education is required to crack a stone. You would strike the stone against the grain and waste your labour, while the trained hand would break it with one blow. You cannot compete with the lowest form of labour without knowledge ; and if you enter into a business, the profits of which are at the best very small, you can only hope to succeed by the possession of superior knowledge. And you have none at all. To have the slightest chance of getting a living by growing vegetables, you would have to work under an experienced gardener for some months. You would do better out of Middle Thirty by sowing a crop of oats. Give it up, sir. Play some game you understand. Try to find out what there is inside you, and use that to help you in this life. Give up the land, for you weren't born to it. Sit at a desk and tot up figures. It will pay you better than fighting with the slugs." ' You do not want to have me as your tenant," said Cyril, trying to smile, for old Sharley seemed decidedly less maliceful. MANY DISCOVERIES 179 "Go on if you like. Stay on Middle Thirty and ruin yourself. You are not spoiling the land, but it will spoil you. Here is your receipt, Mr. Rossingall. Stay a moment and I will put it in an envelope." " But I have not paid." " I think you have. Oh yes, I think so." Sharley chuckled, opening a ponderous book of judgment. " Yes, two days ago. Received one quarter's rent for Middle Thirty, five pounds. We are quits, sir. Now, will you please to drink a glass of cider ? " " You know I have not paid." " It is entered here. There can be no mistake. When it is a matter of money, sir, I make no error ; and if the amount had not been paid me this entry could not possibly be here." " Did my aunt send you the money ? " cried Cyril. " Bring the cider, my dear," called the exasperating Sharley. " We have done with business." Cyril repeated his question, but obtained no satisfaction beyond the statement, " The money has been paid." " Then why did you persecute me ? " asked Cyril boldly. " Because of the hardness of my heart and my love for money. I saw a chance of getting my rent twice over." " You would not take my fifteen shillings. Mr. Sharley, you are not a hard man." " I am," declared the old fellow, frowning to the point of merriment. " I get all I can. I ask more for my land than 'tis worth. I lend money at twenty per cent. I grind down the poor and fatherless. God help the man who owes me money and won't pay." " Will you swear you are not letting me off the rent ? " "Swear! I'll do more: I'll blaspheme if you suggest it. Me let a tenant off ! Me refuse money ! I'm old and stiff, but I'd walk from here to Plymouth for a five-pound note. Do you like the cider ? " " Very well indeed," said Cyril. " Give me a shilling. The drink is worth it." 180 WINTERING HAY " Are you serious ? " asked Cyril. " If you don't give me a shilling, 1'H put it down against you and claim it next quarter-day." " Surely sixpence would be quite enough," said Cyril gravely. " I'll have a shilling. This is good old stuff." Cyril presented the coin, quite expecting to receive it back ; but the old man pocketed it greedily and laughed for joy. " Take a cigar to smoke as you go home. Take a handful," he cried. " I cannot afford it," replied Cyril ; and again old Sharley frowned with sheer delight. This little piece of good fortune, after so much that was bad, refreshed the boy's spirits. Possibly some change had taken place since noon, his planet of ill-omen had been eclipsed, and he was about to walk beneath a clearer sky. More free and happy, more determined than ever to break Maria's power and his own promise, Cyril made for his cottage home, intending at a more convenient hour to visit his aunt and thank her for having paid his debt, resolving not to cease his labour in the garden for some- thing, he felt, was growing there already, something out of the atmosphere of the place, its name not known and ran up the stone steps brushing the ferns aside, longing to sit down and make a beginning of the work ; a strange wish, for was he not a gardener, one who worked with his hands, standing upright, not crouched upon a chair, and had not the work been carried on three months already ? Yet spring was far gone, and it was time for the latest seed to germinate if fruit was to form that year. And the sower stood against the wall, looking down upon the grave and the tree which Cyril had planted for himself. Hearing him, she turned with a natural movement, held out her hands, and she was Lilian ; while something sprang up in Cyril's throat and choked him. The travail was over, the new life was born, and the path of it was plainly marked, as the Pixies' Path had been on Christmas Day between dark banks of heather. MANY DISCOVERIES 181 " Lilian, I shall dig no more. The slugs and moles have beaten me." " Will you give up the garden, Cyril ? On the very day I come to see it ? " " I will stay on it, work on it, and make things grow j great things, sweetheart, things that the moles won't touch/' " Tell me." " Next week." " George will be home then ; and perhaps he will hear the secret first. See how you have changed me : I am getting jealous." She laughed. " They call me Lilian the Second now. Are you glad to see me at the door of industry ? " " Very glad, darling. We have been parted for a week ; while so much can happen in a day." " Mother is not far off. I suppose if we were not Corin- dons she would be with me now. We drove over, she dropped me at the corner and will return later on Then I may enter this granite temple and make tea Where is the diary, Cyril ? You promised me to keep one." " It is a series of blanks," he confessed, thankful he had failed to keep that promise by recording the journey to Blackerton, the meeting with Maria, and that other promise which was also to be broken when George came home. " You must fill them up. Take me to Middle Thirty and talk the whole way, and tell me first which Lilian you like best the shy one, or this ? " " The one of Whistly Down was the sweetest in the world." " Does this one fall much lower ? " " She is at the same flower-point of perfection. Lilian, I wish I could be more demonstrative, but I love you, '3 said Cyril. " I do love you." Simple words, not simply spoken, for Cyril meant them, knowing he had no right to say them since, if no wonder- 182 WINTERING HAY worker arose to save him from Maria, he had only another month of liberty to live, g^ " Don't make me shy again," she whispered. " Hedges are full of eyes. Wait till we get the granite all about us. Then, perhaps, I'll say I love you rather too. Mother and father know." " How did they find out ? " asked Cyril, feeling he could never stand before the face of Corindon if it was angry. "It is impossible to keep anything from father. He reads us all." " What did he say ? " " Nothing whatever. He does not interfere. If I told him I was going into a nunnery, he would say, ( Very well, my dear.' Or if I suggested going on the stage, he would tell me to please myself." But Lilian was wrong, for she was the exception to the father's rule ; and he was merely waiting till his voice was needed. " You do love me, darling well enough to stay with me through everything ? " "Ask yourself," she murmured. " The answer you wish for is the one I give. I love you, Cyril ; yet, perhaps, I do not love you as George does." " If that is true I do not understand it." " You cannot understand George. Even father cannot. I love you as much as I can, yet I doubt if my love is equal to his ; and I believe George loves you as he never will, and never can, love any woman." " What is the reason of it ? I am very fond of him, but Lilian, I like a man, I could not love him. I should be very sorry to lose George, but it would be nothing in comparison to losing you." " George has a heart which is a freak of Nature. Father said that laughing, yet I think he meant it. You know what sacrifice a man will make for the girl he dearly loves. I am certain George would make such sacrifice for you." " While I can only repay him with my commonplace affection. It is hard upon George." MANY DISCOVERIES 183 " When did you tell him that that my shy self was not altogether obnoxious ? " " I do not remember. He would have guessed it. Why do you ask ? " " Because I have come to the conclusion he decided upon taking Orders so that no other man should marry us. You must know, my boy, that if you come first with George, the person present with you at this moment comes a jolly good second," laughed Lilian. " He would do anything for me, and anything for you. What would he do to ensure the happiness of us both ? " asked Cyril gravely. " Give his life and his whole soul," she answered fondly, yet with a note of terror in her voice. But now they were coming up to Middle Thirty, drinking the pure air as strong as wine and tasting of furze fragrance, and Lilian changed her song into a hymn of praise, " How very lovely ! But, Cyril, not a place for great rough cab- bages. It is a place for a home, and a garden of flowers." " They might not grow." " Some would, but not the best, not roses. How different from Burntbeer, where the soil is red and sticky. Here it is black." " Full of leather- jackets and wireworms." " They can be exterminated. How deep is the soil ? " " About a foot, and then you come to gravel." " Hardly deep enough. It is not how I pictured it ; more beautiful certainly, but less practical. Shall you give it up ? " He told her what Sharley had said. Lilian nodded in agreement, then furnished her commentary, " Father said much the same, only I would not tell you. He never gives advice unless I press for it. ' If he will work on a mountain let him keep sheep and ponies. One wild night will wreck his garden.' That's what he said. Cyril dear," she added quickly, " you^must get on." " You echo, Lilian. Jhave been calling that for the last ten years, but I make no movement. I shall get on now 184 WINTERING HAY for I begin to see the way. My time here has not been wasted. I have cleared all this piece of land and dug it ; and while working I have cleared my mind and stirred up my soul, and now something has grown, Lilian. I have put nothing except labour into the land, but it has planted a growth in me. I felt it there, and when I saw you standing by the wall I knew it was something born of the union between the land and love for you." " What, Cyril ? " she asked eagerly. " Wait a few days, sweetheart, perhaps a month. Wait until I am free, until I have my first rough piece of work to show you." " My seeds always grow," she murmured happily. " I want to forget everything to-day but you, sweet Lilian." " A person, not a thing," she reminded. " But remember George." " You and he and this beginning. We start in a new world to-day/ 1 cried Cyril, putting the shadows all behind him, confident that there they would remain, forcing himself from the society of sisters, Maria, and ghostly Gideon, in order that he might be alone with Lilian. " All the storms are over, and fair weather is coming near. I'll have no more sorrow. Let us go through the wood and out upon the high moor, and there I will show you a path I found one day, a path made by the fairies. I am the only being who has ever walked along it, and it brought me to you, and now I must see you walk along it to find " " What ? " she murmured, when he could not finish. " A tree," he cried. " A tree covered with golden apples, and each that you gather shall give you a heaven of life and happiness, heaven upon heaven until you have enough." " I shall divide my apples," she said gravely, although she was happy then, most happy, for it seemed to her Cyril had found the way. So they went through Upper Thirty, passing between MANY DISCOVERIES 185 the solemn fir trunks under the deep-green branches, and over mossy swamps where phosphorescent logs could be seen at midnight glowing ; and they talked upon earthly things, as lovers will when they walk in the gloom of pine woods, having the smell of mud forced in their nostrils, and seem cut off from heaven. There Cyril told the little lady of his garden, about the interview with Sharley of the money bags ; and she laughed and was gratified, but when she had heard of the old man's windy threats, exclaimed, " He could do nothing, even if he wanted to be unkind, which he does not. He is a kind creature, with his own queer mannerisms. Where is your lease ? " " He will not give me one." " But, dear boy, he cannot. You are under age." Cyril exclaimed at his ignorant thoughtlessness. Not once had it occurred to him that he was unable to enter into any contract, being, in the eye of the law, a toddling infant like the child beside him, if much less learned. " He thought me a young fool ; he was right to think it," he said crossly. " He has been amusing himself with me, but I have beaten him. I have put nothing into Middle Thirty, and now I am going to draw a fortune out. But is it not good of my aunt to pay the rent ? " " Very kind," smiled Lilian. " Perhaps you had better not thank her, Cyril. She may not like to know her good- ness is discovered." " I must. She likes appreciation. I will go to-night. I believe she is fond of me, although we cannot get on together. Give me your hand, darling." She extended both in true Lilian-fashion, giving more than she was asked for. They were out of the wood, and had to cross a stream by stepping-stones which logged deceitfully. She exulted at feeling her ringers held so firmly ; and upon the other side, where there was all the privacy of rolling moorland, from the edge of the wood to the lower cumuli, she let him kiss her and requited him ; and then they ran about a little and went wild, because the air was very sweet and so was love. At last they walked 186 WINTERING HAY on soberly, for Cyril had a duty to perform and a path to find. " Now we are near it," he cried confidently. " This stony ground will soon be left behind and we shall come among tall heather, and all of a sudden you will see the bright green pathway winding like a snake." " What am I to do ? " " I shall set your feet upon it, and you will walk to the end. You must be very solemn, Lilian." " What will happen if I laugh ? " " Then you will not find anything." " I will keep my eyes upon my shoes," she promised, and they went on for several minutes until Cyril grew anxious. " We are not getting away from the stony ground," he said. " Are you sure this is the right way ? " " I could not miss it," he declared. "It is here, quite close to us." It was, yet they could not find it. They walked on, searching, but the Pixies' Path was not for them : the Green Way had vanished, the romance of it was hidden from their eyes, and, as it seemed to Cyril, from their lives. He had set his feet upon it once by chance, had left it to sin, and now he had come with Lilian, so that she might win a double blessing for them both, and it was lost. The little people had surrounded their green highway with mist. " Another day we will succeed," said Lilian brightly. They began to descend, and suddenly she cried out. Not the entrance to the path, but a wonderful white stone lay near her feet, glittering among dark granite, white as milk. Fragments of such stone were not un- common, but never had Cyril seen one so perfect and so large. He turned it over, and they worshipped it together. "It is mine. You missed the pathway, but I found this. It is a stone to mark the day. The white stone of fortune." " If we leave it we shall never find it again," he said. MANY DISCOVERIES 187 " Let us take it. We will place it beside the door of the Chapel, and every time you pass by " " I shall call it Lilian's altar." " Take care," she cried warningly. " If it should break, the fairy would be released and fly away." " It is solid marble. I cannot lift it." " Then we must roll it." But the stone was an awkward shape, and could not be rolled. They were only able to turn it over from side to side, gaining no more than a foot at each attempt. " We must take it down, Cyril, I feel we must," she cried excitedly. " Darling, you will hurt your back " ; for she was attempting to raise it in her arms. " I have hurt it," she sighed. " Bu to leave the stone will hurt my heart." Making a great effort Cyril lifted the block, staggered a few steps, stumbled, and fell. " We cannot do it," he panted. " We must." And again brave Lilian battled with the stone, and again was beaten ; and then Cyril returned to the work, and he too was beaten. They stood side by side looking down at the great white block ; from it to the vast expanse of moorland, and the dwarfed, distant tree- tops of high Thirty ; and suddenly both realised they were attempting the impossible. The strongest man could not have raised that stone and carried it upon his shoulders to the trackway ; yet a child could have taken it by turning it slowly over, and again over, toiling day by day, until the distance had been covered. The work of life had to be accomplished gradually, not during one hour of back- strain. Neither could happiness be attained by one short search and a few quick strides. " We cannot take it, darling," said Cyril sadly. " We must leave it, close to the path we cannot find." " I will have them both," he said determinedly, as if thinking of himself alone. " I will bring up a pony with pack-saddle, and take the stone to the door of the Chapel." 188 WINTERING HAY " How will you find it, Cyril ? The side of the mountain is so vast, and you cannot mark the place." " I will search until I do find it," he declared. They went on, linked together, tired and aching, high- spirited no longer. Having gone a few steps they looked back, and saw the stone lying upon the side of the moor, wonderfully conspicuous. They went a few more steps, and again looked back ; the stone had vanished, and they saw it no more. Cyril searched afterwards, not once, nor twice, but never found Lilian's white altar-stone again. CHAPTER XI THE COMING OF CAPTAIN ELIAS MUTTER BESIDE the front door of Wintering Hay, when Cyril made his visit at the hour his aunt was most likely to be found alone he knew the monastic order of the house, and how his uncle upon certain evenings of the week composed sermons nestling near the stone threshold, reposed a bag made of once gorgeous carpeting. At which Cyril stared in amazement, not for the object as such, nor for the floral pattern, nor even for the appari- tion of a shirt-cuff protruding like the tail of a fish from otter's jaws, but at the suggestion of a stranger in that house, a man and a visitor in Wintering Hay, shocking the silent rooms with laughter, speaking worldly words to Andrew Mutter, reminding Caroline of other times and seasons. It was the greatest descent since the deluge. " Captain Mutter," exclaimed the housemaid, red in the face with perilous excitement. Another ! One uncle is too much, thought Cyril, who had heard no talk of any male relation. This one had forced an entry, battering the door open with his name, but forced to leave his few poor goods outside while his body stood on trial within. Assuredly no rich man, and humble ; decidedly no Andrew ; for that bag was bio- graphic, the gaudy pattern spoke of character more surely than the lines of the hand which had dropped it at the threshold. A rough fellow, not much higher than a working man, full of the strange world of free opinion, encrusted with strong sea-salts. What was he doing here ? At the moment sitting upon a sofa, little softer than 189 190 WINTERING HAY a ridge of granite, gazing distressfully at his dusky hands, and the more swarthy crescents which finished off his finger-nails. Opposite him in judgment sat the silent brother ; while Caroline between was twisting her hands together, ill with nervousness. It was a comedy of sup- pressed emotion ; and on this occasion Cyril became wel- come as adding a fourth character to the drama. " This is your nephew," remarked Andrew. The carpet-bagger started up, advanced with a threaten- ing movement, seized the boy's hand, and made his arm ache ; then turned to the sofa and growled at his boots, " I'm glad to see you." " Cyril has a garden," Caroline announced in a simple fashion, for the sake of urging on the conversation. " Where ? " growled the new-comer. " Up there," said Caroline, pointing to the ceiling. There was a horrid interval, during which the unhappy Captain Mutter rolled in a kind of agony upon the sofa, mingling groans with violent sneezes. Presently Cyril was also gasping with a like attempt to restrain his muscles : he struggled and gave way ; and in that room was heard at last the roar of laughter. Andrew rose and stood trembling with anger, unwilling to expel Cyril in the presence of his brother, desiring to rid himself of both. Before his slow wits could come into agreement the Captain's jerky growl went up, " Beg pardon. My fault. A bit run down you know. I get these fits go off without warning pass 'em on to others." " What do you want, Cyril ? " demanded the chief Mutter. " I came to see aunt, and to thank her." " Dearie, he comes in gratitude. He forgets himself/' said Andrew, in the tender voice which was his wife's monopoly. " I thought you might be hungry. Labourers often are," said Caroline, supposing her nephew referred to certain puddings she had sent him. " J mean the rent it was very good of you to pay it. COMING OF CAPTAIN ELIAS MUTTER 191 I only heard of it to-day," stammered Cyril, while the Captain composed himself, and wondered when his petition would receive attention. " What rent ? " demanded Andrew. " The quarter's rent of Middle Thirty. Aunt has paid Mr. Sharley without my knowledge." " Is that true, lovey ? " asked her husband. " Certainly not. I never paid the money. We give Cyril his allowance every week, and that is plenty." " More than enough. I could live on less, and still give some away for charity." Again the unhappy Captain rolled like a ship at sea, with groans and sneezes ; while Cyril longed with all his heart to get away. " Naturally I thought you must have paid the money," he said loudly, to cover those terrible explosions. " And, of course, I came to thank you. Some- one has paid I cannot think who." " Your beloved Corindons, I suppose," his aunt said scornfully. " The boy is an ungrateful wretch. He gets what he can out of us, and is not ashamed to beg from others," said Andrew, addressing his brother at last, and getting a grunt for answer. " Good night, aunt," said Cyril, timidly approaching. " We will tell you when it is time to go to your hovel," she replied severely. " I want you to become acquainted with your uncle." It was obvious that she stood in awe of the Captain, and desired Cyril to stay as a protection lest the rough fellow should create a scene. Andrew had resumed his seat and his quiescence ; but presently he asked, " Have you been in China, Elias ? " " I was there two years back," his brother answered. " How is our dear religion progressing in that country ? " The Captain gulped, and growled out frankly, " I don't know." " There are three bishops in China, and many churches," added^Caroline, 192 WINTERING HAY " They seem to be everywhere," replied the Captain humbly. " From what source did you obtain your spiritual food in that country ? " asked Andrew sternly ; and his brother, in all simplicity, retorted, " I starved myself." The Mutters of Wintering Hay looked at each other, then at the man of the world, now condemned by the testimony of his mouth. It fell upon Caroline to speak, to advise this scoffing brother to seek some other resting- place, to remove his morally dead self and his carpet-bag into a lower atmosphere ; it was her duty, because Andrew lacked courage to tell the Captain he must hoist his own blue-peter. But on this occasion Caroline had no words to give the exit : this gruff man, although a relation, was a stranger, a barbarian, one who might shoot at them with poisoned arrows, or cleave them into segments with a tomahawk. She was in the position of the hedge-sparrow compelled to entertain the cuckoo's son. Suppose she issued the order, and this hairy savage refused to move, what force could stir him ? When the dynamics of her tongue had failed, what fulcrum and lever could they find to apply the necessary pressure upon the related body resting so heavily upon the sofa, ensuring its removal from their house and doorstep ? Cyril might easily be controlled by mechanical words and phrases ; but the expulsion of Captain Elias Mutter was only to be secured by a knowledge of applied mathematics, by a due appre- ciation of the art of placing the wedges and an exact comprehension as to the amount of weight required behind the beetle. " The spare room is not ready," she announced at last. " That's all right, Caroline. I'm a rough fellow. Many a time I've slept with the cockroaches," said the Captain. " How long do you want to stay ? " " Till I can hear of a job. I've lost two ships, one after the other. Twas bad luck, but it's taken the nerve out of me, I was brought up to sails, and I never could get COMING OF CAPTAIN ELIAS MUTTER 193 on with the steam-kettle. I've got a bad name on the sea, and I have to quit," said the Captain, throwing the words out with quick efforts, staring full-face at Cyril, then glancing sideways at his silent brother. " You had better take to fishing," said Caroline, who knew the lives of the saints, and considered this a re- spectable occupation. " The sea has brought me no luck. I have done with it." " Elias," she said feebly, " you would not be happy here." " I'm not looking for happiness." " That is certain," said Andrew earnestly. " Happiness is neither on the land nor upon the sea, but proceeds from the Throne of Glory in heaven." " He's too far gone," said Elias to himself. " You may stay to supper, Cyril," said Caroline. "I'd best tidy myself a bit," growled the unwanted guest. " You will stay then ! " she cried, in the form of ex- clamation and the voice of despair. " Thank ye, I will," the Captain answered heartily ; and after that a sense of horror brooded. Caroline had read light literature, published by religious societies to which she sent subscriptions for the Mutters read only that kind of fiction meant for children and her knowledge as to those who made their living on the sea was on a par with her comprehension of travellers and their savage ways. Her brother-in-law would chew tobacco and dispose of superfluous saliva in a fearful fashion ; he would employ a language for which decency would substitute a con- stellation of asterisks, and at any moment might dance a hornpipe on the carpet. And of a surety he would make the dining-room most infamous with odours of hot rum. In a kind of stupor, Caroline stood to witness the carrying in of the carpet-bag ; she heard the tramp of footsteps overhead, knew that the rules of the house were being broken already the hour of meditation with her husband 194 WINTERING HAY had been missed and shuddered lest the Captain should next endeavour, without the waste of a moment, to corrupt her soul, and roll his stumbling-blocks upon her path to heaven. Nor were her fears unfounded. Captain Elias was in many ways an ordinary individual, with metal rusted by exposure to the elements, but in the groove of that house the ordinary being could not slide. He appeared in the same old boots and clothes without apology, and beneath his arm peeped like some small gun the frowning neck of a bottle of whisky, which he mounted beside him upon the supper-table in an easy fashion, knowing not how fearful was this threat of battle until he looked up, saw the anger of the enemy, and heard his ultimatum, " Elias, this is not a pothouse." " Beg pardon," boomed the Captain, placing the alco- holic weapon beneath his chair. " Take what your appetite demands, and let that thing be removed," his brother ordered ; and the bewildered Captain obeyed, thinking of premises and conclusions. If Andrew was drinking port-wine, not without a sigh of pleasure, and pouring it out from a grim black bottle, why should he be grudged a glass of his own whisky, and why was his bottle the only type of degeneration at that table ? Because port-wine was invested with a certain aureole; it was respectable juice of the grape, sanctified by association with Hebrew literature ; and it appeared upon that table every day, and its consumption had become a matter of habit, and no habit is a sin ; while whisky was base, a drug to be consigned to some dark cupboard, and used most sparingly by medical advice ; it was the liquor loved by revellers, and only the baser kind of man would drink it for his pleasure. The Mutters could not look upon anything new and welcome it. Only those things to which their eyesight had grown accustomed could be harmless. A new flower in the garden would have been regarded with suspicion as a plant with some gross origin ; while the brambles spread of right, since they had been there always. It was this dread of COMING OF CAFTAIN ELIAS MUTTER 195 anything novel which had hindered them from finding some career for Cyril. It implied a change in existing circumstances which they could hardly bring themselves to face. Supper over, the Captain unmasked a second battery. Producing a short pipe with the innocence of one exhibiting some relic, he began to load it with tobacco, and it was not until he pulled out matches to bring about the ex- plosion that Cyril nudged him gently, and the man with the bombard perceived four eyes of horror fixed upon him. " I forgot you don't smoke, Andrew ? " he asked as cheerfully as he could. " It is a vile, a detestable, a sinful habit," said his brother, more violently than Cyril had ever heard him speak. " That's a bit strong," growled Elias, somewhat roused. " Most of the clergy smoke ; I have seen an archbishop roll a cigarette," he added slyly. " I like them none the better for it," put in Caroline. " Do you want to make yourself a chimney ? " continued Andrew. " Have you a fire burning inside ? Do you imagine a man's mouth was given him to puff out stinking smoke ? " " All right. I won't argue," said^the Captain, {stuffing the pipe back into his pocket. " If you must be beastly, you can go out into the garden," added Caroline with much spirit, having become more accustomed to the sight of the hairy savage. Elias took the hint and departed, while Cyril sat on till prayer-time answering questions and listening to judgment passed upon the brother, whose footsteps could be heard tramping the gravel walk outside. " He must come in for prayers," was Caroline's last word. " He will make the room smell like a tavern," replied her husband. " Still he must come. We have to think of his soul," she answered finally. 196 WINTERING HAY " I fear Elias is too far gone," was Andrew's comment, passing upon his brother the verdict which the brother had already passed on him. The next morning Cyril was not well. Betty Joll, according to her usual kindly custom, came to prepare breakfast, and found him still in bed. " I caught a chill the day I went to Blackerton," ex- plained Cyril. " How do ye feel, my dear ? " asked the good old woman. " Feverish, with pains all over." " I'll teU Jane, and fetch him to ye. There b'ain't no sickness he can't cure. He knows more than all they doctors, and he'll give ye a drink what will put new life into your soul and body. Us be learned volk, my dear. Us ha' learned to live as long as we've a mind to, and us likes to make others live as long as we." And off she went at a speed which might easily have shocked anaemic maidens. Cyril, lying upon his bed, more disturbed in mind than ill in body for Maria had been a haunting figure through the night heard footsteps which he did not recognise. They passed below irresolutely and troubled him. The well-known, eager shuffling of old Joll hindered him from rising to look out ; and immediately he heard the voice of Captain Elias bidding good morning to the wonderful creature who took no notice of his age. " I'm a new-comer, brother to Mr. Mutter down yonder. Who are you ? " " I be brother and sister to she," Cyril heard his landlord saying. " I owns this bit of property, and I made it all myself. I be Jane Joll." " Why, that's a woman's name." " So 'tis, I reckon. I be a bit of all sorts. I wur born male, and christened female, but what I'll be when I die I can't tell ye, and 'tis plenty too soon to think o' that." " You are pretty old." COMING OF CAPTAIN ELIAS MUTTER 197 " Not so old as I will be in twenty years time." " How do you know you will be alive then ? " " I be a Joll, master. A Joll when he'm eighty be the equal of any other man at forty ; and a Joll when he'm a hundred be better than any other man at sixty ; and a Joll when he'm a hundred and twenty " " Stay a bit. You are going on too far." " Us Jolls when we'm old see our grandfathers tilling the garden," continued the struldbrug. " Does Mr. Rossingall live here ? " " Ay, master. He'm sick, and I be agoing to heal him." " He was all right last night." " Volks what b'ain't Jolls be here one day and gone the next. You die easy, mortal easy," said the old man, detaching himself entirely from the human race. " What's your secret ? " " First you must have Joll blood ; then you must have a liking vor your bed ; and last of all you must have Joll medicine." " So if you are not a Joll " " There ain't no hope vor ye." " I am going in with you. Mr. Rossingall is my nephew. This terrace is a pretty place." " Aw, 'tis, master. I made it." " Why, man, it's natural." " So 'tis, master, now ; but it warn't when I started on it." " How long ago was that ? " " Avore any of you wur born. If you ses I never made it " " I do say so." " Then I ask you to prove it wur here avore me." " That beats me." " No man can talk to a Joll without getting beat. Where be you, sir, if you please ? " the old man called. " In bed," called Cyril. " The best place vor anybody whether he'm well or sick. 198 WINTERING HAY You get to bed, master, and drink Joll medicine, and you'll live to a hundred." " Don't want to," said Captain Elias. " Living is too expensive." " I don't take any notice of the expense," said old Joll. They climbed the stairs, which was no small feat of mountaineering, and reached the bedroom of many angles, where Cyril gave them welcome. The Captain was a different man now that he was removed from the atmo- sphere of Wintering Hay and allowed to fly his own colours : a little rough in manner, coarse sometimes in speech, but a genuine man for all that, equal in time of emergency to a regiment of Andrews. He wore the same clothes, and had indeed no others ; it was obvious he had mended them himself, and even patched his boots. .. " Don't mind my smoke, I suppose ? " he asked, with a jerk of his head downward, which Cyril fully understood while answering, " Please do as you like." " Smoke don't hurt a man," said the all-wise Joll, " not when 'tis dry. Tis the wet smoke what be bad. If you throws watter on a fire you makes a tidy muck of the grate ; and if you throws liquor on your smoke you makes a muck inside ye." " He means to make us all Methuselahs," said Captain Elias. " He won't make one," said Joll decidedly, pointing at Cyril. " Takes notice of things, he do. When anything happens, he can't think of nought else. When anything happens to me I goes to bed. Now then, young master, what be wrong wi' ye ? If 'tis sickness of body I'll soon cure it, but if 'tis sickness of mind I'll get me home and ha' nought to do wi't, vor the only doctor who can cure that sort o' thing be your own self." " He has nothing to worry about. He's got his life before him," said the Captain. " Don't be too sure of that," said Joll reprovingly. " I ha' seen 'em worn out wi' old age avore they'm twenty. I ha* seen a poor maiden too old at fifteen you knows COMING OF CAPTAIN ELIAS MUTTER J99 what I means, masters. Aw, my dear soul, but I did nearly take notice of she." " It is only a feverish cold/' said Cyril. " If that be all, I'll cure ye straight. You'll be dancing the hay to-morrow. Shut the window first thing," said the wise physician. " I be going to make ye sweat." " I am hot enough already," Cyril grumbled. "That be the chill. You feels hot, but you'm cold inside. I be going to force it out of ye. When your hands be cold you puts 'em near the fire, and that draws the cold out ; and I be putting these clothes on," said the ruthless old man, piling every article he could find upon the bed, " to make a pretty sweat, and I be going to give ye some medicine what'll make ye sweat twenty times worse ; and then you will fall asleep, and when you wakes " " He will be either dead or cured," the Captain muttered. " He'll feel like a day's work. I won't give ye the medi- cine yet. I'll have ye sweat first. Then I'll rub ye dry, and give ye the drink what will drive the sickness from your heart." " What is your medicine made of ? " asked the Captain. " Why should I tell ye the secret of long life ? " " I might take a fancy to live as long as you." " You couldn't do that, master, not unless you took my blood. I'll tell ye what the drink be made of. I make it every twelve months, and what be over from the year avore I throws away, vor the virtue ha' gone out of him by then. I gets a quart of strong old ale, and the like amount of new milk, and I boils 'em together in a copper pot when the mune be vull, and I keeps the windows and door wide open, and ha' the Bible set upon the table ; and when the mixture be all of a bubble, I takes a proper big handful o' gold's flowers wi' their leaves " " What are they ? " " Mary's gold-flowers, some calls 'em." " Marigolds." " Everything be called out of their proper names now," said Joll impatiently. " I lets the flowers boil till I ha' 200 WINTERING HAY said the Christian creed, then I drains 'em off, and I pours the liquor into pewter bottles. When the drink be wanted I ha' to heat him till he boils agin. They doctors would laugh at my medicine, and that ain't surprising, vor 'tis a quick and certain cure, while 'tis a doctor's business to keep a patient sick " ; and having spoken from the depths of his wisdom the old man trotted off to prepare the sovereign remedy for all ills. The Captain enquired of his nephew whether a little talk would hurt him, and when Cyril had replied that congenial company was the thing he most desired, Elias placed himself at the foot of the bed, made fog in the tiny room with his tobacco smoke, and sought for information concerning his own family. " I was born down yonder," he said. " There were four of us : Andrew, the eldest, your mother, myself, and Louisa, who died young. I was the goat, and they separated me early from the sheep, and sent me to live with my grandparents. I wasn't sorry to go, for Andrew used to knock me about. He was religious even when he wore knickerbockers ; he would throw me on the grass and hit me with a stick or handful of broom, and quote Scripture while he beat me. ' You're a brand from the burning. That's one for your soul,' he would say while he whacked me. " He has done his best to spoil my life," Cyril muttered. " He would ruin anybody who had the misfortune to live with him. Look at your aunt. She would have been a broad-minded woman if he had left her alone. Now she is a mummy. Andrew has buried her beneath sermons, and embalmed her with texts. We want religion, my lad, we can't get through life without it, even if it isn't anything more than a charm upon one's watch-chain ; but to shut yourself up in a gloomy house, and to pray morning, noon, and night it may be scriptural, but there's no life in t it, no humanity, and it gets mechanical. I noticed 'em last night at prayer-time ; Caroline was thinking about you, and Andrew was thinking about me. They COMING OF CAPTAIN ELIAS MUTTER 201 were just two parrots repeating sentences they knew by heart." " It is all humbug," said Cyril wrathfully. " If it was I might get on with Andrew. The man is sincere. He is one of the old-fashioned sort, like my father ; he has a horror of death, and he means to make sure of heaven and to take your aunt there with him. He hates you and me and all other folk who lead natural lives, and he considers it his duty to hate us. He's done well for himself. He got the father's money and the father's blessing, and I had nothing ; but I'll die as easy as he will after all. He wants a thunderbolt to wake him up," the Captain muttered. " What are you going to do here ? " asked Cyril. " Rest for a bit. I've had a rough time lately. Don't tell 'em that I tramped from Plymouth. I didn't want to break into my money." He drew a canvas bag out of his pocket, and held it up. " Five pounds, my lad. 'Tis all I have. You saw how they tried to get rid of me, but when I had made harbour and cast anchor I wasn't going to drift. It's a sad game to force yourself into your old home, though I don't love the place it brings back nothing to me except the sorrows of childhood. The folk who built it never cared for sunshine." " After a week there you will wish yourself in a ship- wreck." " Well, that may be true, but I'm going to play the game. I'll be as obedient as a dog, and go on the knee as often as I'm told to. Andrew is my superior officer just now, and I must either take my orders from him or be dismissed. I mean to have a talk with him presently, and see if I can't get him to advance a bit of money. It's as much mine as his," said Elias, beginning to growl again. " I never had sixpence when the father died. Andrew was left the lot." " You won't get anything," said Cyril confidently. " You will be told the Chinese want it more than you." " If he preaches a missionary sermon I'll answer him," 202 WINTERING HAY the Captain promised. " Then I'll pack my bag and go on the road. If it comes to the worst, I can learn to drive a plough, or you shall teach me how to grow potatoes." " I have done with that/' said .Cyril. " I don't dare tell them, but this garden of mine is a failure. To-day I had hoped to start on something better." " What ? " asked the Captain. " Poetry," said Cyril, flushing, as well he might. "Well, well," exclaimed Elias. "Giving up digging to write poetry ! That's the other end of the spade altogether." "I began the garden, not knowing what else to do. Then thoughts came to me, and now I feel I must write them down." " I wish you luck," said Elias simply. " I don't want to be inquisitive, but I'd like to ask one question." " What is it ? " " Got a young woman ? " " Yes, I have," said Cyril, mopping his perspiring face to hide it. " I thought as much," Elias laughed. " That accounts for the lack of interest in the cabbages." Then Joll appeared, bearing a steaming vessel, and instructed the visitor to depart ; and he did so, promising to return that evening. " He'll be cured," the doctor promised. " But he ain't going to leave his bed to-day." No doubt there was much virtue in Joll medicine, or perhaps the heavy sweating worked the wonder ; whatever the cause, before the evening shadows crossed the window Cyril was himself again, anxious to be about, but deterred from doing so by doctor's orders. Elias came and sat some hours with him, chatting sadly, for already there had been words between himself and Andrew, and this great rough fellow had been lectured like a child because he had dared to laugh and to touch upon worldly matters. Together, in that tiny room, they watched the darkness creeping up upon three counties, making the COMING OF CAPTAIN ELI AS MUTTER 203 hills deep purple, covering the rich red fields with mist; and at last said nothing. The young man lying on the bed, well in body but sick at heart, watched the increasing shadows ; the elderly man sitting with hands clasped, always puffing at his pipe, looked away from the window ; and in both worked the same great question, " Evening, and all's clear. What of the future ? What of life ? " In the morning came a letter from George, so simple that it brought the tears to Cyril's eyes. He did not go upon Middle Thirty, but remained in his cottage wielding the new weapon of his desire, bringing forth phrases plenteously, for he was in spring-time and the fire burnt in him ; and so he worked on ; and walked with Elias, who had no inspiration to help him on, and grew more sullen and taciturn and depressed ; and again they sat together in the darkness, without disturbing solitude ; and once the Captain took the liand of his weak young nephew and seemed to cling to him. The house of Wintering Hay awed the one ; the garden terrified the other. Too much religion, too much sin ; and the second was the consequence of the first. " You b'ain't dancing the hay, neither of ye," said old Joll crossly. " You'm taking notice of things." There came another letter from George. "To-morrow I am returning home, to help you." CHAPTER XII THE CERTAIN TIE OF FRIENDSHIP CAPTAIN ELIAS used Wintering Hay as a place where he could eat and sleep ; the rest of his time was given to his nephew, or to waiting outside the Chapel while he worked, gazing across the map of red and green, chatting to Joll, who would generally appear heavy with information and family pride ; and the Captain would point out towers of churches, or the suggestion of some whitewashed village far away, asking for names, and getting a great deal more, because Joll could never resist the temptation of declaring that he had created that pleasant land and called its beauty out of chaos. " I'd like to be there," said the Captain, pointing to the heart of mid-Devon. " It looks a happy place. Looks like a country where it might be easy to live. When I heave anchor I'll sail northward." " It is a lonely country, a region of scattered villages, many of them far from a railway. The people stare at a stranger frightfully," said Cyril. " A man don't bleed when he's looked at. I'd like to have a cottage and bit of garden out yonder. It's a fine country. I have knocked about the world, but I've never come across a greener." " Dartmoor is healthier." " Too open. It reminds me of the sea, and now that I'm a landsman I want to have trees around me. How is the new spade digging ? " " Turning out plenty, but I'm no judge as to the quality." They were upon the moor which found small favour 204 THE CERTAIN TIE OF FRIENDSHIP 205 in the eyes of Elias, who was hankering after the deep cleaves and pleasant solitudes of mid-Devon ; continually pointing out some distant scene with the wish, "I'd like to be there " ; asking half impatiently how long it would take him to walk the distance. " You feel you must go ? " Cyril suggested. " I can't do with my brother much longer. I thought myself fairly religious, but if I live in that house another month I shall dig a hole and bury the Bible." " I shall miss you." " You might do worse than come along with me." " I may have to," Cyril answered. Another day passed, and Elias, coming during the early afternoon to the Chapel, discovered that the door was fastened. Within he heard the sound of a woman's voice, and it was scolding. He called, and silence followed, but he was not admitted, and presently the voice broke out again, this time over his head, be- coming indistinct when a hand appeared and closed the window. Elias went down into the cool trackway, muttering, " I must get him out of this. They starved him in Winter- ing Hay ; they told him all pleasures were wicked ; and now he is breaking out. He will go too far to the left as Andrew has gone too far to the right. The boy wants looking after." He climbed the bank, and found a cool seat within the root of an oak. A slope of turf, thickly covered with furze bushes in full bloom, arose between him and the boggy wood. There he smoked and nodded, until the noise of loose stones shifting in the trackway made him start and look below to see Cyril running up the steep ascent with all his might. Elias called ; Cyril checked himself, returned the greeting, and came to his uncle's side. " Who is after you ? " asked the Captain. " Nobody. I often run up the trackway. I like to get over the ground quickly." 206 WINTERING HAY 14 It's the slowest way," said Elias. " When you run up- hill you break your wind. You were running from a petti- coat, my lad." " So you heard that woman. She has a noisy voice not the sort you would care to listen to every day. But I was not running from her, for she has gone in the opposite direction." " Then you were running from some thought which she suggested." " I worked hard all the morning," said Cyril. " I was trying to solve the problem as to whether a man who has committed a crime can live it down, forget it, and win his way to happiness. I was thinking of such a man trying to escape ; and so I ran myself." " Who is the woman ? " " There is no woman in the story." " I mean the woman in your story." " Oh, a creature who wants to be my housekeeper." " What was she swearing about ? You have been foolish, young man." " There is nothing unnatural in that." " She wants you to marry her ? " Cyril lowered himself beside a furze bush and wiped his face. It was unfortunate that Elias should have heard the voice, but since he had done so it was necessary to let him form his own judgment. He admitted that such was indeed the case. " Then your time here is short," said Elias. " When Andrew hears you have played the fool, he will tell you, through the mouth of Caroline, that you must do your duty; and when you have done your duty they will think of their own, and disown you. There is a long walk before you." " I shall find the way," said the young man, with a confidence he could not feel. Elias had no inkling of the truth, and his reference to a long walk simply meant that Cyril would be forced to leave the place ; whereas his nephew spoke in parables. THE CERTAIN TIE OF FRIENDSHIP 207 His track was no tramp through Devon seeking work, but a walk through the mists of life towards the goal of happiness. Elias did not press the subject, having obtained the information which he required, supposing that his nephew had entangled himself in an ordinary affair with some young woman, and knowing it was not the way of his brother to pardon folly. Therefore Cyril would be compelled to take the walk. The young man, on the other hand, always on the look out for short-cuts towards his goal, was determined to seek the advice of a man who comprehended the ways of the world, by taking the truth, covering it with fiction, and offering it to the Captain as such. " What would a man do in this case," he said, after having stated his reason for presenting the problem. "He is attacked, strikes his opponent, and kills him ; then, knowing he may have difficulty in proving himself innocent of murder, he buries the body in a lonely place. Some months pass, it is believed the dead man has emigrated, the culprit feels safe ; and then a man who, unobserved himself, watched the burying of the body appears " " Make it a woman who threatens to tell unless he marries her. Use your own experience." " This is not my experience." " It makes a better story." " Perhaps it does. In my version it is a countryman who has an ambition to raise himself above his class, and the price of his silence is a sum which the culprit cannot hope to pay. With a woman the problem remains the same." " If lie can'not buy off the man, or if he won't marry the woman, he must confess the crime." " He cannot. The body has been for some months in its grave. I am suggesting the victim suffered from some disease. That killed him, not the blow. Confession has become impossible. The true story would not be believed. Other matters also make it impossible for him to face exposure. Even if acquitted of the crime his life would 208 WINTERING HAY be ruined by the loss of another's love. What can he do?" " You have sent your hero to the devil himself," Elias answered. " He must either marry the woman, run for his life, or shoot himself." " Suppose that he would as soon do the last as the first ? " " Then he must run." " That continues the story. It does not finish it." " There is one other way," said Elias presently. " He could remove the body, bury it in some other place, or destroy it gradually. I reckon you thought of that ? " " I had not," said Cyril in a low voice. " I will use that ending." When alone again Cyril marvelled that a method so simple had not occurred to him. Yet was it so easy after all ? December was far behind, and they had come to the time of year which knows no actual night, but maintains a glimmering atmosphere between twilight and dawn. It would be too dangerous a business to open that grave until winter returned ; and he could not wait. Neither would it be possible to carry the grim work through without assistance, for this was no matter of tumbling a body downwards, but of dragging it upwards, taking it into Lower Thirty, disposing of it in a bog ; a horse with pack- saddle would be required, and at least one other man George, of course he could do nothing without George, everything with him. George would find the way. Why had he not written or come over, for he had been home these last two days ? Why did George delay ? Upon the impulse Cyril started off, succeeded in evading Captain Mutter, who would certainly have insisted upon accom- panying him, and made for Burntbeer ; and it so happened that, while taking the shorter path across the fields, he came upon George looking for him as it were, walking along a path cut out of the side of a steep bank beneath a larch copse full of fragrance ; a pleasant place not THE CERTAIN TIE OF FRIENDSHIP 209 meant for tragic thoughts and phrases, where fresh grass grew from scarlet soil, and foxgloves nodded between stones. " So you are home, George. I have wanted you badly," said Cyril as they met. Then he looked at his friend, and discovered that George looked bigger and older, more of a man ; his face stronger, the fighting-spirit seemed to have developed, and his body was settled upon the turf with a rock-like firmness ; but the de- formity was more marked, his eyes were darker, his face looked haunted. " Are you all right, old man ? " asked Cyril. " I am well enough. Reading and thinking make me stoop more. I knew you would come, when you wanted me." " I have come for your advice." " Not for help ? " said George, smiling a little. " I must ask for that too," said Cyril faintly. " Let us sit among the larches. We shall be out of sight there, and nobody will hear us." They went among the scented trees which grew from the slope of a hill likely to get dark quickly, for that side faced the east, and the sun had dropped behind. Already one Corindon owl was mouse-hunting, calling his brothers to the sport. In the midst of the small wood was a rock as large almost as a temple, decorated with moss and ferns^ and here the young men seated themselves, one looking down into a fairy-forest of bracken, the other no further than his thoughts. This last began by saying : " I wrote to you from Blackerton. Nothing more has happened until to-day ; Maria walked over to tell me she is leaving her place immediately ; she has no money, and no home to go to, and she wants orders me rather to make some arrangement for her future. Our agree- ment was that she should leave me alone for a month. When I reminded her of that she lost her temper. You cannot argue with a woman of her class. She answers common sense with folly." p 210 WINTERING HAY George did not look round. He was leaning forward with his hands clasped so that Cyril could see only his hair, which the breeze stirred slightly, and those strong misshapen shoulders. " I was thinking of you when I saw your figure in the field. You looked so well and hand- some, Cyril ; I admired you ; I felt almost jealous of you, knowing there is nothing in me which could win the heart of another like Lilian. I remembered your stories of gods in the trees and rocks, and it seemed to me you were one of them coming along to meet me." " Instead of a fugitive from justice," said Cyril somewhat sharply, for the comparison made him smart. " You are not a criminal. You are being tested too cruelly. It is not fair that so much should be put upon you. I say this deliberately. Hundreds go through their lives, breaking the laws of God and man continually, yet pros- pering. One makes a single false step, by chance, even while trying to do good, and ruins his whole life. You had no ill-feeling against Fley. Your idea was to protect his mistress, and while doing so Nature intervened, the man fell dead ; and you were to be punished, if you had confessed, by losing your home and being disgraced in this neighbourhood for ever ; and because you did not confess you are to be ruined soul and body for you will be dragged to the depths if you marry this woman. There is no justice here. God sins against His creatures by allowing it." " I have said that ; but you must not." " Perhaps by the time I am ordained some light will reach me, and I may find that the scales are fairly turned," George went on. " At present it seems to me that all law favours the lucky. Have not you been tortured enough ? You have been allowed no childhood, denied your youth, and now you are asked to throw away your life. You have been imprisoned in a place of darkness, and all that you are to be given in exchange for such a dungeon is another worse. It would be cant if I told you to be resigned, or reminded you that the punishment is no more than you THE CERTAIN TIE OF FRIENDSHIP 211 deserve. This makes doubters of us. It makes us question whether the reward for doing good is certain. When the innocent are punished, how can we be sure that merit is recognised ? " " I will believe if I win my freedom," said Cyril. " And if I can come upon the right path and win happiness I will say all punishment is just. I shall come out ; I feel certain of it. Even when I made that promise to Maria something told me I should not be called upon to keep it. George, old man, I'm going to make a name, I shall get on, I have it in me to do something which will make Lilian say, ' Nobody could have done this but you ' though it is her spirit, and her inspiration, helping me. I must get clear, George. Lilian is making me. We can do it she and I together. Thoughts came out of Middle Thirty while I worked up there alone with Nature ; I collected all manner of wonderful things which seemed to be growing out of the ground, and living in the wood, and floating in the air ; and Lilian came and set fire to me. Life is before me now if I can take it ; a straight and brilliant path to happiness with Lilian at my side. George, old man, find out the way. For our sake find the way." " I have been looking for it these last two days," said his friend, who seemed to have grown up so suddenly, still gazing into the cool green bracken above which insects danced in the mad revel of their day. " I came out into the fields because the garden made my head ache. The scarlet earth is all ablaze with Corindon poppies, which have grown here for generations, casting their seed year after year, and father will only permit us to thin them out. I cannot bear to look at the scarlet above and below. The heat maddens me." " Your advice, George. I must have it. I will find some way out to-night," cried Cyril restlessly. " Let me first ask you the old question for the last time : will you confess to Lilian ? " " For the last time, I will not," replied Cyril resolutely. " I could never meet her eyes ; and however happy we WINTERING HAY might be in the future, I should imagine always that I saw a shadow in them." j^ " I shall not ask you again. Your reading of Lilian's character is not mine. Yet yours may be right. The secret shall be ours entirely. Cyril, you love my little sister ? " " She is my inspiration, my helper, my giver of all. My one desire is to dedicate my life and work to her," said Cyril with real earnestness. " Lilian is worth a struggle, and her love is the highest reward," said George deeply. " I know how she loves you, because I know what love is. Lilian does not talk, but she meditates ; and she finds you in her garden, in these fields, in the atmosphere about her. If you were forced to marry this woman, her life would be dark as well as yours. My sister and my friend," he murmured. " Better one than two. You know the story of the scapegoat, which was supposed to carry the sins of the people into the wilderness. It was an easy way of getting rid of sins too easy. Too much of poetry in it for real life. We cannot transfer our sins to sheep and goats which have no understanding ; we must either carry them ourselves or make a fellow-creature suffer. Cyril, you will never forget my sister ? " " Why do you ask these wild questions ? Can I forget my own happiness ? Does the grass forget to grow when it feels the spring ? " " We do not grow like grass. Spring, rain, and sunshine make us selfish, so that we do not know when we are stifling life out of others ; and forgetfulness is a night to all of us." " It does not last," said Cyril. " We are bound to awake. I will quote you a Greek poet : ' When the mallows have died in a garden, or the herbs perish, they revive and grow another year.' " " But we, when the hand of forgetfulness has closed our eyes, wake no more," George added. " I believe you will remember ; and because I think so, and because Lilian THE CERTAIN TIE OF FRIENDSHIP 213 is my sister, and you are my friend, I will go to Blackerton to save you from this woman." " What can you say to her ? " " I will convince her she must give up the idea of marry- ing you." " She will not listen." " I can find an argument. Do you suppose she loves you ? " " I believe she hates me." '' You are to her a man, first of all, one who will provide her with a home ; then you are a gentleman, one who will improve her condition. She desires you merely because she has you in her power. She is not hankering after Cyril Rossingall ; but being homeless and friendless she is anxious to secure the respectability and comfort which marriage with you suggest." " She insists on marriage." " Because you have no money to offer her. I am more fortunate," said George. " Father is making me a very liberal allowance for my University career, and I shall be able to offer Miss Athberry fifty pounds a year." " George, you must not," cried Cyril. " That will seem wealth to her. She will accept my offer gladly, and will go far away that I shall insist on and trouble you no more." " She refused to take money I know the creature. She is not a bad woman really, but she feels, like me, heaven has been against her, and now that she sees a way to happiness she is determined to take it." " Money will give her all that she can require. She will easily find a husband, as she is young and good-looking, and will be for one in her station of life quite wealthy," said George. " Don't say anything," he went on, facing Cyril for the first time. " You must buy freedom, and my money is yours." " It is too much," his friend said weakly. " You would give me all you possess ; you would run into debt for me. George, old man, you paid my rent." 214 WINTERING HAY " I did not. Of course, I would have done so had it been necessary." " Lilian ! " exclaimed Cyril. " Mother sent the money, after father had told her what caused the change in Lilian ; for he knew at once ; and mother remembered she had done nothing for you." " You people are angels to me." " You need not thank us," said George more lightly. " The money was returned by Sharley, together with a most abusive letter. He wanted to know what business it was of the Corindons to interfere between himself and Mr. Rossingall. His family had been settled upon the land as long as theirs. He was as good a man financially as Mr. Corindon. He begged to return the cheque, torn into fragments, and would request the people of Burntbeer, when they next insulted him, to do it less offensively." " He has given me a receipt," said Cyril. " Sharley has a kind heart, though he does try to cover it with a bear's skin. He has been known to bully an old widow to tears, telling her she was a disgrace to the parish, and the sooner she went into the workhouse the better, and then has sent her anonymously a five-pound note. The old man likes you, Cyril. He told us he had often seen you passing his window, and had made up his mind you were a good-for-nothing scoundrel ; and by that we knew he was willing to do something for you." " When did he tell you ? " " I had forgotten you did not know," said George awkwardly. " Lilian and I went and begged him to let you have Middle Thirty. Lilian did it. I stood by and nodded." " I seem to do nothing for myself," said Cyril. " You and Lilian simply force me into the right way ; but when- ever I do anything for myself I go wrong." " Give me the woman's address," said George hastily, for twilight had entered the copse and the bracken was losing green. " One minute," said Cyril. " George, there is another THE CERTAIN TIE OF FRIENDSHIP 215 way, and it seems the best, for it would leave me free entirely. Suppose you succeed in buying Maria's silence the danger will remain while she lives. She will have the same power over me, and even if she goes to the other end of the world can still betray me. She may marry an un- scrupulous man, tell him the story, and he may put the idea of blackmail into her head. Suppose on the very morning of the day I am to marry Lilian, she writes saying, ' If my allowance is not doubled I will send a message to the police telling them to dig in Wintering Hay.' I cannot feel safe while that body is lying there. Could we take it up get it into the wood of Lower Thirty sink it in a bog ? " There was a certain movement at his side, suggesting a shudder ; then out of the gloom groped a white hand, which shook as it came to rest upon his knee ; and it was followed by a frightened voice, " Put that question first to your imagination." " It would be fearful," muttered Cyril. " It would be impossible for me alone ; but you and I together, on a dark night, with a horse and pack-saddle, or by means of ropes let down from the Shelf we might do it." " Does it seem to you simple ? " " No more difficult than the burying. It might be dangerous at this time of year." " Ask your imagination whether such a thing is possible. The body has been lying there some months. Days might be required to move it thoroughly. We should have to remove all the surrounding earth as well ; one tainted clod, scientifically examined by some wizard of the labora- tory, might become a witness against you. In years to come the bones may be removed. The body must remain." " Then I shall never be free," said Cyril, perceiving plainly there could be no answer to that argument. As a mere act, the removal of the body seemed no more hazardous than the burying of it ; but in this new and ghastly light the fact grew^ obvious, the fact of decay ; and the simple ending which Captain Elias had supplied 216 WINTERING HAY for the story of imagination could not be given to the tale of life. " We must stop this woman's mouth and hope for the best," George went on. " She cannot wish to ruin you, for she will have the sense to know that by witnessing against you she places her own liberty in peril. At the present moment she is desperate, feeling she has nothing to lose, but she will look at life differently when indepen- dence and comfort are secured for her. Cyril, cheer up. You are free. You may take a happy heart to Lilian." " I am not free while that woman lives." " You will neither see, nor hear from, her again," said George, rising and placing his hands upon Cyril's shoulders. It was now dark, so that their bodies looked like rocks, and their limbs like roots or branches ; and down upon them swept the fragrance from the larches, while the ground was very sweet with dew. A glow-worm kindled its lamp exultantly, large beetles made a pleasant booming, and all the place was filled with the shy things of Nature venturing out into the liberty of darkness to wonder what these men were doing in their night. " That I promise you ; I swear this act of friendship you are free." " Can you be certain that you will succeed ? " " I am certain. Maria Athberry will never trouble you again ; she has gone out of your life ; she is dead to you. Have I ever broken my word ? " " Never, dear man." " I shall not now. It is getting late," said George hoarsely. " Let me take you to my sister, and let me sit apart and watch you together, both happy, with not a shadow upon your lives, with nothing threatening either of you, with a clear prospect ahead. Don't thank me. Reward me by loving Lilian more. Give her happiness, and you pay your debt to me. God bless you both, dear Cyril " ; and George, giving way, nobly, for the mpment, bent his head and kissed his friend. THE CERTAIN TIE OF FRIENDSHIP 217 So they came out of the larch copse, and down into the fields where the evening was mystical with moonlight ; and as they began to walk towards the house Cyril felt his body light, as if a burden had rolled away from it, and his limbs seemed to beat the air like the wings of a bird, so that he longed for more rapid motion. " Run, George ! " he exclaimed, and immediately departed from his plodding friend, throwing back laugh and taunt, and at last a glance to see that dark figure following with slow and awkward movements, the clenched hands well up, the faithful head low down between the shoulders. " Run, George ! " mocked Cyril, who was swift-footed, but forgot those three long fields which separated him from the house. How easy it was during those first moments to part the air and to fly, striking the grass with. quick blows of his feet, springing forward, measuring ten yards of pasture each short second by the strength of new-found liberty, and joy of life, with the power of the moonlight added ; but his pace slackened before the first gate was reached and vaulted, difficulties of breathing began, then gasping, and a stab between the ribs ; and half-way across the second field heat and distress distorted Cyril's eyesight, so that he perceived a figure, long and dark, gliding away in front as if in challenge ; and he set himself to beat the apparition, but could not gain upon this ghostly runner which sped before him with no effort and in silence, mocking him as he had mocked George Corindon. They swept along in that moonlit pasture, the gliding figure always the same distance ahead, with George left far behind ; until Cyril threw back his head and made another effort, which left him breathless and forced him to a halt while crossing the field before the house ; and while he wiped the per- spiration from his face, and found his eyes, he perceived the figure walking like himself and knew its name ; it was himself, his unsubstantial shadow flung in front by moon- light ; and while smiling at the folly which had made him struggle to outstrip himself, another figure came up, 218 WINTERING HAY passed, and went on towards the house, a figure which was dark and solid, and ran on steadily without distress ; for George had stamina, which on a course of half a mile was bound to beat his friend's swift running. In the oak-panelled drawing-room Mrs. Corindon and Lilian, daintily dressed in clothes which matched the moonlight, were chatting upon a window-seat ; and opposite a man sat reading, a farm-labourer by his clothes, yet treated by the ladies as an equal. When Cyril had been welcomed by Lilian and her mother, he walked across to this man, who seemed much out of place, and most respectfully saluted him. " So you have given up the vegetables," said the big- booted, ill-clad labourer. " Will your next venture have some sense in it ? " " Blame me, father," cried Lilian. " It was not your idea," said Corindon. " But I encouraged it. Tell me, Cyril," she begged, " what is the next venture ? " Then he whispered, but somehow the master's ears caught the word, and he fell back in his chair and laughed like a schoolboy. " Quite right, Cyril. The very thing ; the profession I would have chosen for you. I am a farmer, George pro- poses to be a clergyman, and you have hit on poetry. Mine is a rough road, George's is a gloomy one, and yours is a windy one. Play a waltz, mother, and let the youngsters dance. They may as well be happy." Before leaving that night Cyril and Lilian were sent for by the master in his office. Corindon, leaning forward, turned down the lamp until there was hardly light enough to see their faces, and said, " Now, Cyril." " Mr. Corindon," said the boy faintly, knowing what was meant, " I love Lilian. Will you let me be engaged to her ? " " How strong are you ? " asked Corindon. " Strong," murmured Cyril. " I have nothing the matter with me." THE CERTAIN TIE OF FRIENDSHIP 219 " Can you face wind and weather ? Can you stand up against the storm ? Lilian knows what I mean." " I think he can, father," she answered. " So George got the better of you to-night. He ran slowly, but beat you." " I used myself up at the start," said Cyril. " Do you hear, Lilian ? " " Oh yes, but, father George can last for ever." " How long can Cyril last ? " " Just as long," she answered sweetly. " Happy ever after. Get that idea out of your heads," he said roughly. " I think it is possible," said Cyril boldly. " Lilian and I must find happiness. You know my position, Mr. Corindon you have always been more than kind to me ; you have made me feel Burntbeer is my home. It will be a long engagement, but we are both very young. I shall not ask Lilian to keep her promise until I have made a name for myself and a home for her." " You are not twenty yet ? " " In a few months." " Come again in ten years," said Corindon sharply. " What do you mean, father ? " cried Lilian. " If Cyril is to win his way out he will do it in ten years. The time is nothing. Burntbeer and its trees will be looking the same then. You shall be worked for, Lilian." " I love him, father," she faltered. " I know what you are made of ; but you, Cyril I have a feeling you're a coward." " Don't, father." " You have got to show some muscle. You shall stand up and fight your world, your flesh, and your devil. I don't know why you ask for my permission," Corindon went on more blandly. " If you and Lilian continue to love each other you will settle the matter for yourselves ; but since you do ask me, I will answer. Leave Wintering Hay, which is blighting you ; learn self-reliance, stiffen your spirit with some courage, love your work only a little 220 WINTERING HAY less than Lilian I don't care what the work is, but give your soul to it live as if she was always at your side. Go on in that way for ten years, and whether you win or lose you will deserve some happiness ; and Lilian may be free to give it. Good night, Cyril and good-bye," he said, turning the lamp still lower. " Start to-morrow. Lilian, stay here." CHAPTER XIII THE LAST TIME DURING the very period when it had been proved to Cyril that he was surrounded with friends he felt alone. Nor could he wander over the moorland to find companionship in Nature ; those crevassed regions of rock and bog were the same, but the light had been taken, and the green children of his imagination had gone away. The furze was golden then, making Middle Thirty a garden of indolence, suggesting voluptuous pleasures, luscious fruits, strong wines ; while the sun, as it waxed in strength, tempted young men to stretch their bodies upon the grass and satisfy their souls with dreams ; and during those days of idleness the world seemed empty, no message came from George, no voice whispered from the heights, not a memory came out of the grave, nor any poetic whisper from the sparkling rivers ; and all that was presented to Cyril's mind were ten huge masses of rock, ten mountains, which had to be removed by his own spade-work before the pathway he had missed each year could be uncovered and regained. That solitude was not in Nature, but self -created. Few had more friends, and none had better ; such as Joll, the struldbrug, careless of rent ; his sister, consumed with desire to keep the Chapel clean ; Sharley, bullying one minute and bestowing gifts the next ; and those at Burntbeer. These were for Cyril in all weathers, and against him were the uncle and aunt, hostile from religious motives, and Maria seeking for a home. Yet it seemed to Cyril that his kindest friend was Captain Mutter. Elias 221 222 WINTERING HAY was always with him, faithful out of selfishness ; while Lilian was some miles away, happy in her garden, not forgetful of her lover, but advised by Corindon to neglect him for a little, " Until he makes a move, and does some- thing to convince you he can help himself." It had been the Captain's custom to hasten towards the Chapel immediately after breakfast, and all other meals. A morning came when he appeared, nervous and solemn, forgetting even to bring out his pipe. He made a motion with his head towards the cleave, began to ascend, and Cyril followed up three flights of zigzags ; until Elias paused and looked out. " Tis peaceful," he muttered. " Not enough breeze to fill a sail." Then he glanced round and asked, " Did ye hear the storm ? " " I knew it had come directly I saw your face. Which was it ? " asked Cyril. " Both of 'em. Andrew may be a man after God's own heart, but he's too much of a coward to face his brother. I have been trying for days to drive him into a corner, but whenever I get near he hurries off to Caroline. Last night I spoke I never meant to, but they roused my devil. Both of 'em were in a bad temper because of you." " What have I done ? What have they heard about me? " " Wait a bit. I am coming to you when I have finished about myself. Caroline cursed me for my dirty boots. I told her I was poor, I had no money to buy fancy slippers, and that set the breezes blowing. My character was read out to me. I was a lazy rascal, I had come to Wintering Hay to sponge upon them, and I intended to remain there in idleness for the rest of my life. I watched Andrew, and he nodded ; he agreed, though he hadn't the courage to speak out, though he doesn't know what working means a man who has never sweated in his life. I got up ; I didn't move towards him, but I said, ' This is my holiday, the first I have taken since I was a lad, and I have got to take it because I have come to a loose end.' " THE LAST TIME 223 " I can guess what followed/' " Ay, I reckon you have heard it often. I was a son of Satan, an enemy of God, a hater of religion. I was reminded that plenty of honest professions were open to me, such as sweeping a crossing, blacking boots, and driving a cab. Then I was accused of going into beerhouses ; I admitted that, and Caroline turned from me with a shudder and shrieked out, ' Wretched man.' ' " That is one of the deadliest sins. They bribe the servants to tell them." " I asked Caroline to mention which commandment I had broken, and she got out of the difficulty by answering, ' All of them/ I pointed out she had no particular objection to my drinking a glass of beer in that house, and I asked how it could be wrong to drink a glass of the same stuff in another house. She replied that only drunkards visited beerhouses." " What did your brother say ? " " Not a word. I was roused ; I felt myself running under full sail, and I didn't care whether I went on the rocks or not. I turned to Andrew ; I called him by his name, but that wouldn't move him ; I went up, touched him on the shoulder, but couldn't wake him. Then I spoke out straight, said I knew I wasn't wanted, they longed to get rid of me, and I promised 'em to go the same hour that work was offered me. ' Give me a bit of money/ I said. ' I don't ask it as a favour. Give me a few pounds of what my father left you/ ' " He refused ! " cried Cyril. " Andrew stirred at last, got up, and shuffled out of the room. I believe he thought I was going to hit him. He left me alone with Caroline, and as she began to follow him she said, ' We will give you nothing. You would spend it all upon drink/ And the queer part about it is this," the Captain added, " I am a sober man, but since I have been at Wintering Hay I have noticed Andrew more than once just a little bit muddled with port wine." " What about myself ? " asked Cyril restlessly. 224 WINTERING HAY " They have heard a report that you have given up working in your garden," said Elias. " Those servants again. I ought to have told them myself, but I was afraid to speak. Anything else ? " " Plenty," said the Captain grimly. " They understand you are living in absolute idleness upon eighteen shillings a week which they allow you. It is a matter of common knowledge that when you do leave your cottage you merely walk out to take the air ; and upon sundry occasions you have entertained young women of doubtful character behind a curtained window and a locked door." " Oh, uncle ! " gasped Cyril. " This will ruin me." " I wouldn't take it upon myself to contradict you. You were a thundering ass, my boy, to have anything to do with women. That's the one thing everybody tells about, and you couldn't hope to escape, for your cottage door can be seen from any part of Wintering Hay. I am idle and a drunkard ; you are idle and immoral. The righteous down yonder have excommunicated us both." " I cannot explain to them," said Cyril despairingly. " You must try. They are waiting for you now. When we had finished breakfast, Caroline said to me in a voice which lowered the temperature, ' I suppose you are going, as usual, to our nephew. Perhaps you will let him know we wish to see him/ " " I am no worse than others. Why can't they overlook my faults ? " said Cyril. " The best of us is not good enough for them. Wait a minute before you go. What is the meaning of these letters ? " " What letters ? " " The letters that are addressed to you at Wintering Hay. One came this morning." Cyril turned upon the Captain a face of sheer amazement. " Letters addressed to me ! It is impossible. All my friends know where I am." " My boy, there is something nasty here," said Elias THE LAST TIME 225 fiercely. " During the time I have been down yonder at least three letters have come for you ; and there was another this morning. Do you tell me you know nothing about them ? " " Nothing whatever. I know all letters are taken at once to Uncle Andrew and he gives them out." " Or keeps them. He is playing some game which most would find too dirty. They are simple folks," said Elias with a smile. " They talk before me, and overlook the fact that I am certain to pass on the knowledge. I found 'em whispering over this letter when I came down ; I heard Caroline ask, ' Is the poor wretch alive ? ' Andrew was muttering something about a struggle with poverty and disease being wonderfully good for the soul, while he turned his back upon me and opened his prayer-book. I just caught a glimpse of the envelope, and noticed it was addressed in very inelegant handwriting. I couldn't see the postmark. Have you any idea now who the writer is?" " Not the slightest." " You look frightened." " I thought it might be from some one in this neigh- bourhood." " Exposing your gay life ? It is not that, for later on Caroline referred again to the letter and said, ' It's a mercy the wretched creature is a long way off.' I got the idea, Cyril, that these letters are written by some one who wants you pretty badly. Stand up to Andrew, and make him hand it over." " I am helpless if he refuses, as he would. Could you get it for me, uncle ? " " He put it into the top drawer of his writing-table." " That is kept locked." " I have noticed the key left in it. Perhaps he is more careless now that you are out of the house. I'll try to get hold of it before to-night. They will be asleep again by the time you have been dismissed and my bag is ready to be thrown outside the door." 226 WINTERING HAY " It will not come to that. Aunt is certain to give way at the last moment," said Cyril as he moved down the hill. " Andrew won't let her," the Captain answered, then muttered with his eyes on Cyril's shoulders, " He's an outcast already and doesn't know it ; and I shall be with him before the morning." There was a sound of hymn-singing in the house ; Cyril smiled sadly while he listened, waiting in the hall for the ceremonies to end. Presently his uncle came out, but passed, apparently blind and dumb, entered the dining- room, leaving the door open ; Cyril lingered, expecting his aunt to appear with an anathema, but she did not ; he seemed forgotten, so he moved about and stamped his feet outside the room where he knew Caroline would be sitting ; and then at last Andrew summoned him with the usual phrase, " Cyril, step this way." As the boy entered Mutter placed a well-drained wine- glass on the table. He stood in his customary attitude, leaning forward, his arms hanging loosely ; the face had no expression, the skin looked dead. Cyril remembered he had never seen his uncle's eyes. " Light a candle," came the order, an extraordinary one, as the room was full of light, and outside that sunshine which never entered Wintering Hay beat upon the ground in great abundance ; yet Cyril obeyed, knowing the man's trick of wandering, still in terror of that parchment face ; and having lighted a candle he set it upon the table, while Mutter gazed upon the dancing flame for a full long minute. " You are idle," he said suddenly. " You spend your money upon harlots." " Who told you that ? " asked Cyril calmly ; and as he spoke remembered the date, his uncle's birthday, so he went on quietly, " I wish you many happy returns of your birthday." " Where ? Here, or in the churchyard ? " " Here," muttered Cyril. THE LAST TIME 227 " Let me spend them beside the Throne of Glory, singing psalms, with a white robe about me." How ridiculous you would look, thought Cyril. " You are going to hell. You must go to hell now. Nothing can save you from the jaws of eternal death." Cyril sighed wearily. He had heard all this so often. " You exist as the living proof of the awful power of Satan. You have brought evil spirits into this house. You live near by in vice. You encourage the wretched man, my brother, to forsake his God and to despise his relations. There is no good thing in you no, not one." Cyril sighed again ; but still said nothing. " We have done our duty. We brought you up tenderly, and surrounded you with Christian influences. We taught you how to pray, we made you listen to sermons ; we neglected nothing. We took you out of the dirt, and to the dirt you must return. God has cursed you," said Mutter, his hands shaking like a poplar's leaves. " He has cut you off from the congregation of the faithful, and delivered you unto Satan for the destruction of your soul. Sweet Jesu," he muttered, bowing profoundly in an agony of devotion. " Didst Thou sacrifice Thyself for worms like this ? " Cyril then determined to say nothing on his own behalf, well aware that his tongue must miss the mark. His uncle's mind was narrow ; already it was occupied with as much as it could hold, and the words of his defence would have been a waste of breath. It was idle to say that he had found himself and was not idling, nor guilty of receiving women of ill-fame, that he was laying out his talents to the best advantage. In wretched silence he beheld the man who had given him misery, stifled his will, and provoked him to sin ; who had sought to exclude him from Nature ; who had played the deity with him, but had ruled him with a rod which the Creator Himself refrained from handling a man who called himself a miserable sinner and a worm, yet acted as if much higher than the angels. 228 WINTERING HAY " To-morrow a clergyman will come here. Next week he will return to the Arctic regions, and you will accompany him." " In what capacity ? " asked Cyril, clenching his hands. " The holy bishop of the diocese has built a school for the education of the heathen. He is calling for helpers and teachers. We have offered you for the work, and you have been accepted. We offer you to God's service, praying that even at this late hour you may repent and receive a blessing." " Is my consent not needed ? " Cyril whispered. " We have given you an excellent education," Mutter went on. " We now give you the opportunity of profiting by it. No salary will be given, but you will receive board and lodging, with such clothes as may be necessary. I understand the winters are severe, but I am assured the climate is most healthy. You will find yourself among holy people ; you will be permitted sometimes to meet the bishop himself. He will be most helpful to you most helpful." " Have you done with me ? " said Cyril, when the monotonous voice ceased speaking, wondering why it was he could not find courage to speak out plainly. " You may go. Be here at twelve o'clock to-morrow." Then Mutter opened his eyes wide in astonishment, and shuffled away, calling in his simple fashion, " Little dearie ! Why did you light that candle in the dining- room ? " Cyril went out, astonished in his turn to find how short a period of light had passed since leaving Elias, whom he discovered half-way up the cleave. The Captain looked up earnestly and said, " So you're expelled." Cyril flung himself down and told the story, which made the Captain chew his knuckles and look frightened. " It's a conspiracy," he said thickly. " It's a sort of white-slave traffic. He means to sell you into bondage. I've seen plenty of these missionaries, and I don't say anything against 'em, but when they get hold of people THE LAST TIME 229 they make 'em sweat, give 'em no wages, tell them they must give themselves to God. If they get you out there you cannot escape. You will be as helpless as a young woman in a nunnery." " I said nothing, but, of course, I shall refuse to go," said Cyril fiercely. " Then you will have to get away before to-morrow. Pack your bundle and wait for me." " What can we do ? " " Walk away into the country, and feel free." " I will not leave this place. I am bound to it." " You must not stay here. They will make you go." " They cannot if I refuse." " They will cut off your allowance, clear the furniture out of your cottage best go without being driven." " Wait a moment," said Cyril. " Let me think." The words of Corindon came back to him : " Leave Wintering Hay." It was true good fortune had not come to him there ; some prize of life might be awaiting him elsewhere. Then came the words of George : "I swear this act of friendship you are free." No longer would he be required to act as guardian of that grave, and while the Mutters lived the place where it was made would never be walked on. " Will you take a long walk with me to-day ? " he asked. " Wait until to-morrow," said Elias, misunderstanding him. " I mean to Blackerton. I want to make an enquiry there." " I will come with you, and perhaps I'll bring that letter. Wait for me outside the gate at half -past one." Through the new solitude Cyril passed into the old silence of the Chapel, with the fear of farewell about him. This might well be the last day of youth and life as he had known it, the last day of Dartmoor, the last of ease. Although Cyril had lately lost friendship with his surroundings he was unwilling to part from them ; their value was raised 280 WINTERING HAY by the discovery that he might see them no more. The last day of that particular form of Nature, the last look, the last thrill of recognition it could not be borne with tranquillity, it made for heart-ache because it was the end, the closing of a part within the whole, the termination of a period, a violent interruption. After all, he had found happiness more than once during those long rambles on the moorland ; he had seen glimpses of perfect life ; he had been shown the pathway faintly in the mist. He had used weeks, months, and j^ears, now no longer in his power, not altogether unprofitably, by exposing his mind to the elements, and invoking Nature to play upon his brain ; and the harvest was bound to come, the wheat growing then would ripen, golden ears would be produced by a change of conditions if the locusts spared them, and the blight was kept from them, and the storm -wind did not cut them down. Cyril went about the cottage collecting his few possessions, shocked to find he had so little : a small parcel of clothes, half a dozen books, his first manuscript, little miracles in envelopes from Lilian, and the ordinary- toilet articles, were all he had the right to bear away. Again he realised how little the Mutters had given him except a home ; and with that thought came a longing to see his aunt, not because he loved her, but because the weakness of the last day, and the fear of the unknown, forced him to remember all that was good in her, the kind words she| had spared for him, and the love which was suppressed in her, kept down because it was sinful love. This sale of his body to the missionaries of the Arctic Seas was no work of hers, yet she could not protest against it, though she might weep for it, when the saintly Andrew convinced her that God had called their nephew, and they as the instruments of divine will must speed him into banishment. Cyril knew that if he could find Caroline alone, in a gentle mood of listening, and tell her that the stories she had heard concerning him were false, she would believe and might promise him assistance ; THE LAST TIME but he knew also that this interview would not be per- mitted. His uncle had determined upon his banishment to the far ends of the earth, to force him, as it were, outside the world so that he could not return ; to exclude him from earth, from the dangerous sunshine, and the sensual Nature of gardens and flowers, that he might be forgotten and gone for ever. Cyril went out beside the wall. His tree was barely visible, struggling for life among brambles and bracken which had grown into dense thickets concealing the ground entirely. There was no sign that any human hand had dug there since the age of stone. That autumn a mass of de- cayed fern would lie upon the place ; next year another would be formed. Already Gideon was forgotten. There had been no wonder at his departure ; others had dis- appeared as suddenly, either loaded with debt or pestered by some woman, or afraid to face the consequences of some petty law-breaking ; and Gideon had been a notorious poacher, bound loosely to a woman who was not his wife. That body in the wilderness of Wintering Hay would never be disturbed, nor would the ground reveal its secret, while Maria Athberry remained dumb. " No luck," said Elias, when Cyril met him at the appointed time. " The drawer was locked, the key was gone ; but I'll get that letter yet. I have not spoken a word since I left you ; I sat at the table with them a man in a museum between two mummies. Andrew was mumbling to himself and praising God. I could see that Caroline had been crying." " She would be kind if he would let her." " That's right. She don't want you to be sold into slavery. She would have been a natural woman, and a right good Christian, if she had steered clear of Andrew. His mind is the rock she has split upon. He has played the deuce with her life ; yet she loves him, she is happy with him. Her face is getting to look like his flabby and white, with just the same lack of all expression. Let 'em go on," said the Captain roughly. " Let Andrew pray till 232 WINTERING HAY all's blue ; and give away my father's money to the heathen I am a relation, a dog, I can struggle and die in a ditch. He wouldn't give a shilling to his brother ; but to-night ends it. I'll say good-bye to-night." Walking was easy and pleasant that day, very different from the cold wind and rain through which Cyril had struggled homeward after his former visit to Blackerton. The moorland town was in its shabby best ; the weeds in its gardens were in flower, the steep streets were dry, the houses looked somewhat less decayed. Cross Street, deserted as usual, was filled with sunshine. Leaving Elias in what was known as Market Square, although it was not a square and the market was held elsewhere, where grass and dandelions flourished, and dock-leaves waved above the cobblestones, Cyril passed along the shadow of the Cross and knocked at the door of Number Thirteen, waited for a few moments, feeling sick with nervousness, until a perspiring woman presented herself at the window of the parvis chamber and ordered him off. " I think Mrs. Fley lives here," he called. " This is a decent house, and I'm a respectable lady," said the woman angrily. " I'll tell ye that, and if you don't get on I'll send for policeman." " I want to see her upon business," faltered Cyril. " I know your business. I took that woman into my house out of charity, and she stung me like a viper. Mrs. Fley one day, Miss Athberry the next ; wi* first one man calling himself a gentleman, and then another, "coming after her. Look at the card in the window. It says dress- making, don't it ? Well, it is dressmaking, and nothing else ; nothing that you're after, and so I tell ye." " I want to speak to Mrs. Fley on a matter of honest business," Cyril declared. " You don't look as bad as the last," said the woman less tempestuously. " He wur a dark little man wi' crooked shoulders ; a proper villain, I could see. Directly I saw him, I said to myself, ' Satan gave you that hump, my man.' If you be honest, what do ye want wi' the dirty toad ? " THE LAST TIME " It is a private matter." " Aw, go on. You'm no better than t'other. You won't find the woman here, for I turned her out, and you won't find her in Blackerton neither." " Do you know where she is ? " " Not me, and I don't bother. Far away I hope. Gone on the streets, likely enough the proper place for she." " You are certain she has left the neighbourhood ? " " You don't seem particular sorry not to find her. I did hear she took a ticket to Plymouth ; but I don't trouble where she is so long as she's out of my house." " Thank you very much," said Cyril ; and he returned to Elias, satisfied that George had kept his word, and had prevailed over Maria and he was free. " You seem cheerful," said the Captain, while they were walking home. " I feel as if I can do as I like now," Cyril answered. " I don't care a hang what happens." They returned in a leisurely fashion, so that evening was drawing on by the time they approached the gate of Wintering Hay. Elias caught at his nephew's arm suddenly and held him while he gazed into the bramble-haunted garden. " Be ready for me," he said at last. " Don't go to bed until I come." " Shall I see you again to-night ? " asked Cyril wonderingly, knowing well that nobody was allowed outside the house after half -past nine. " I'll be coming later," said Elias in a deep voice. " I shall sleep up at the Chapel. I'm going to say good-bye to my brother, and I'm going to get your letter." " Don't have a row," Cyril pleaded. " I'll just say good-bye ; but I'll get another meal out of my father's money first. I am going to pack my bag now," he said simply. " I'll take nothing except what I brought with me. He can leave the old silver lying about ; I won't touch it, though 'tis as much mine as his." He stamped his boots, flung the gate open, and went. For a few moments Cyril was tempted to follow towards 234 WINTERING HAY his aunt's presence and her heart. Now that night was drawing on, and immense solitude closed about him, he realised that this was indeed the end ; to-morrow he would be homeless. Refusal to go into exile must mean the withdrawal of the small allowance which had enabled him to live in Fley's old cottage, if nothing worse ; for Cyril, ignorant of life and the law, dreaded lest he should be compelled by his guardian Mutter to go with the clergyman who would the next day claim him. Fear of his uncle, added to the certainty that he would not find his aunt alone, made him turn away, pass up the trackway, ascend the stone steps, enter his cottage, muttering to every article, " This is the last time/' He sat near the door, afraid of life, afraid of the world, and at last afraid of Nature. The forces around were mighty, while he was weak and absolutely alone. In spite of Lilian and George he was alone. Clouds of evening were scattering, and soon some stars appeared for company. The universe had been widened for Cyril by Elias, who had pointed out the various constellations, telling him their names. Now Cyril glanced heavenwards with frightened eyes. What were the Hunting Dogs and Berenice's Hair to him ? No more than sparks of glittering mica on the granite. Antares was not his home, Gideon Fley was not buried in Achenar, nor did Lilian tend a garden in Betel- geux. His passions burnt upon a ball of dirt to these great stars invisible ; too small to fling a light through space, too little for the mind, yet overwhelming to his own mean body. How immense to him was that speck, lost upon a speck, called Wintering Hay, where even then some great thing was happening, some drama was being played, shaping human lives, influencing human souls, and having its end perhaps in some region beyond the stars. The night grew heavier ; never had that shelf of rock been less troubled by breathings from the moor ; yet there was passion stirring in the house below, and creatures were awakening, eyes were staring, and tongues saying like his own, " This is the end." THE LAST TIME 235 " Where is our brother ? " asked Andrew Mutter, after peering into those parts of the room which were outside the influence of the candlelight, and finding solitude. " He went from the dining-room upstairs," said Caroline, " Are you sure he has not gone out to visit our nephew ? " " He has not come down ; I should have heard him. He shakes the house with his great clumsy boots." " What can he be doing upstairs ? " asked Andrew, rising and standing in the attitude of great helplessness. " Smoking out of the window. He hates our company," she said bitterly. " He uses this house as an hotel, where he can eat and sleep, but need not pay." " Altogether worthless/' said Mutter, addressing heaven. " Wretched man that he is, how can he hope to escape from the pangs of eternal death ? " 4 ' He is coming ! " Andrew shuffled back to his chair and book of sermons ; Caroline shaded the light of her candle more effectually. Both feigned to read while listening. " I believe he is sitting in the hall," she whis- pered. " He drank more than usual ; he finished his bottle." Andrew did not move, though much perturbed, thinking it was possible there might be a conspiracy between Elias and Cyril, which would culminate during the night in robbery and mischief to himself. In all sincerity he believed that both brother and nephew were utterly base, and any friendly connection with either might bring a curse upon him. Repulsion, stronger in him than cowardice, made him shrink from his own relations, dreading lest he might be denied ; as others might have drawn back from scorpions or tarantulas, fearful of poison or of contact with a loathsome body. "What was that?" shrieked Caroline. "Andrew! there are robbers in the house." Then, foolish with terror, she hurried to the windows and slammed the shutters over them. 236 WINTERING HAY " Do not be frightened, little darling. It was a chair knocked over. See how calm I am." " The wretched man is in the dining-room, breaking the furniture/' she panted. "He is looking for the wine. He cannot restrain his abominable appetite." " He shall not rob us. If you are sure it is Elias " she cried, going to the door, opening it, staring out with a shudder when her eyes fell among shadows. " Who is it ? " she called, then screamed, " There is a man. I hear him coming." But it was only Elias in his plain rough clothes and heavy boots, with a walking-stick in his hand, and a map of the district beneath his arm. He came into the room and seated himself heavily near the door. His face looked livid. " What is the meaning of this conduct ? " said Caroline fiercely. The Captain took no notice of her. He stared at his brother, and called in his deepest voice, " Andrew ! " The elder man quivered a little, but did not answer. " You have been rolling about the house like a drunkard, going into the dining-room, breaking things, stealing the wine. You come in here with a stick. You are drunk now," she went on ; but Elias put out his hand and checked her with the words, " Stand by, Caroline. Give me fair play. I am talking to him to my brother." Then he shouted, " Andrew ! Wake up." " The wretched man is mad," she shuddered. " Ay, he's a madman who calls to wood and stone. I am mad I have some human nature in me. All the world is mad except that man. You were mad yourself, Caroline, before he crushed the spirit out of you." " Andrew, say something." " I cannot get at him ; I can't find him through the rust and rot. I am saying good-bye to you, Andrew," Elias shouted, standing up. " Before another five minutes are over I shall be as dead to you as you are to life. It's nothing to you whether I have a roof over me and food to eat. I THE LAST TIME 237 am an animal to work in harness, to be knocked on the head when I get past work. Your God won't look at me. Your heaven would be denied if I came near it. Put out your hand and say good-bye to your brother, then put him out of your mind, and out of your future if you can." He moved a step forward, while Andrew shuddered and stared at his monstrous slippers, but could not speak nor make a motion of his arms. " Good-bye, Caroline," said Elias quietly ; but she set her lips, and her face quivered with anger as she turned from him. " Good-bye, Andrew." There was neither sound nor movement. After that came a moment of grim staring ; followed by the shout, " Wake up ! " ; then an earthquake seemed to strike the house. Elias reeled forward, and with two blows of his stick swept the mantelshelf from end to end above his brother's head, hurling the gaunt china to destruction. He said no more, but went out, tramped heavily up the stairs, descended with his carpet-bag. There was a com- plete silence ; the hall was dark, for light was not needed there. Captain Mutter passed out of his father's house to face the world. He found Cyril sitting beside a stable-lantern which he had borrowed from Betty Joll, having by an accident broken his lamp-glass. " It is all over," said Elias quietly. " I have said my farewells ; I have awakened the sleeper. To-morrow we try the luck of the road." He opened his map and spread it out, then pointed to a district he had marked. " They call it No Man's Land," he said. " And in the centre of it is a place on hilly ground. Its name is Blue Violet. I like the sound of that ; I have a notion we shall do well to tramp there. Are you ready ? " " My letter ! " cried Cyril. " I had forgot. I have it here. I went into the dining- room and broke the drawer pen." 288 WINTERING HAY Cyril snatched the letter, caught up the lantern, hurried out to the far end of the Shelf, where water trickled tear- like down the face of the cliff and damp ferns brushed his face, brought the crumpled paper near the smoky glass, and read by that light, which was white no longer, but hot and glaring : " Mr. Rossingall dere sir. Eva says this is the last time. I have wrote to you for her two times this week but you dont answer and she says you dont care no more she says try again and say hes my brother and it wasnt my fault. I was drove to it dere sir I have wrote this before she says perhaps he dont get the letters so try again, he cant give me up she says, dere sir Eva is at the first house corner of Terns street stepney and its consumption and she crys in the night, and dere sir she is crying now. from yours humbly Bess Sadgrove." CHAPTER XIV FLIGHT FROM THE GREEN WAY EE a dim sanctuary glimmered the Chapel in lantern-light more than half the night. Cyril had told the story which must alter his life ; no difficulty arising from one of his acts of folly, no burden he had placed upon himself ; but the young sister dying of disease, calling- to her only brother, her natural protector, supposing him to be a gentleman surrounded with luxuries, having the power, but not the inclination, to save her life. " Andrew's fault," the Captain muttered. " He ruins everybody. He read this letter and others like it, then thanked God he was no sinner. The persecution of Jews two thousand years ago brings tears into his eyes, while the agony of this young girl, his niece, is nothing." " I shall go to her," said Cyril. " Better write and explain things : tell her you have no money and no home, that you are a tramp, going through the country with your uncle looking for a haystack to sleep on." " I will go," said Cyril doggedly. He produced his money, spread it out, counted it feverishly, and tried to make it more than twenty- three shillings. " I owe Joll two weeks' rent. When I have paid that I shall have one pound, and the single fare to London is sixteen shillings. Uncle, can you lend me a sovereign ? " " I can't, boy ; I dare not," said Elias hoarsely. " You have five pounds." " I dare not break into them. If you must go, walk it. 239 240 WINTERING HAY Travelling costs a penny a mile, and you can do thirty in a day and beg your food." " I could steal, but I cannot beg," said Cyril fiercely. " Send Eva ten shillings, and come with me. Next week we may both find work, and then you can send more. Tramping to London is a waste of time, and when you reach the girl, what can you do for her except say how sorry you are ? Sympathy won't help her. She wants a decent lodging and good food. Come with me into mid-Devon to-morrow and we will take the first job offered us, get into a cottage, and Eva can come down to keep house for us." " She may be dead. Perhaps she is on the point of death now. I must speak to her, tell her I I am not ashamed of her, I want her. I'll start in the morning, and walk the two hundred miles in four days. We will part on the road yonder if you won't come with me ? " " I am for the quiet places," said Elias. " Write to me at the post office, Blue Violet, and come as soon as you can." " With Eva, or after I have buried her," Cyril murmured. By the smoky light he opened the bundle he had pre- pared to take with him, and discarded all that was un- necessary except his manuscript. The few books he could leave with Joll. This business was over in five minutes ; and then Elias spoke again : " 'Tis a queer life you have led, Cyril. Getting away from here is the best thing that could happen." " A life of false pretences," said his nephew. " I did not say that." " It is the truth. My father was a labourer, my sisters have gone to the bad ; while I have been brought up as a gentleman, and have passed as one." " And have become engaged to a young lady." " She does not know." " Tis clear you must give her up." " Why must I ? Is it my fault that I am homeless, that my father sank, and my sisters have been brought to the gutter ? Why should I be punished ? Am I to lose FLIGHT FROM THE GREEN WAY 241 everything, my life itself, my prospect of happiness ? I will not give her up." " You must be just to the girl, tell her the truth, and let her judge. Suppose you do well enough to marry her ; and one day Alice, with her husband the chimney-sweep, walk into your house " " Damn you, uncle ! Have I not enough to bear without this ? " cried Cyril wildly. ' You don't know the Corin- dons ; they would overlook anything," he went on, more calmly. " Tell them, then," said Elias. " I will not. My unfortunate life, and my unfortunate relations, shall not come between Lilian and myself. I could not even tell George," he muttered, knowing that the Corindons took some pride in their blood. " This is my affair entirely, and I will do as I like." " Go your own way," said Elias. " Only remember a woman, who has been deceived, never forgets and does not often forgive. If your sisters are dead by the time you marry, it may be easy to deceive your wife ; but if they are alive you will never sleep in peace. We are both the sons of gentlemen, but now we are tramps ; and next week we may be agricultural labourers. I cannot tell the doctor's widow that I am her equal so far as birth is concerned : you will touch your cap to the young lady at the vicarage, but if you want to make love you must go to the ploughman's daughter. We are levelled down to the common people at present, and we must mix with them." " We have education," said Cyril. " No good," replied the Captain. " Anybody could tell we are gentlemen by our speech." " No good either. Money is the levelling instrument. Without it we are tramps. With it we can hobnob with any one. Let's get to bed and have some comfort while we can. To-morrow night we may be sleeping on the grass." Before fastening the door Cyril was impelled to take a last stroll along the Shelf. The friendship of Captain Elias WINTERING HAY seemed then less precious, and judged by the high standard of George's love it was mere dross. He had asked for a loan to help his sister, and it had been refused ; while the mere suggestion would have emptied George's pockets. Before he had been asked he would have offered all. The friend- ship of Elias was of that kind which could not make a sacrifice. Certainly he had procured that letter, if only out of anger with his brother and by so doing had brought another mountain upon Cyril. As he turned near the wall, looking down upon the half-seen wilderness, lights appeared at the windows of Wintering Hay and shadows crossed the blinds. Cyril stood staring in amazement, then called the Captain, and they looked out together, hearing no sound, but conscious of life and movement in the house. " You have spoilt their sleep," said Cyril grimly. " I never heard a sound in the house after ten o'clock. That is their room," said Elias, pointing. "That is Caro- line's shadow. She is bending up and down. It looks to me as if she was trying to lift some weight." " We are outside anyhow. We need not go down to enquire." " They would be frightened to death if they heard a knock at the door. It is nearly half-past twelve," said the Captain. " I have an idea Andrew has lost his senses gone crazy with religious mania, and has done himself some harm." " I cannot hear a sound." " We are too far away and the windows are closed. There are lights downstairs now. Both the servants are about." " One night uncle got up and declared it was time for breakfast. I remember that, for I looked out and saw him standing in the passage in socks and a nightshirt, calling the servants. Then aunt came out and took him back to bed. Something of the same kind may have happened now." "They can attend to their own affairs," said Elias gruffly. FLIGHT FROM THE GREEN WAY 248 They left the Shelf, and being both exceedingly tired were soon asleep ; and when they awoke were too much occupied with their own tremendous business to spare any thought for Wintering Hay. Cyril was first to leave. By five o'clock he was outside in the sunshine with a bundle on his back, anxious to be off, yet unwilling to change the scene, looking from Captain Mutter at his side to the steep white road beyond. " Hand over this money to Joll. Tell him I am sorry I could not give him notice," he said. " I'll watch you out of sight. Look back when you get to the top of the hill, and give me a last wave for good luck." " I shall be up that road in ten minutes," laughed Cyril. " Take it easy. A steady walk all day pays better than half running at the start. Don't be afraid of asking for a lift ; nothing is lost by it, and you may gain a lot." " I will write to you at Blue Violet the day after I get to London," Cyril promised. " By the time I come I shall expect to find home and work." "I'll do my best. Good-bye, lad. May you have a lucky voyage and find a snug harbour to cast anchor in." Hardly had Cyril gone when a servant climbed up to the Shelf with a note for him. " Master's been seized," she gasped. " He was took sudden at midnight, just a minute after the clock struck twelve. Called out once, mistress says, tried to get up and fell down. Mistress screamed, and we went to her. We had to lift him up, sir, and lay him on the bed. He stared horrid." " Is he alive ? " " Yes, sir. He'm alive, but he can't move nor yet speak. Mistress sits beside him and sobs. She wrote this letter to Mr. Cyril, and told me to bring it up as soon as it was day." " Tell her it is too late. He has gone." " Gone, sir ! He was here yesterday." Elias looked up. There was Cyril ascending the road 244 WINTERING HAY opposite, walking at a pace which could not last, looking back from time to time at the figure beneath the cliff. Captain Mutter had only to shout, or signal him to return, to alter his nephew's course of life entirely ; but he made no move. Putting out his hand he took the letter, and said, " Tell your mistress Mr. Cyril has gone to London, and I will send him on this letter." He had no intention of doing so. Acting with selfishness, he called it kindness. Wintering Hay seemed closed to him for ever, and now that Andrew's body was paralysed and his mastership at an end, Caroline desired her nephew, his comfort and support, his help in the hour of her great solitude. Tearing open the envelope, when the servant had departed she had not seen that figure climbing opposite, since where she had stood a rowan in full bloom hid the road Elias satisfied himself this was true. " It has pleased God to deprive your dear uncle of speech and power of movement. Come to me, Cyril, come at once to your home, and let us beside his bed forget your sins." And Cyril was walking away towards London, the world, and a new life, knowing nothing of the cry ; and Captain Mutter was the only being in the world who had the power to bring him back ; but he sat grimly on and made no sign. " No home is offered me," he said deliberately. " I am left out, and if Cyril comes back I shall be alone. I must have his company." He threw up his arms and waved, then went on mur- muring, " I meant to punish him, to wake him ; I didn't reckon on this. She knows I brought it on. She is ready to forgive Cyril, but the doors and windows would be locked if I went near." A cry startled him, and he looked up to see Cyril standing at the last bend of the road before it went eastward out of sight, gazing down upon the valley of Wintering Hay, the rocky platform, and himself. There was still time to call him back. One shout, one wave of that white letter, would have done it, would have restored Cyril FLIGHT FROM THE GREEN WAY 245 to his former position, and brought him perhaps a few years nearer happiness ; but the signal was not made. Elias sat with closed eyes and his arms folded, saying to himself, " It is better he should go. He knows nothing about life. Let him get out and learn, as I did. In a few months he will be a man, while if he stayed on here he would not grow, he would do no good, he would rust and rot. So Andrew is as good as dead. He has paralysed humanity in others, and now he is paralysed himself." He opened his eyes ; the road was empty. Cyril had gone into the world. Elias was not long in following. Gripping his carpet-bag he went down the trackway, passed the house where his brother was lying, dumb but conscious, walking stealthily like a thief, reached the road, turned off down the first deep lane which led into the required direction of the heart of Devon ; and while he walked on steadily, a strange and conspicuous figure with his gaudy bag, Cyril in the opposite direction went with athletic swiftness towards London. He prided himself on being no mean walker, and before coming to a halt that night he had covered forty miles ; but he could not get over the ground without spending money, for hunger had to be satisfied every few hours, and he had spoken the truth when he declared he could not beg. Nor would his pride allow him to ask for a lift. One thing he thought he could do, and that was to sleep in the open, but even this was not permitted, because rain came on, and Cyril had not sufficient courage to attempt an entry into some barn where he might be discovered and mistaken for a vagabond. So he struggled on to a small market-town in the green county of Somersetshire, and spent a precious eighteenpence on supper and a bed. It was not until the afternoon of the sixth day after leaving the Chapel that Cyril reached London. He had over-estimated his powers ; he could walk well during one day, but lacked the lasting quality, and his feet grew tender quickly ; bad weather also held him back, roads 246 WINTERING HAY were sticky, and wind prevailed against him as if Nature was telling him to turn again towards the west. Many tramps were passed, some wishing to join Cyril, but he shook them off ; one stuck like a burr for half a day, descanting upon the glories of the road until the pace became too hot for his indolence, and he was left in a ditch muttering his litany of independence. There was no charm of the road for Cyril ; it was a horror to feel his weary feet beating hour after hour upon that accursed macadam, not knowing where he would eat, or where sleep, wearing the same sweat-soaked garments every day, afraid to remove his boots lest his swollen feet should refuse to enter them again. Better the poorest cottage in the loneliest corner, with the hardest of work to occupy the day, than the liberty of the road with men and lice. Entering London upon the west side, a series of very wonderful pictures were presented : the tides of population flowing up and down beneath the never-ending cliffs of buildings ; the contrast between some stately terrace and a street of workmen's houses ; the continuous thunder of traffic, the wealth of the shops. Cyril felt less weary, but more shabby, yet realised that his clothes were not looked at, he had no existence apart from his own consciousness, he was merely the man in the crowd, and this knowledge was a joy. This was the solitude he had longed for ; there was more loneliness here than beneath the leaves which trembled around Wintering Hay ; and all secrets could be forgotten. Even the tragedy of Eva seemed to lose its grimness in that careless wonder of sheer movement ; and as Cyril with romantic eyes stared at the rushing tide of leisured men, merchants, gay clerks, steady old fellows, costermongers, beggars, ghastly in- valids, bright young girls, gamblers, drunkards shuffling after men who walked with springy step, exhausted women of the town, himself seeking information and finding none, noting the sodden complexion of so many, the dim eyes and pale lips, he could have muttered, " All these have secrets, and they do not allow themselves to be read." FLIGHT FROM THE GREEN WAY 247 He asked a policeman to direct him towards Stepney, and received the answer : " It's a long way from here. Get on that omnibus. It will take you to Liverpool Street. When you get there anybody will put you right." " Is it too far to walk ? " asked Cyril. " I shouldn't care to try," replied the Londoner. " I don't know much about the part, and I've never been there in my life. Your easiest way is to go through the City." Cyril thanked him and went on walking, but the tempta- tion to take a ride became too strong, so he climbed upon an omnibus and made a wonderful journey through places of shopping, pleasure, and business, until he came apparently into another country where a confusion of tongues was spoken ; and here he was compelled to halt because he felt faint with hunger. Only ten shillings of his money remained, for he had never learnt the art of begging, and might have travelled to London almost as cheaply by train, and have finished the journey in one day. Now he was compelled to spend more ; and giving way to appetite entirely, he spent two shillings in an eating- house upon a hearty meal ; which seemed necessary, for he required strength and courage to complete the journey and face the sister whom he had never seen before. It was early evening when Cyril, following the direction given him, stopped beneath an iron viaduct across which a train thundered every other minute, and looked out to behold a narrow black street opening to the right and sloping downwards to the river. He had been there before. He seemed to remember how a train had once stopped upon that viaduct, and the passengers had occupied the time of waiting by pitching coppers to ragged children in the street. Upon that pavement opposite hop-scotch had certainly been played. Round the corner, unseen, stood a gloomy house with a rust-red knocker upon its blistered door and railings of great height in front of it. " I could %ot have been more than three years old," he 248 WINTERING HAY muttered. " There is a wharf at the end of the street, and behind a wood-yard full of planks ; I remember the sweet smell of the wood." He went on, entered the street, which was narrow, very dirty, and sloping towards the Thames ; the water crept up the cobblestones at high tide and left a deposit of ill- favoured mud. The houses were low and small, black with age and smoke, the woodwork rotten, the bricks decayed. The place had been condemned, and was soon to be wiped out. Cyril smelt the wood-yard, saw the summit of a stack of timber, looked opposite, knowing the house would be there, Number Two where he had been born and yet had survived behind the iron numeral clinging crookedly to the tottering door, the broken windows patched with filthy paper, the gaping front supported by S-shaped ironmongery. The street was empty ; already many of the half-ruined houses were closed ; below black water was gurgling. Green happy Nature had not walked that way for many a generation. It was a place to die in, not to live in. Cyril knocked upon the door, which gave at the touch and threatened to fall inward. Nobody came, but he fancied he heard a voice followed by coughing, so he went in and called nervously, " Is anybody here ? " " The last door on the right," a faint voice answered. Cyril advanced, coughing himself as he breathed the odours of that passage where, as a baby, he had rolled and screamed, until the gloomy interior of a well-known room appeared, and upon the side opposite the window he saw the cupboard beneath the stairs where once he had slept ; and upon a low bed a young woman was lying in awful poverty and dirt, with large eyes staring at him from a hectic face which seemed made of mist. " You're the second rough chap what's been to-day," she whispered as fiercely as she could. " You can get out. There's nothing to steal here." Cyril started ; he had forgotten his unwashed appear- ance, mud-stained clothing, and broken boots. He could FLIGHT FROM THE GREEN WAY 249 not see his sister clearly ; but all that he did see was terrible. His mother had died in that room, and her brother had done nothing for her ; had at the end, like a kind Christian, buried her ; but in her lifetime had told her she was sinful, and must struggle on as best she could, and repent while she had the chance. " Are you Eva Rossingall ? " he asked. " My God ! " muttered the young woman. " How do you know my name ? " " I am your brother." She stared at him, tried to lift herself, put out her arms, then fell back gasping. " You wrote to me, Eva, but our uncle kept your letters from me. At last by chance I saw one." " Cyril ! Oh, Cyril ! I thought you had thrown me over." " I did not even know I had any sisters until a few weeks ago." " Come, Cyril. Kiss me no, don't. You might catch it. Sit with me and hold my hand. I am dying, but I wanted to see you, I have cried for you, boy. My God ! These Christians are hard on us." Cyril bent and kissed her forehead, then he shuddered. " Take me out of this, boy. Let me die in the green. You know the place ? Mother died in this same corner, while you were screaming in that cupboard." " How are you living, my poor girl ? " " The other girl keeps me. That is her bed. She is sweated by day, and has to make what she can by night. Frightful to you, ain't it ? But we get used to any- thing. It's food I want and good air. See how thin I am." He started up and moved about restlessly. The smell of the place was intolerable, and the window seemed per- manently fastened ; without all was black smoke. " Eva, I am as poor as yourself," he said passionately. " I have not even a home, and I have walked all the way from Devon that I might see you/' 250 WINTERING HAY " I thought you were a gentleman with plenty of money," she gasped. " You have a home down there ? " " I have been turned out. I was about to tramp the country when that letter came the only one I have seen. I have only eight shillings." " That is a lot of money in this street," she said. " I wrote to uncle several times, but he never answered. Before I went wrong I wrote to him, and he did answer then ; he told me I was sure to go to hell. So I went be- cause I had to." " Where is Alice ? Can she do nothing for you ? " " The poor soul can't keep the children and herself. She has a big family, and her husband drinks the money. She has only one room in Pentonville. She said to me once she was better off upon the streets." " I cannot stay here. This place stifles me. Take my eight shillings," said Cyril. " What will you do ? " " I'll go into some workhouse to-night. To-morrow I'll find work." " Don't be disgraced. Smash a window and get locked up," she begged. " Prison is all right ; I've been there. Cyril darling, get me some food, some meat a good beef-steak. I lie here all day getting weaker out of hunger ; and I can't sleep at night I cry and moan for food." Cyril made for the door with tears upon his cheeks. " You shall have a good meal, darling, the best meal I can buy. I know my way about here it's my old home. I won't be long." " God bless you, boy. I feel alive now you have come. I may live I may live. Why can't you sleep here ? " " In this room, with you, and the other girl ? " " Why not ? " " It is impossible." " Well then, you can get a bed for sixpence. Bess will show you a good place when she comes home, I should FLIGHT FROM THE GREEN WAY 251 fret if you were disgraced by a workhouse. Get me some beer, Cyril." " I will not. I shall try and get you some pure milk." " Be quick," she begged. " Oh, Cyril, the place is like home with you about." He went off at a run, so that a policeman, standing hard by the viaduct, followed his movements with suspicion. The real fight with life was beginning. He must get work at once ; before another day was over he must feel himself earning good wages, which would enable him to remove Eva from the noisome home of their birth into a cleanly place where she could be fed with food and air and petted back to health. She was young, she was still beautiful, and she was his sister she must not die. He must give her life, and by the act atone for the death he had dealt out to Gideon. " Stay a moment. What have you in that bundle ? " said a stern voice, and Cyril looked up to see the police- man standing over him ; and before he could speak several loafers came round. " My clothes," he answered, flushing with shame, for a thousand eyes seemed on him. " I have just come from the country." " Why were you running then ? " " I came to see my sister. She is dying of starvation in Thames Street," Cyril faltered. " I was running to get some food for her. You can open my bundle." " It's all right. Go along," said the policeman, conscious he had made a mistake, turning away and dispersing the idlers ; while Cyril hurried on, and feeling he had already made himself notorious, entered a restaurant ; but looking from the doorway, when he had given his order, perceived the tide of indifferent people surging past, and realised that he was again lost in the crowd. Returning presently, with a small boy who carried a well-loaded tray, Cyril passed the constable, who, after a glance at him, stepped out and said, " I'm sorry for drawing attention to you, but I couldn't see your face properly, 252 WINTERING HAY and when we see a fellow running with a bundle in this part it's only our duty to ask questions. Is your sister one of the girls in Number Two ? " " Yes, a pretty girl with fair hair," answered Cyril. " The lady-like one. I've seen her, but not lately. I guessed it was she I heard coughing as I passed. Are you really her brother ? " " Yes, but I didn't know of her existence until quite recently." " Nor of the life she led ? " " It was not her fault." " I believe you. I often have a quiet smile at the people who say these girls take to the life for the fun of it. I'm glad you have come to get her out. That street is the filthiest hole in all London, and it ought to have been cleared away years ago. Going to take her into the country ? " " Yes, to Devonshire," said Cyril confidently. " Bit of a change from Thames Street," laughed the constable. " Well, good luck to ye " ; and he tramped away with a friendly nod. Eva had crawled out of bed during her brother's absence, and had made pathetic attempts to tidy the room and improve her own appearance, but her efforts were not noticed. Cyril could only look at the poor face and sunken eyes, until he became so distressed by her voracious appetite that he was compelled to go out and walk up and down that strangely silent street which had been a world of wonder to him once. Money must be obtained, and the only person he could appeal to was George, who had re- cently bought the silence of Maria, since no appeal to his aunt would receive an answer, and Captain Elias was almost as poor as himself. " I must ask George, though I cannot tell him this story," Cyril murmured. " I must beg for the poor girl's sake ; and then I will work and repay every penny. And I must write to Lilian too, tell her I am banished from home, and the fight has begun. The first of the ten years opens darkly. If Lilian should walk into FLIGHT FROM THE GREEN WAY 253 this street, and see the house where I was born, and smell that room, and listen to me saying, ' Here is my sister/ how would she answer, what would she do ? Uncle Elias was right, though I would not own it. If I give myself to Eva, I lose Lilian." " I feel better, boy. I could sleep now if the cough would stop," said Eva as her brother came in. " I have such an appetite that I cannot be very ill. A mouthful of fresh air would save me." " You shall have it," Cyril promised. " Listen, darling. To-morrow I will write to a dear friend, asking him to lend me some money ; and when it comes I shall take you to a decent lodging until I hear from our Uncle Elias, who is looking for work in Devonshire. Directly he has a home I will take you there. In the meantime I will get some work here." " I felt you would not fail me, Cyril boy, that you would come," she said. " I always remembered you, and every time your birthday came round I wondered what you were doing. I did feel hard sometimes, for I thought you were living in comfort and thought me too bad to help. I love you all the more for coming like this instead of as a fine gentleman. I know you have made a sacrifice for your sister. There is a bit of candle on the shelf. Light it, darling it's always dark in here and let me see your face." Cyril did as he was asked, and she cried at once, " Ah, boy, you have not led a happy life. You have been like me. We were born in this house, and neither of us seem to have altogether escaped from it." " We will now, darling," said Cyril firmly. " We will shake off the past, and live together, and be happy. You will never leave me, boy ? " " Not until I marry." " You are not thinking of that surely. Tell me." " After ten years," he said gloomily. " You will be thirty then. A real young lady ? " " Miss Corindon of Burntbeer." 254 WINTERING HAY " Does she know of Alice and me ? " " Oh no ! Darling, how could I tell her ? " " But when she sees you with me ? " " You will have shaken off the past/' he said, repeating her words wildly ; for he had told Lilian he had no sisters. " Cyril boy, you won't be ashamed of me if I do not improve much ? I have got most of my education from the street." " You are my sister. At present you must come first. Eva, don't talk about these things. I am going to leave you now, to write my letters : one to Uncle Elias, another to George Corindon." " Is he the brother of your young woman ? " " Yes," said Cyril, wincing. " Is he rich ? Perhaps he will marry me." " Don't, Eva," said Cyril miserably. " The Corindons are well off but George is rich in love." " Why shouldn't he marry me, when I have shaken off the past ? " she said excitedly. "I'll soon get pretty in the country, and I'll have the men at my feet directly I become a young lady. We girls are all actresses. Give me health and nice clothes, and I'll talk quite contemp- tuously about the poor young women in London who live in the slums, and are worse off than beasts. I'll declare I should faint if I went near the creatures." "Go to sleep," said Cyril, almost angrily. " When does your friend come in ? " " Any hour of the night. Won't she be surprised to hear my luck has turned ! But you must not be cross with me, boy dear. I am so excited and happy now that you have come. This morning I was dying, and now I live again." " I will leave you two shillings," said Cyril. " Tell your friend to get you something nice for breakfast." " When will you come to-morrow ? Be here as soon as you can and bring me some chocolates. When shall you move me ? " FLIGHT FROM THE GREEN WAY 255 " Very soon, I hope. Good night, Eva." " Say darling again," she begged. " Good night, darling." " I am longing to see Miss Corindon," she called after him. " And George dear George. What fun we shall have when I get well." CHAPTER XV THE GREEN WAY LOST EORGE sent the money, as if he had been seeking VJT a favour, and before that week was out Cyril and Eva were settled in two rooms on Highgate Hill, not an ideal position, but like Paradise after Thames Street. George wrote in his usual devoted fashion, begging Cyril to make every use of him, assuring him he would never hear from Maria again, sympathising with his friend in his new difficulties, the greater part of which had not been told him. " I am sorry to hear you are in London," he wrote. " I dread lest you may lose touch with Nature. This is Lilian's idea rather than mine ; she will express it more fully. She is afraid you may not be able to do your best ' away from the garden.' However, father thinks you are wise to get as near as you can to the centre of human life ; even if you do little work you will gain experience, and the time will not be wasted. ' We get savage ideas about our fellow-creatures when we live down a lane,' he says. ' We must rub against them to find out that they are no worse than we are. We may fancy ourselves angels while alone, and we may try to behave as such, but when we get into a crowd we discover ourselves to be very ordinary human beings.' Father thinks you are showing courage. It is reported that your uncle is ill," George went on. " Was there a scene before you parted ? I hope not, for your sake. We are all so glad you have cut yourself free from Wintering Hay. That place has darkened your life. Don't think I am preaching, dearest Cyril, but let me add the warning take care lest London does not darken it again." A letter from Lilian was in a different strain : hardly a 256 THE GREEN WAY LOST 257 word about herself, and not much concerning Cyril's work and prospects, but devoted to the garden. Now Lilian had three gardens : her own scarlet patch of cultivated ground where roses blushed and Corindon poppies flamed ; the untamed garden of peat and bog where neither borders nor trim pathways need be looked for ; and the garden which seemed to link the other two together, that garden which did not exist save in the imagination, the garden of romance and poetry which she and Cyril had come near to entering that day upon Whistly Down, the garden, partly human and partly divine, where the flowers were little people with immortal lives, not needing souls there- fore, and dull stones had voices. Lilian hoped they would reach this garden together some day ; but she was certain it could only be entered and this was her advice and warning after long searching in the other two, when the gentle flowers of the cultivated ground had learnt to know them and would respond to their touch, when the things of the peat and bog had been studied together with the atmosphere about them ; and then, when all possible knowledge had been acquired, they might proceed and search for the outlet into the third garden ; and if they should by some happy chance discover that how glorious it would be. All this was an old story. Cyril himself might have told it to Lilian had they not both been born with it in their souls. Had he not gone out as a child to look for the path- way which would lead him to the gate of the third garden ? Somewhere above Ziz-zag Cleave it would be, beginning in the valley, so often misty, between Upper Thirty and the granite heights. Or perhaps it was to be found in the deep-scented bottoms and solitary combes of mid-Devon. If so there would be time enough to search for it later on. Certainly the path was not to be found in London ; and yet there were pleasant ways upon those northern dimples called by cockneys hills, and there was an ex- hilarating kind of human atmosphere in the lowest streets, and the garden of commerce was one to be explored. 258 WINTERING HAY Then came a letter of the land, its very envelope smeared with clay-marks, from Captain Mutter : "I need never have walked so far, for there was work all the way, but I had set my heart upon this place, and I wouldn't turn off until I reached it. The trouble here is not for a man to find work, but for the farmer to find men. If you don't mind fixing a couple of straps beneath your knees, and can forget you were born to something better, this life is well enough. Anyhow, there are no cares, and you can go out in the morning whistling, even if you come back in the evening yawning. I am getting the usual eighteen shillings a week, and when you come down you can get the same, and on thirty-six shillings we could do well. I am going into a little place of my own next week, a cottage owned by the squire, who is mad, and the address will be, Lavender Cottage, Sweet Briar Lane, Blue Violet. That sounds a bit more homely than Wintering Hay. This is a wonderful pretty country, and though I'm only a labourer I am happy, and I don't worry, and that's the truth. I'm a rough fellow at heart and this life suits me." It would never suit me, thought Cyril. There was nothing to hinder him from joining Elias, since he had sufficient money and Eva was strong enough to travel ; yet he did not go, but let the months pass, and tried to forget mid-Devon because London had taken hold of him, and he shrank from taking Eva near the old home and letting it be known she was his sister. Blue Violet was twenty miles away from Burntbeer, and separated from it by country difficult to travel in, yet George would in- sist upon visiting him ; and when he saw Eva's pretty but bold face, and heard her careless and sometimes coarse expressions, might he not think he had given up too much for his friend and his sister's happiness ? Eva could not be expected to understand this. Fresh air and rest in cleanliness had worked a change in her ; she was putting on flesh, her cough had almost ceased, and with returning strength came a desire for the life which had been promised her. " When are we going^to Lavender Cottage ? You THE GREEN WAY LOST 259 see I am nearly well, and I want to be doing something. There is nothing to keep us here." " We shall go some time/' Cyril answered. " I am anxious to get my poems published. If I went to Blue Violet now I should have to work on a farm. I don't think I could stand that for a week." " You promised Uncle Elias to join him ; and you promised to take me." " Be patient, my dear girl. You would wish me to live as a gentleman ? " " I hate the idea of you going out with a cart, while Uncle Andrew is rolling in money. I am getting better every day, and if you don't do something with me I believe I shall soon run wild." Cyril was in honest work, but let it be clearly stated that it was nothing better than employment as assistant of a firm of carriers. He sat at the tail of a van and delivered parcels. Nobody knew him, nobody cared. Already he had learnt to exchange a repartee with rivals, and felt no shame in joining fellow-employees after working- hours and emulating their feats of drinking at the tavern. Concerning his poems a favourable, and in certain re- spects an unfortunate, start had been made. Upon the day after his arrival in London he left the modest bundle at the office of a publisher, promising to return in a week's time to receive a verdict, having at that moment no settled address. He did so, and was told that the reader's report had not yet been received ; but upon his second visit he was asked to remain, was presently ushered into a private room, where he was joined by the publisher himself carry- ing the bundle of manuscript neatly but ominously wrapped up and corded. Cyril, supposing that this was the ordinary procedure, was quite at his ease ; and the more discom- fited when it was explained that publication of the poems in their present form was impossible. " But I wished to see you," the publisher added, " be- cause I happened to read your poems myself, and was 260 WINTERING HAY much struck by the beauty contained in them. May I ask if you have ever published anything ? " " This is my first venture," said Cyril. " And if it fails it will be my last." " I think not. If the muse stirs in you, it is certain you will write again. You cannot expect your first, your second, or even your third venture to succeed. The history of authorship is one long story of struggling and waiting. What I want to say to you is this : it is the reader's opinion, and mine also, that you will never spread butter on your bread by poetry. This is perhaps no bad thing, because there is practically no demand for verses, and even had yours been of the highest class, and I had undertaken their publication, the sales would certainly have been not large, and possibly negligible. Even the born poet has to learn the rules of scansion, and you neglect them en- tirely. This is not poetry," he said, tapping the bundle. " It is poetical prose. At the present time you can hardly control the pen, which, considering your youth, is not sur- prising. Still the ideas are everything, and decidedly the ideas are here, even if they are crudely expressed, and wrapped in unnecessary verbiage. I have been bold enough to make notes upon your copy they can be removed with a piece of indiarubber and it is because of the originality and strength of the ideas that I desired to see you personally. Now, Mr. Rossingall, my advice to you is this : turn your back resolutely upon poetry, study to improve your prose style, then recast these verses, give them the form of essays there is always a market for good essays and if, having done so, you should care to submit the work to me, you may be certain that it will receive very careful consideration." Instead of feeling honoured by this reception, and grate- ful for the advice, Cyril became angry. Surely he knew what was in him better than that common-looking old gentleman. Therefore he did not sit up at night revising his work, but he erased the marginal notes with curses, and deposited the parcel with another firm, who flung it back as if it had been an insult ; and then he tried another THE GREEN WAY LOST 261 with the same result, and yet a third who sent it back the next day with the announcement, " No poetry needed." The kindly old-fashioned publisher had spoilt Cyril, had forced him to place a false value upon his work, and in that sense his start had been unfortunate. He argued that if one man considered his ideas original, another would probably consider them more so ; but he did not continue and argue that if one man declared he could not write poetry, and his ideas were crudely expressed, others would express at least the same opinion. So he went on wasting time, and damaging his reputation, by sending out imperfect work. Then there was a visit to Alice. Cyril put it off as long as he could, for somehow he did not want to meet the elder sister who had married the drunken chimney-sweep ; but Eva told him Alice had been good to her during those early days in Thames Street, and would be wondering what had happened, so Cyril set off for Pentonville, reached a large tenement house, entered a dark passage that Lon- don smell seemed everywhere below Highgate where clothes were hanging out to dry, passed up a child-littered stairway, found the door of Alice's one room her name he had quite forgotten and a moment later stood in the presence of Alice herself, a stout woman with nothing of comeliness remaining, waist-deep in children cooking her man's supper of tripe and onions. It was the sort of picture Cyril had expected, and yet he was more shocked than he had been by that first glimpse of his younger sister ; for Eva was pretty, and Alice was so deplorably dressed and leered at him so commonly as she cried, " Well, my son ! Whose chimney wants sweeping now ? " " I am your brother," said Cyril, half angrily, disgusted at the prospect of playing uncle to that plague of brats. " Then I am damned," gasped Alice, leaving the savoury mess and leaning against the table. " Excuse me," she went on thickly. ' ' What we hear we repeat, you know. Is it right ? Are you really young Cyril ? " WINTERING HAY " Who else should I be ? This is a queer meeting ; 111 be hanged if I can remember your name." " Mrs. Jabez Slaymaker. Sweet mouthful, ain't it ? Well, I'm glad to see you, lad ; I am, straight. Come and kiss us." Cyril allowed himself to be embraced ; and the second ordeal followed quickly. " Here, kids ! " cried Alice. " Wipe your mouths and kiss your uncle. I told you he'd come some day with his pockets full of money, and buy you lollypops and take you to the Zoo. They ain't so clean as I could have wished, but who ever expected to see you walking in ? This is Florrie, this Eva, that's Dora, here's Harry, and Tom, and Flora, and Bill. There's more on the stairs. A woman ought to know her own, but I do get mixed sometimes." Cyril kissed them all, and when the last was done with turned in thankfulness to Alice and quickly told his story, how he had been forced to leave the home of their relations and had tramped to London, found Eva and rescued her in time. The plain face opposite was marked with tears before he finished. " We Rossingalls were born to trouble, and it's no use saying anything different," she said. " I suppose if father had lived, we'd have been poor and honest, but when he died we all went wrong. You don't remember them. Father was all right when you got to know him, only he wasn't practical. Mother was the hard one ; she knocked us about shameful, but that was her temper. She wasn't rotten bad like Uncle Andrew. See what he has done to us ! He shoved me and Eva into a home which was worse than prison. He took you in, treated you like dirt, and now has turned you out. The thought of the man makes me want to spit." " I hate him," said Cyril, " though he's not a conscious hypocrite. I know him well by this time, and I am sure he believes he is guided by God in all he does. If he were out of the way Aunt Caroline would be kind to us. You see I am no better off than my sisters," he added, smiling. THE GREEN WAY LOST 263 " I cannot give the children the treat you promised them." " They can't miss what they ain't accustomed to. You didn't expect to find me quite like this ? " suggested Alice. " Eva told me." " I'm honest now," she went on, looking about the comfortless room. " This is all I get for it : a dozen half- starved children, a drunken man, and about five-shillings' worth of furniture. I was a hundred times better off when I was on my own, but they call that life wicked and this decent. If that life leads to hell, this one leads to the workhouse, which is much the same. All the money I get is what I take out of my man's clothes when he's lying drunk. I'd just as soon be Eva, after all." " She is looking nice again. Will you come and see her ? " " What ! Up at Highgate. How do you suppose I can get away for a long journey like that ? If I had a decent man who would look after the children, I might slip up one evening, but as it is I'm tied to this room. You must bring Eva to see me, only don't come Sunday afternoons, for the man's about then and I don't want you to meet him. I'm not proud of him, and if it wasn't for the children I'd get a separation." " Have the people at Wintering Hay ever done anything for you ? " " Not a thing. Since I married I only asked them once, and that was when the children were down with measles, and I was sick myself and fair heart-broken because I couldn't buy proper food for the poor things. I did get something from the parish, but that was no good, for Jabez got hold of the money and made beer of it. I wrote to uncle then, and asked him if he wouldn't pay a woman to come and mind the children and give me a bit of a change somewhere ; but he wrote back saying, ' You must struggle on. It is God's will. You must struggle on/ He was dead against adopting you, Cyril ; but Aunt Caroline meant to have you, and he hadn't got so much power over her in those days." 264 WINTERING HAY " When he dies there will be brighter times for us," said Cyril cheerily. " For you. She won't help me and Eva. She may be good to you because you're a man. She will never forgive her own sex. You had better get off, lad, for the man may be in any moment, and he's sure to be quarrelsome. He'll want to know what I'm doing with a young fellow in here, and 'tis no use my saying you're my brother. Come again and let me hear how you and Eva are getting on. Knock three times, and then I'll know it's you, and will open the door myself. Good-bye, my dear. The sight of you has warmed my heart." As Cyril went out his sister followed, and whispered to him on the stairs, " There's one thing I want to say : look after Eva. Keep your eye on her." " There's no need. She has improved enormously and is able to take short walks," he answered. " I don't mean that. Keep her indoors when they begin to light the lamps. Eva and I are different ; I could give up the loose life and settle down, but well, I don't want to say anything against her, and wouldn't to a soul except you she proposed it, she declared it was the only thing we could do. She was right, but still you know. She would have been a good girl, but they spoilt her she never could stand being shut up and ordered about. If you don't look after her she will break out again." " Not after what she has been through." " You don't know, my lad. It's custom. Directly she gets strong and well she will follow the old way, not because she wants to, but because it's her custom. You watch her ; and when you notice she is getting restless about the time they light the lamps you remember what I'm telling you. She will say she is going out and let her go, don't try to stop her, only mind you go with her and don't you ever leave her." " I mean to take her into Devonshire before long," said Cyril. " That's the best thing you can do. I'll be cruel sorry to THE GREEN WAY LOST 265 lose you both, but it seems I was born to die, not to enjoy my life. That will be the making of Eva and the saving of her. When she gets down into the country she will have to live straight for your sake, and the custom won't bother her there because everything will be new and strange, and there will be no lighted streets to suggest anything. You can't be too quick about it, Cyril." He walked away slowly from thundering Pentonville. Was there never to be an end of his difficulties ? He had come to London, partly out of duty, chiefly because of a romantic affection for one bearing the sweet name of sister and touched to the heart by the letter which had been withheld from him ; and for reward a millstone was hanged about his neck. If he went with Eva to Blue Violet George would seek him before long, and his love for Cyril might not survive a meeting and a conversation with his sister ; and Lilian must hear about it, and she might ask Cyril why he had deceived her, or not ask, but leave him. And if he remained in London with Eva, he would, according to Alice, drive her back once more to vice. " I must find something to occupy her time," he muttered. " If I can give her a new interest in life, it will change her nature and conquer the old one unconsciously. I will revise my verses and get her to copy them out for me ; and I will spend the evenings with her and never allow her to go out by herself." These good intentions merely added to the macadam of the road to Acheron. Drinking the midday beer had become one of Cyril's customs London he found a hot and thirsty place and while doing so at a small tavern situated near the end of Holywell Street he often noticed a shabbily dressed young fellow engaged upon the same cooling oc- cupation. They had exchanged glances, but did not speak until Cyril, who had mislaid his own pencil, presumed to borrow one he saw protruding from the young man's pocket ; it was handed over with the friendliest smile ; returned with an observation upon the closeness of the atmosphere ; conversation, and a drink, followed ; and 266 WINTERING HAY after a few days a sort of friendship was established. Cyril discovered that his comrade's name was Adolph Carr, and his occupation managing clerk to a firm of publishers. Cyril by that time realised that the profession of letters did not bestow purple and fine linen upon its followers ; yet the information staggered him, because the appearance of Carr the drinker had led him to suppose he was even lower than the book-writer. This young man always looked unwashed, he shaved not more than twice a week, and seemed deplorably poor although he had always money for the tavern. He was young, but his clothes were old. He wore a stained frock-coat much frayed at the edges, patched and baggy trousers, broken boots, linen hardly worth the washing, and a silk-hat which looked as if a dog had worried it. He informed Cyril that he was a married man with one child, that all the remunera- tion he received was thirty shillings a week, and he was wont to change his address not less than three times a year. " There is a chance for you to join us," he announced one day. " The boss wants another hand to carry out parcels and do the work of office-boy. He asked me if I knew of any one. Will you come round and see him ? " Cyril jumped at the opportunity of improving, as he thought, his position. To become a member of a publishing firm was a decided step towards getting his own work published. " The screw won't be much," Carr went on. " And you must learn to dodge the police. They get stirred up to a sense of duty sometimes." " What have they got to do with your business ? " asked Cyril. " We publish what is commonly known as classical literature," the other laughed. They went out, plunged into the passage of a toppling house of the street since then demolished, emerged upon two rooms opening one into the other and stored away safely at the back ; and Cyril was presented to the ugliest man he had ever seen : a tall middle-aged indi- THE GREEN WAY LOST 267 vidual apparently lacking a backbone, with a weak mouth well hidden by a ragged moustache, a flabby, sensual face and sore eyes. He too was shabbily dressed, his linen was dirty, and his breath smelt abominably. Books in paper covers were lying about ; and when Cyril glanced at the titles he began to see things more clearly and to understand Carr's reference to the police. It is no use being particular, he thought. I must start at the bottom ; which was good reasoning but vile practice. " What has been your employment lately ? " asked this Mr. Sleach, keeping his eyes fixed upon the desk in front of him. " I work for Pickford's," said Cyril, " but I should like to find something better. I am a gentleman by birth, and an author." " What sort of stuff do you write ? " " Poems chiefly." " No good to me. Could you write a love story, with a little of you know what in it ? " " I have never tried," said Cyril, flushing. " If you could, you might make some'money. Grammar don't matter, but you want judgment ; you must know just where to draw the line. I suppose you know your way about London ? " " Pretty well." " You can keep your tongue quiet ? We run this business as privately as possible." Cyril mumbled something satisfactory. He was engaged at a pound a week to assist Adolph Carr, they went out to celebrate the event at the tavern ; and the following Monday Cyril entered upon his new duties, and actually thought he was getting on in the world ; but in his letter to Lilian he merely mentioned he was working hard. So autumn grew on, winter came, and Cyril was almost glad to perceive that Eva's progress towards recovery had ceased. Fogs reached Highgate and brought back her cough, and with it weakness, so that she could not get out, but had to sit in loneliness while her brother spent the day 268 WINTERING HAY in Holywell Street and much of the evening at the tavern drinking with Adolph Carr and Mr. Sleach. " Take me down to Devonshire," was Eva's cry every day, and Cyril would reply, " My dear child, what is the use of going now ? Rain will be pouring on the fields, the lanes will be full of mud, the country will be wretched, and you would hate it. Let us stay in London for the winter, and when the spring comes we will go." " You like London. You want to stay altogether," she said angrily. " You could have taken me away months ago, when I was so much better, but you wouldn't. Now I am ill again, and you don't care." " Wait until the spring. We will go then," he promised. " You would be miserable if you looked out upon the dreary fields, the mist and the mud, and never saw a living creature. Here you can see the street and the people passing." " It is the change I need. I shall never get well until I go right away from London." 11 If you are well enough to travel we will go to Brighton for Christmas," said Cyril coaxingly. " Well, that will be something," she said more amiably. Everybody seemed to have changed. Lilian was growing more distant in her letters, for those of Cyril jarred upon her, and she could not believe he was still in the right way. He wrote carefully and tenderly, as he thought, but the careless life he led peeped out and showed its ugly figure in the words and phrases. Cyril was forced to invent matter when he wrote the weekly letter to his sweetheart, since it was impossible to dwell upon the truth. The office was far removed from Holywell Street, Mr. Sleach was described as the kindly publisher who had received and given him good advice, while Adolph Carr became a gentleman of the purest breeding. They were lying letters, and Lilian knew it ; but she held on and continued her parables of the garden ; while Cyril was writing a book for Mr. Sleach. A desperately clayey letter arrived from Captain Mutter. The glamour of the new life had worn off, he was weary to THE GREEN WAY LOST death of consorting with dull labourers, and each evening was a time of horror. He had nobody to work for, nobody to live for, he was getting to hate himself, the neighbouring squire was driving him mad, and unless his nephew joined him soon Blue Violet might possibly be thrilled to its inno- cent heart by some sordid tragedy. " A man needs company of his own class/' he wrote. " I should be happy here with you and Eva, but alone I cannot stand it." Replying to a question in one of Cyril's earlier letters, he stated that no news had reached him concerning his brother, nor could it, as he was very far removed from the district of Wintering Hay ; but still he made no mention of the calamity which had dictated the letter Caroline sent up too late. " I can see Dartmoor from my windows," he wrote. " When the day is clear the highest tors stand black against the sky, and I can guess where Wintering Hay lies ; but I don't often look that way." Cyril gave the letter to Eva and went out to his work. It so happened that he returned that evening early, as Mr. Sleach found it convenient to close the office, and Carr had to perform a business of routine which he referred to as moonlight flitting. An opportunity for proceeding with his unholy work was offered, therefore Cyril, after drink- ing several times to the success of his comrade in the midnight undertaking, hurried towards Highgate, mounted the stairs, and entered a lonely room. He knocked at Eva's door ; she gave no answer, but presently walked out, unsteadily, dressed in her best, with cheeks more flushed than usual and a veil across her eyes. " What is the meaning of this ? " asked Cyril sternly. " I am going out. I feel strong this evening," she said defiantly. " You have been drinking, Eva." " What else is there to do ? I can't sit here for ever and stare out of the window." " Where are you going ? " " Out for a walk. I feel half-mad to-night. I don't care -vhat happens, whether I die or live, but I will go out." 270 WINTERING HAY Cyril remembered then that Eva could do nothing to amuse herself. Reading she abhorred, she had no taste for music, she could not even use a needle skilfully. She could only mope and sigh during those long days when weakness had prevented her from breaking loose. Cyril went to the door, locked it, and removed the key. " You are not going," he said firmly. " Come away, or 111 throw myself out of the window," she threatened. " Eva, I tramped to London for you ; I found you dying in Thames Street ; I brought you here." " And you kept me here to please yourself," she added violently. " I have work in London. You must consider me." " Yes, I know your work. You are no better than me ; you are worse, for you're a beastly hypocrite. I found some of the stuff you are writing. I read it, and it is that which makes me want to go out. Cyril, you are a brute, you are going to the devil ; if you can write that stuff you would do anything." " Be quiet ! Others in the house will hear you." " Let me go then. I will go." " If you do, you shall not come back. If you insist, I will leave you." " You are no good," she said bitterly. " Like Uncle Andrew. It's a wonder you two couldn't get on together." She tried to pass, but he seized her wrist, then took her in his arms, finding her much too light that cooled his anger and carried her back into her own room. She was too weak to resist for long. She could only scream and sob, and call her brother those names which the street had taught her. " I will make an agreement with you, Eva," said Cyril, for he was frightened and fully awake, and her words had stung him. " If you promise to be good and patient a little longer, I will destroy what I have written. I did not think ; I thought it could not matter much as others did it. I saw the chance to get some money, which we both want THE GREEN WAY LOST 271 badly. You are right, dear. I am a brute ; I don't know how it came in me. Promise me, sister let us try to be better and get to our happiness somehow." " I am so sick," she murmured. " Eva darling, let us try." " I will be good I must be I am so ill." Cyril took out his manuscript and tore each sheet into fragments, piled them on the fire before his sister's eyes ; then removed Eva's hat and coat, covered her with a rug, kissed her, and sat beside her for a long silent hour. This outbreak might prove to be a blessing. Cyril saw his duty clearly : he must give up Lilian, and devote his life to Eva ; but how was he to make Lilian miserable, and how could he repay his debt to George who had sacrificed so much to make his friend free, relying upon the sacred promise of that friend to bring his sister happiness ? The next day Eva was forced to remain in bed. The following, which was Saturday, when Cyril returned soon after midday, he heard voices, and upon entering dis- covered Elias talking in a shy, subdued fashion to his niece. " There was a cheap excursion, and I thought I would take advantage of it to give you a visit. I go back to-night, and I'd like to take you with me," he said. " We cannot go. I have Work here ; but we will come without fail in the spring," said Cyril. " There is plenty of work at Blue Violet rough, honest work," said the Captain. " Eva is ready to go. Come on, boy. Say the word." In a moment Cyril perceived a way out of the difficulty. London had become dear to him and homelike ; but while he remained Eva's soul and body were both in peril ; while to go with her meant ruin to his prospects. The middle course Elias had suggested. "I cannot go yet, Uncle. Will you take Eva ? " " Will you come with me, lass, to Lavender Cottage ? " asked the Captain eagerly. " Of course I will," she answered ; and that night they went off together, and Cyril was left alone. CHAPTER XVI VOICES FROM THE GREEN WAY r 1 ^HE first anniversary of Cyril's arrival in London JL passed unnoticed. Those resolutions made by Eva's side were forgotten, and into the same hell of oblivion, created by liquor and loose living, went the wild garden of Dartmoor, Burntbeer, and the cottage at Blue Violet which he had not seen, together with the Nature about them and the folk within. George was pitchforked into the place of forgetfulness, and even Lilian seemed gone for ever. Before leaving Highgate, that he might take up his residence with the dissolute Carrs, a sad letter came bear- ing the message, " Leave London at once, or leave me." Subsequently no letter, either from George or Eva, could reach Cyril, for he had made the choice of London rather than Lilian, town instead of garden ; he had disappeared, and was not to be found by love or letters. His home was the tavern, and his name was drunkard. How his comrade managed to live was for long a mystery ; rent was not paid certainly, neither were clothes purchased, but the weekly bill for expensive liquors was duly settled upon that marvellously expansive thirty shillings a week, which also maintained another home and a young woman who believed herself married to a bagman. By an accident Cyril discovered that Carr manipulated the cash to his own advantage, not a very difficult matter, as Sleach was dull of ^intellect, entirely in the power of his cashier, who by a simple process of mystification made a handsome profit. Cyril said nothing, but he too began to look out for oppor- tunities of increasing his income, and found them ; while 272 VOICES FROM THE GREEN WAY 273 Can preserved silence for his own sake. The workers in this unhealthy business were on a level with the stuff they issued. Sleach, who did his best to corrupt the public, was robbed by his cashier, who in his turn was deceived by the assistant ; yet they assembled in the tavern after business hours, drank together, wished each other good luck, and gripped hands like friends. During early summer the end came. Cyril and Carr, hurrying towards Holywell Street one morning, were stopped, as they were about to enter it, by one of the booksellers of that region, a man known to them as having done business often with the firm. " Cut it quick," he whispered. " I'll meet you at the bottom of Essex Street. Don't ask questions." " Separate," said Carr ; and he moved off in one direction, Cyril in another, both having the sense to walk slowly. Soon the three met and proceeded into the gardens of the Embankment, where the ordurous book- seller told his story : " Your place is full of police. They have seized all the stuff, and they hold a warrant against the boss." " Summons, you mean. It's only a fine. He has paid before." " It is penal servitude this time. There's another charge abduction, or something worse. He knew it was coming ; he has drawn out the money and has run." " How do you know ? " " Saw him last night. He was about till midnight destroy- ing papers. He said good-bye to me, and asked me to warn you fellows if I had the chance. He is in France by now." " Looks as if we are stranded," said Carr dolefully. " No use sneaking in to-night for the cash-box, I suppose ? They wouldn't do anything to us. I should tell the magistrate I hated the business, but I have a wife and family to maintain." " Sleach hasn't left a cent," declared the bookseller. " He asked me to tell you he was sorry, and if you liked to take the risk of going on with the business you could," T 274 WINTERING HAY " The police will seize the stock ; and even if they didn't we could not run the show without capital. Let's have a drink," said Carr more cheerfully. The bookseller declined, as he had left his shop unopened. The others thanked him for the warning, and went on towards Charing Cross, leaving the street and tavern which since that day have been wiped off the map and become forgotten. The outlook was dreary to these two vagabonds, who had lost their reputation and did not possess a decent suit of clothes. They could not apply for a situation in any respectable office. They had either to shift for themselves or go down ; and yet it never occurred to Cyril that now was the time to break free and return to the old atmosphere and the place where the search after happiness could be resumed. He had not the money to pay his fare into distant Devonshire, and he had certainly not the energy to tramp ; and he was led like a simpleton by this Adolph Carr, who was muttering to himself, " One of the girls must go, perhaps both." Little more than a month later two extraordinarily dressed individuals stood among a host of others upon Ascot Heath, one pencilling, the other shouting the odds and taking money. They wore straw hats, and upon the ribbons appeared in bright gold letters the name of the firm, Carr Brothers. The penciller was addressed as Adolph, and he called his confederate Cyril. They were doing very well in those days, going up in the world, getting money which went as easily as it came, not caring what happened to the clerk who had robbed his employer that he might bet with them, or the man with a family who invested his last coin and lost. At the end of the meeting, which was a success so far as they were concerned, Cyril astounded his partner by declining to return with him. " I have not been a walk in the country for more than a year," he explained. " I am going back across Windsor Park,' VOICES FROM, THE GREEN WAY 275 He went in that glorious time of year when the blossom of the white-thorn still spread like scented hoar-frost, keeping himself distinct from other walkers, and going alone into the depths of the park, among trees, by ponds, across fresh grass. Somehow he felt that evening the influence of the country, Nature was calling him, and he heard her voice, struggled to awake and to cast off the loathsome mantle he had wrapped about him ; but he could not, he was bound, the fumes of liquor were on his senses and his mind seemed chilled beneath layers of foul mud. He stopped, sprawled beneath an oak, saw the leaves fluttering, heard the birds twittering, far from the noisy scene and greedy faces which had surrounded him all day ; and while lying there the message came nearer, touched him, forcing his eyes open that he might see the fair things he had lost. The awakening went on, life itself approached, and with it the green ghost of that fleeting happiness he had pursued in vain. " It was here," he murmured, as memory revived, " that Falstaff disguised as Herne the Hunter was made to wander ; here he was pricked and beaten by the elves. It is here a pathway may be found, winding in and out among those trees, leading to some home, where there is love and contentment. I do not know what else but solitude." He dragged himself half upright, and looked about with wild eyes, muttering, " What pathway ? Who the devil am I ? A bookmaker, and a good one, and a drunkard too. I am courting a barmaid. I have not known a re- spectable thought for months. Am I that man's brother, or am I Cyril Rossingall, the poet, the maker of a garden, the wanderer on Dartmoor, the lover of Lilian ? " He was awake at last and saw life glimmering ahead, not in the green, but like red dawn in winter when all the ground is frozen ; saw himself clearly, knowing he was not Carr's brother, but Lilian's lover ; saw the pathway he had walked on once, and the kind of altar-stone he was quarrying now for the sacrifice of his body ; saw the 276 WINTERING HAY line of his life stretching out with Eva's, and perceived that hers was not the darkest. She had been driven, while he had gone from choice. And last of all he saw a garden of red earth with scarlet poppies, and one walking there, tending flowers without a smile ; and though she was plain in face she had an angel's soul, and she did not smile because her heart was wounded. And he knew himself for what he was, a spoiler of men and a curse to women. It was evening before Cyril reached Windsor, passing, as he left the park, a rough fellow broken by backing horses, walking barefooted with boots slung round his neck, yet whistling like a blackbird in some well-stocked orchard. This sportsman, who had probably nothing of the world's goods and perhaps no halfpence for a meal, was happy ; even with bruised feet and useless pockets he was happy because he was free and had no crime upon his soul. Cyril would have given all he possessed for that vagabond's power to whistle. Lights of the night in London flashed over him at Paddington, but did not weaken his resolution. Cyril was going home to Burntbeer ; and there would tell the truth to Lilian, and hear sentence passed upon him. It could be nothing less than banishment from her presence for life, but with the confession made he would have done his duty, and could rest, and might perhaps find himself along some other pathway of sound work, protecting Eva, assisting Elias, purging his own mind. It was a luxurious home he entered hard by Finsbury Park, but an empty one, a useless home given over to restless sleep. The furniture was for show ; not a picture suggested Nature as she was to the poet ; there were no books worthy to be read. It was a glorified pot-house, smelling of liquor and tobacco, although its tenants could not indulge their passion for drinking there, but had to go out into public places where they might feel the life of the crowd touching them, might show their money and good clothes, and proclaim to others how brilliant was the flash in the pan they called gentility. A wild life in truth, wilder VOICES FROM THE GREEN WAY 277 than that of savages, hardly more real than the visions of a maniac ; this day in splendour, the next in rags ; gentle- men in June, beggars by October. Nothing saved, nothing thought of, nothing accomplished except robbery by cunning and gratification of self. Even the savage might not willingly have been classed with these. The Carrs were lounging in a glittering bar-room when Cyril, quietly dressed, came up to them. " I want to speak to you in private," he said to his partner, repelled now that he was awake by the half- intoxicated man, the thin leering face, watery eyes, and ghastly skin. Carr rose at once, for he lived by his wits, and these told him something was wrong ; and the two went out into a long street of houses where few walked. " I must get away," said Cyril. " I am going off to- night, and I shall never come to London again." " What's the matter ? " asked the husky Carr. " I am sick of it." " I knew something had gone wrong when you went off by yourself this afternoon. We had a good day. If we go on like this, and there's no reason why we shouldn't, we shall make a fortune. Heard any bad news of your sister ? " " No, but I cannot stand the life. I want the country, and I'm going back to it." " You can't leave me in the lurch, old chap." " That's all I have to say," Cyril went on, as if he had heard nothing. " I don't care whether you settle up with me or not. I have to-day's takings, and I will be satisfied with that. Good-bye, Adolph." Without putting out his hand Cyril hurried off, but Carr followed, caught his arm and said, cunningly, " If you must go I will see you off." " I am going to Paddington. I can get as far as Exeter to-night." " Where's your luggage ? " " I told them to send it after me." They climbed upon an omnibus bound for King's Cross, 278 WINTERING HAY jolted along, while Carr kept silent, but used his wits. The rascal knew by instinct that Cyril could not stand alone, that his failure was moral cowardice, so he quickly decided upon a plan of action which was sure to beat him. He feigned to be asleep until they were half-way through the Caledonian road, then he stirred and glanced round. Cyril was sitting upright staring into the mist of lamp- light, forgetful of his comrade, his lips moving as if he was speaking to himself. " I say, old chap, I've been thinking," said Carr hoarsely. " You can't do this. You can't run off and leave me with- out notice." Cyril started and turned. " Why not ? " he demanded. " I can't prevent you of course, but it's not fair on me, it's not playing the game. We went into this business together and I have acted straight so far as you are con- cerned. If you want to dissolve partnership it's only right you should give me fair notice. To-morrow we are due at Windsor, and I can't go without you. We spend as we get. If you can afford to lose the day I can't. Don't you see what a hole you are landing me in ? " " I cannot help it. I must go back to the country," said Cyril passionately. " My dear chap, you can wait another few weeks. The blessed country will remain where it is. If you can't hang on until the end of the season, stay another month, anyhow. By then I may get some one to take your place. Ask yourself the question are you treating me fairly ? " " I am not. I know I am not. Don't press it, Adolph." " But I must, old chap. Hang it all, I can't sink my own interests altogether. The business is half yours, the house we live in is half yours, and every piece of furniture is as much yours as mine. I can't get hold of a sharp bookmaker right in the middle of the season, and if I could, what pro- tection have I against you coming down on me ? We have an agreement " "I'll give you my copy, and you can destroy it," said Cyril. VOICES FROM THE GREEN WAY 279 Nothing more was said until they alighted from the omnibus. Cyril would have darted into the nethermost depths of the metropolitan station at once, but again Carr held him back, and his manner had now changed com- pletely. " Wait a minute," he said in a bullying voice. " You are not going to run off and get out of your responsi- bilities. You shall give me fair play. What's all the hurry about ? Anybody would think you were old Sleach rush- ing to the Continent to escape a warrant. Can't you stop another night in London and go to-morrow ? " Carr spoke so loudly that many idlers and loose women heard him. These gathered round anticipating a fight, while a policeman who had been standing opposite began to cross the road. " Let me go, Adolph. I give you everything," mumbled the wretched Cyril ; but his tormentor held on, and still the people came about them. " You can go when we have settled up. Come over the way, and I'll make out what is owing to you." Still Cyril resisted ; but when the constable came up and told them to move on he found himself half dragged across the road, dazed with the struggle, pulled into a bar-room, and forced upon a lounge. A glass of liquor was pushed into his hand. Carr sat beside him, threatening no longer, but abject and tearful, telling of the fierce struggle he had made with life, of his wives and children, of his continual failure, and then of the one success which was the present undertaking, and of his one good friend who was Cyril himself ; and as often as the glasses became empty they were refilled. Closing time came, Cyril and Carr stood again upon the pavement outside the smoky station, once more Brothers, while the policeman who saw so much of human nature observed them with a smile. These young men, who had been ready to fight two hours ago, were now drunk, and in that mood were swearing immortal friendship. The bitter light of a December morning found its way 280 WINTERING HAY into the upstairs room of a shabby house in Soho, for the most part occupied by aliens. Two men lying in distressful attitudes, yawning and rubbing their eyes, were, however, English, one of them horribly thin, ghastly to look upon, the other white-faced with an expression of utter careless- ness in his eyes. The room was hardly furnished ; its floor-covering was littered with scraps of paper, corks, cigar-ends, and a few pieces of money ; the atmosphere was vile. A number of chairs stood about, a few were over- turned, and one had its back broken as if by some kind of passion. The only article which claimed immediate atten- tion was the table, which was long and narrow, covered with a green cloth marked geometrically into spaces, columns, and figures. " It has been the devil of a night ; but I suppose we have made a bit," remarked Adolph Carr. " Blast the money. I'm sick of counting it and working for it," answered Cyril Rossingall. Here was another step in the wrong direction few were left that way. The definite call which had reached Cyril among the trees of Windsor Park had not come again and might never be repeated. Since that night, when he had struggled to escape and had failed, good-fortune, as they were pleased to call it, had deserted them ; a succession of black days upon the turf consumed their capital, the fine house was given up, the furniture sold ; and the chief vagabond had to set his wits to work to discover some other honest trick of getting money. This gambling-den was the result, and like the other ventures was about to end in failure, as information had just reached them that the police had wind of it, and any night they might be raided. " Shall we go on to the end or shut it now ? " " If we chuck it what's the next thing to be ? " asked Carr. " Do as you like. I don't care." " We have the winter to face. It's hard to pick up a living then. We have enough money to start a bit of a shop, but I reckon we should find that slow." " I used to think of writing," said Cyril cynically. " I VOICES PROM THE GREEN WAY 281 brought up some poems to London, when I was green and innocent, and have carried them about with me ever since. I would sell the lot now for half a crown." " We might make a bit that way." " You write ! " said Cyril scornfully. " Any fool can do it. I can turn my hand to anything. We might do some tales about the wickedness of belted earls in their relations with milkmaids. You could splash on the rural colour." " Don't talk about the country. I hate the thought of it," growled Cyril. " Back in the summer you were wild to get there." " The summer is over. I shall go out and take a walk in the park." " You may hate the country, but you are always trying to get among the trees. Go to bed, you ass. I don't believe you've had ten hour's sleep this last week." " It's no use trying to sleep. Something goes on at my mind the whole time I don't know what it is. I toss about, and get up for a drink, then toss about again, more drink, and so on. I seem to hear every noise in the whole of London. My brain is done for. See that girl over the way getting her breakfast ? She goes off every morning to sweat for a few shillings a week ; she walks to save her fare, and all the satisfaction she gets out of it is the knowledge that she is honest. What's the good of it ? " said Cyril furiously. " Fellows like you and I can't face the odds, and how can she ? She has a canary in the window, and she goes to say good-bye to it before she starts. Life is a rotten game." " What's it to be ? " muttered Carr sleepily. " Shall we run the show until we are taken, or chuck it and write about the tender passion ? " " 111 go to prison if you will," said Cyril. " Done," came the answer ; and Carr struggled off to bed while Cyril went out into the streets. He had become clumsy in action and uncertain in step ; any sharp noise made him gasp ; and his memory played WINTERING HAY strange tricks. Sometimes he stopped, striving to recall some incident or recollect a name. " It's a year since the girl went what is her name ? Violet, I think, or Ida. Blue Violet no, that is a place. What the deuce is the name of my sister ? " He stopped until the cold wind blew his wits together, and he remembered the name of Eva ; then walked on, rubbing his legs, which were numbed owing to his state of health. Stupor was over him ; when he looked about and saw the passing traffic, faces of pedestrians, names of streets, he observed nothing. Had anybody shouted his own name he would have smiled stupidly and gone on, wondering a few minutes later whether fanqf had deceived him. Raw wind, crossing the open spaces of Hyde Park, tormented his body. The day of the month, its name, the fact that the day was his birthday, were forgotten as he walked to the Serpentine, stared at the frosty water, then lowered himself upon a seat among a few destitute persons, trying to wonder how and why they lived. One, a bundle of rags containing the living soul of a woman, placed her- self upon the other end of the bench, made more conscious of the world by that cold wind. " Stop it, will you ? " cried Cyril suddenly. The bundle of rags did not heed. Cyril prodded the shape with his stick and shouted, " Stop that shivering. You make me sick." The creature put up her head, stared with bloodshot eyes, and quavered, with blue lips, " I can't 'elp it. I'd stop the shivers if I could." " Go into the workhouse," said Cyril roughly. " I'd go into that water first." " Then buy yourself some gin " ; and he pulled out a coin without looking at it, flung it at the creature's feet, and made off, muttering, " I never gave that girl, that girl what's her name, anything ; and now I spend money on a filthy hag." A fit of giddiness seized Cyril near Hyde Park Corner, so he called a hansom, and was taken to the house of refresh- VOICES FROM THE GREEN WAY 283 ment where his favourite barmaid was employed. The bar-room was deserted, as it was still very early. Cyril stumbled into a seat, and the girl, perceiving he was ill, hurried up to be of service. " Brandy, Jessie," he whispered. " Let me get you a good strong cup of tea," she said coaxingly. " Do as I tell you," he snarled. " You needn't be so sharp," she pouted ; and went with a sympathetic glance at the huddled figure. She was soon back with a cup of tea and a liqueur-glass filled with brandy, saying, " Don't be angry. The tea will do you good if you are chilled. Shall I mix them for you ? " " Don't worry me with questions," he said crossly. " I'll get you some toast," she said. Returning she found Cyril feeling and looking better, also in a pleasanter mood. He accepted the toast, looked up at the girl, and said, " You have a smut on your nose, Jessie." " It's your fault. I must have got it while I made the toast." " Come here and I'll wipe it off." The girl did so, looking pretty and simple, while Cyril removed the black mark, and asked as he put away his handkerchief, " What's your opinion of me ? " "Oh, you are all right, but you should get away from that other fellow." " What's your opinion of him ? " " He's rotten." " You are a good little sort, Jessie. I believe you are right ; but the man is like a bur he sticks." Cyril went back to Soho, wrapped himself in a rug before the fire and tried to think. The effort brought on drowsi- ness, a state of inertia which suggested that after all he had not done badly during the past year, and might yet live to marry Jessie the barmaid and reach the height of his ambition ; then, feeling that sleep might be near at last, he rolled upon the bed and passed into unconsciousness. 284* WINTERING HAY The awakening was terrible. Cyril felt a hand being withdrawn from his throat and distinguished a shadowy outline of some evil spirit hovering about the bed. He was incapable of speech, and there seemed to be no life in his body, yet he had a sense of visions of monsters making mouths and rolling their eyes at him, and of a cold idea of death still present. The shadow bent with a noise of gibbering, and Cyril became conscious of the rim of a glass grating upon his teeth ; then something came into his mouth and passed down his throat, but he could not tell whether the liquor was wine or water, weak or strong, sour or sweet. He closed his eyes, the horrible excitement died out, sounds became normal, he understood his heart was beating more quickly ; and at last he heard his comrade's voice, " Now he's all right." Cyril struggled upright and stared about him, gripping his knees and shuddering. " Turn up the light," he muttered. " The place is full of fog. What's the row, Adolph ? " " Nothing much. You have been a raving maniac the last hour or two, and I have been holding you down by the throat. You were biting like a mad dog." " I get queer dreams when I do sleep. It's nothing to be frightened at," Cyril mumbled while he crawled slowly from the bed. " Look here, old chap," said Carr, with the air of a man making a discovery. " We must steady ourselves a bit, or we shall be getting regular drunkards." " I feel better now better than I did. What's the time, Adolph ? " " Nearly five o'clock." " Then I have slept all day." " With intervals of howling and kicking." "It is time we went out to get some food. There was something I wanted to remember. Ah, yes, I must buy a present for Lilian no, that's the other girl for Jessie." " Better get her a wedding-ring," said Carr scornfully. " You let these girls lead you as they want to." VOICES FROM THE GREEN WAY 285 That night the house was raided, but the rogues had placed a watchman in the street, and at his signal they fled, leaving their victims to shift for themselves ; and escaping upon the roof entered the house adjoining, passed down and away to open another chapter of their history. The instruments of gambling were seized, but not Cyril's manuscript, which he had deposited in a safe place far off, with a feeling that if the little bundle was lost, the last and only link binding him to the old life would be snapped. He clung to this heap of paper as to a talisman, a charm against utter ruin, useless from the point of view of money- getting, but preciously insuring his mind against ship- wreck. Sufficient money was left to keep them for some months if they spent carefully. Carr had no tie, since his legal wife had placed herself beneath the protection of another man, and he had abandoned the woman he had duped. " Wonder if we should be any good as revivalists," he suggested, the words coming quaintly from his blasphemous lips. " You know the idea gather a crowd of people, preach to 'em, work 'em up with a good rousing hymn, then hustle the bag round. There's plenty of money in it, and the police can't touch you." " We couldn't do it," declared Cyril. " Then what do you say to house-breaking ? I know a place where we could learn the tricks. We should practise in the suburbs, and when we got to be experts we might bring off something big in the shape of a west-end mansion or a jeweller's." As this idea was also rejected by Cyril, he was asked to suggest the next move, and could not do so. A few words followed, both rascals lost their temper and accused each other of unfair dealing. They were walking at the time along one of the streets which enter the Edgware Road ; and as they disagreed they parted, Carr going ahead, Cyril lingering behind, so that the space between them widened. It so happened that a special sale was taking place at a large establishment upon the main road, and the pavement 286 WINTERING HAY at the corner where Carr turned was thronged with women. When Cyril came out he missed his comrade. He walked on towards the park, not realising what this meant until an hour had gone, and he found himself still alone staring into the crowd for his accomplice. He and Carr were separated at last, divided from each other by that bustling throng. They had no home, having slept each night lately at some different place ; Carr had no goods to carry about with him, nor did he know the address of the small news- vendor's shop where Cyril kept his bag of treasures. Was it by chance, or had some kindly influence, some power in the atmosphere reaching from the wild garden and pene- trating the vile fog of London, snatched the comrade from Cyril's side in order that he should be left alone and made free from the evil spirit ? This was December ; two years had passed since the planting of the Christmas-tree. One awakening had come then ; a birth to the new life of crime. Another was almost due. " I can find him in one of our usual haunts," Cyril mut- tered. " He is sure to look for me at the Queen's Head." Until late at night Cyril tramped from one house to another, without finding his evil spirit. At one place he missed Carr by half an hour ; at another by a few minutes only. The kindly influence kept them still apart ; but at last, in the least expected place, a house in Holborn they had rarely entered, Cyril was given the message, " He will meet you here to-morrow at ten o'clock." He went at the appointed time, but the wind blowing more freshly from the garden he perceived it now that he was alone served him well. He found a perfect stranger waiting. The barmaid had mistaken Cyril for another. He went out and wandered again in the western parks with the scales dropping from his eyes, buffeted by the kind Nature which was giving him back his mind. " It is too late," he said. " Much too late. I must not go." That ^afternoon he entered an apartment of many corners beneath a sloping roof hard by King's Cross ; and VOICES FROM THE GREEN WAY 287 was informed by a woman of husky voice that he might take up his residence there at a weekly rental of three and sixpence. " It will do," said Cyril wearily. " If you can provide me with a chair. Are there any children in the house ? " " There were plenty one time, but now they're in the cemetery with two husbands," replied the woman. " You'll find it quiet and 'ealthy here. There might be a chair I could let you have downstairs." " Could you find me a table as well ? " " You young chaps do want something," laughed the woman. " Coming in at three and a tanner and expecting tables. You'll be asking for a Turkey carpet next." " I can buy one," Cyril muttered. " What might be your profession ? " the woman asked. " I am an author," came the bold reply. " I thought you was a music-'all gentleman," said the woman in a disappointed voice. She made up the bed, supplied him with a ridiculously inadequate lamp and a broken cane-chair, contracted to supply him with breakfast for sixpence, and departed. Cyril went to the window and looked out upon the roofs, where rain was beating fast. " I am going up," he murmured cynically. " Two years are over, and I have come to this an attic. Here I am to starve or to win." He turned away with a shudder and looked at the sloping walls, smiling contemptuously. " At least, it is better than Thames Street, though the Chapel was a palace to this. Still, it is an honest home. I must invest in a table, a lamp to warm the room, another which will give some light. I can use the bed as an easy chair. A new hat and respectable boots are necessities. A couple of pounds at least must go to-morrow. Then for work a year of literature." He pulled off his boots and stretched himself upon the bed. He could not escape thought then. 288 WINTERING HAY Christmas came with its revels, and the tenant of the attic was driven out by loneliness to walk the streets. The last three weeks had been spent in idleness. Cyril had been too ill to work, while the problem of how to exist upon a few shillings a week had fully occupied his mind. Early in the evening he returned to his lodging, driven there by weariness, and emptied his pockets to learn again what he knew already, that those few gold coins were all that separated him from starvation. He would not yield, and could not fight ; therefore the fate of the captive awaited him. " I am ill, as Eva was ; my powers have left me," he groaned. " I could not even earn a shilling at road-sweep- ing. I may as well get poison and have done with it." A knock came, and when he responded the uncomely face of his landlady appeared with the pity inseparable from womanhood in her eyes. Cyril grew strange at once, and asked sharply what she wanted. " I 'opes as 'ow you'll excuse the liberty I'm taking," said the woman, stammering somewhat out of respect for Christmas. " I 'card you come in and thought you might be feeling a bit down-'earted like, so as I've got a family party downstairs I ses to myself, I'll just run up and see if the gentleman wouldn't like to come down and join us. There's two nieces, and plenty of mince-pies and beer. Nell and Daisy ses as I'm to be sure to bring you." " Thank you. It is very kind," said Cyril thickly. " But I am not well. I should only spoil the fun." " There ain't no fear of that. Come on down and 'ave some beer. That will put you to rights." " I cannot come. My head is too bad," said Cyril. Having disposed of the well-intentioned landlady, he flung himself upon the bed, and lay there with closed eyes, until he heard footsteps, a jingling of crockery, and an excited voice which failed in its attempt to make a whisper, " Don't make such a racket, Nell. He'll hear us." The footsteps and voices receded, and Cyril opened the door to discover a plate containing two mince-pies and a thick tumbler brimming with beer. VOICES FROM THE GREEN WAY 289 The first moment he was tempted to fling the refreshment out of the window ; the next he was more wise. " There is no reason why they should think of me. It is kind of them," he murmured. " They want to help the lonely lodger, and to save him from himself." He went downstairs, and spent more than half the night behaving riotously and flirting with the two pert girls. The struggle went on into February, and Cyril was not saved. No new work had been accomplished, neither could he improve upon the old ; and the last coins were running out. Again the spirit of restlessness arose, tormenting like a gadfly, tempting Cyril back into the old haunts, making him long again for the ways of recklessness. A night came when the old evil could no longer be resisted ; and about midnight, mastered by custom, Cyril entered the usual tavern. Behind the bar a girl was washing glasses. She looked up and her face became crimson. " Cyril," she whispered. " I thought you were dead." " There is a little life left, and I have brought it here again." " I am busy now," she said. " But to-morrow even- ing " " The usual place ? " he added. " Yes, I'll be there." " Don't wait if I am not," said Cyril, and went ; but the spirit of the town had not done with him. At the corner, beside the railings of some dark legal office came a figure crawling in dilapidated frock-coat and pulpy hat, a figure so astonishingly thin that Cyril had to look as it raised its face and stop when this image of abused manhood shot out an arm and grabbed at him. Those bones, and rags, and offensive skin were all that was left of Adolph Carr. " Don't stare so. I am solid flesh," said Cyril irritably. " Thought you were dead. Where have you been ? Got any money ? " stammered the skeleton. " Trying to live decently and failing as usual," Cyril 290 WINTERING HAY answered, feeling at last a loathing for his old comrade. " What have you been doing ? " " Drinking. Getting a regular drunkard. Shameful. Take me home." " Where are you living ? " " Nowhere. No home, no wife, no money. Everything gone to the devil." " Where are you going now ? " " With you. Don't leave me again, old chap. Only friend I have." " You cannot come with me. Here is a shilling to get yourself a bed." " The Rising Sun," said Carr, blinking across the road they had drawn away from the tavern where Jessie was employed, but another friendly house was near " Let us patronise the Rising Sun." " Keep the shilling to buy yourself some food," said Cyril roughly. Again those fingers seized and dragged at him with no strength at all ; and as of old Cyril gave way and went, anxious to avoid a scene and not having the moral courage to push the wretch away and run. They entered the house, so quaintly dedicated to the Rising Sun, and remained until the place was closed, Carr hanging to Cyril's arm, stammering and coughing, half dead, yet full of glorious certainty as to money-getting now that his old comrade was restored ; and the liquor did its work with the man who was at once the stronger and the weaker of the two. They reached the Gray's Inn Road, where late revellers rolled by instinct homeward, a solitary policeman tramped noisily in the shadows, and lean cats were prowling about the areas. The wind was not biting, and yet the ill-clad Carr shivered fearfully so that the bones exposed in him seemed all to rattle ; but still he led the weaker man, guided him into a side-street, and cast his wretched body against a door, which at that strange summons was opened, and Cyril saw a cloud of tobacco-smoke twisting through VOICES FROM THE GREEN WAY 291 a glare of gaslight, and heard in some distant corner the squeaking of a concertina. " What is this place ? " he asked. " A night club. Whisky sold here," Carr stammered. " I'll have no more," declared Cyril, and tried to escape, but could not, for something like a piece of half-decayed rope was around his arm, and it tightened when he drew back, and brought the emaciated body full upon him. Carr was still linked to him by one wasted arm, holding him to the life of vice, claiming him as a comrade still. Cyril had given himself to this man, had worked with him, and had shared with him equally in what they had called the good things of life ; and it seemed ordained that he should remain the accomplice of this creature to the end, sharing with him the things of death and the world after. Carr would hang on through the night and the days to come, planning up to the last gasp some knavish deed, some scheme of money-getting ; and Cyril would follow, yield and fall with him because he had no moral courage to resist. Terrible as that drunken phantom was, greatly as he loathed it, he was not terrified ; and the cold hand of fear alone could snap the rotten bond between them. " This is a den of thieves," he muttered, closing his hot eyes. " Respectable club," insisted Carr. " Throw the money about." " Just one drink, and then I'm off," said Cyril, trying to be fierce. The atmosphere of the room was fearful, as if the windows had not been opened for a year. Cyril could hardly see the opposite wall so dense was the tobacco-smoke, for about thirty men of all ages were sprawling on low seats behind sloppy tables shortening the night and their lives, all drinking, many of them shouting, some mouthing disgusting things. There were no women. A pool-table stood in the centre of the room and two men lolled over it, laughing inanely, and pushing at the balls which they seldom struck. 292 WINTERING HAY Cyril recognised the familiar touch of a glass, perceived that he was standing beside a foggy bar and money was expected from him, paid, heard Carr's ejaculation, " Here's luck," shuddered as he smelt the liquor, then drank ; and immediately a word was given and his glass was filled again. How long they stood there Cyril did not know, but his senses began to depart from him, the faces of the followers of folly were leering, the walls seemed to move like trees in tempest, and a sudden click of the balls sounded like an explosion. With Carr still clinging to him, guarding against another separation, Cyril held to the edge of the bar- counter, trying to secure his body, which seemed to be tossing like a feather in the wind, and a thing apart so that he could look down and behold himself reeling beneath the influence of poison ; and through the foul stench and smoke and gaslight the moon was shining upon the white walls of Burntbeer, and upon the garden, which was not dead, but full of burning earth and gold-cupped aconites, and two figures walked there clad in black, one with his eyes looking on the ground, murmuring, " He is dead," and the other with her calm face lifted, moaning, " He is dead indeed." " Adolph, old chap, I'm going let me get the air." Cyril lurched forward, searching for the door. So deathly was his face that a man came up and led him the right way ; a benediction of night wind reached his face and he gasped and drank it in, then staggered forward into the street and tried to go, but a weight was attached, that arm remained linked in his, and wherever he walked he seemed condemned to drag that cursed body which could not stand alone, and could not leave him, and would not drop till it was dead. " Let go, Adolph ! I cannot take you with me. I live in an attic ; there is no room for you and the house is respectable." " I'll never leave you. I have nobody but you now. I'll stick to you like a brother. We'll hit upon some scheme for making money," stammered the everlasting comrade, VOICES FROM THE GREEN WAY 293 " I cannot afford to keep you. My money is almost gone." " I shared with you always fairly. You must share with me/* " I will not. I cannot give you another penny." " I lost you, and now I've found you," stammered the triumphant wretch. " I shan't leave you again. I'll hang on I'll hang on." And now it was the master of Burntbeer who appeared in the garden, saying to his two children, " Dead in every sense. He had no courage. He never could put up his arm and strike on his own behalf." A body went violently against the railings, swayed there one instant like a rag on a thorn-bush, toppled and fell upon the stone step of a house in darkness ; while Cyril stood, dazed and stupid, staring at it, wondering what had happened and what act of God had torn that figure from him and flung it upon the stones, giving him freedom yet how could he leave the man who had at least dealt fairly with him, and had shared in all things; how could he escape and carry with him the memory of the poor creature, homeless, drunken, exposed upon the stones ? Cyril made a forward step ; another moment and he would have given way, have lifted the wretch, and taken him to his attic, and placed him upon his own bed, and bound himself with that fallen man for ever ; but Carr stirred, raised his face with a moan, then fell back against the steps ; and the light from a street-lamp fell upon him, upon the awful face, upon the breast exposed by the breaking open of rotten garments, upon the bones of a skeleton, upon horror, upon death. This was what life could bestow on the man who went in the wrong direction and persevered that way, and thought in his madness he had found the path which led to happiness and the perfect gift. The bond was broken. CHAPTER XVII THE 'RETURN E'NG before daylight Cyril waited at Paddington for the first train westward. He had left the rent due, together with his latch-key and a note of explanation, upon the attic table, and had fled before stupor reached his mind again. He had tramped to London with a bundle on his back, and now was about to return, no richer, carrying the same bundle, but without the strength to walk ; nor had he any assurance of home or welcome in the haven he at last desired. Yet he felt joy to feel the motion of the train, to see the lights of London scattering, turning into a distant glow, and dying out across the hills and water-meadows of Berks and Oxon ; to be conscious of the cold pure breath of the winter's morning on the fields; to see the dim forms of shepherds astir early, bending over new-born plaintive lambs ; and to hear once more the gladsome hoot of owls. Cyril felt weak and ill, but not miserable on that morning of release which gave a new wonder to dawn upon the earth. Water was trickling free of ice, and the thaw was upon him also, permitting him to move seaward, stagnant no longer, but forced by pressure of the elements towards his appointed place. Still daylight had not triumphed, when he was already far from London, not yet out of the night, where he had passed through much of the tragedy possible to human life; only a few hours back he had been fighting for breath in that night den, and had seen the image of death upon the stones ; now by that vision given freedom he was by magic steam hiore than a day's walk distant from those streets. 294 THE RETURN 295 At Taunton Cyril left the train ; had he proceeded to Exeter the expense would have been greater, and he would not have gained more than a dozen miles, as it was his inten- tion to cover the last stage on foot. He could do it now that the good air was in him. With bundle on his back, and a stick cut in the old fashion from a coppice, he set off along the Somersetshire border, and having the luck to get a lift, not being ashamed in these days to ask for it, he reached Bampton that night and there stayed ; and the next day striking in a southerly direction by Oakford and Creacombe, through a country full of hills and free from railways, he was set at last upon a weedy lane which he was told would bring him to Blue Violet. Cyril came out upon a wooded upland, but saw no village, neither school-house nor church-tower, merely a few farm-houses separated by steep cleaves, and some cottages sprinkled on the edge of rocky fields, each detached, and in the centre of more garden than was needed. The air was glorious, and clear that afternoon, so that he saw the heights of Dartmoor touched with snow, saw the old moun- tain at the foot of which he had worked and sinned, about whose head and shoulders he had climbed a thousand times. The place was beautiful ; even then, in February, it was a fair maid of the country unspoilt by modernity, untouched by science or imagination ; a dull but a happy life. " This is the place, whatever its name," said Cyril, " the place where the old tales live." He moved again in the place of trackways ; roads they were not, for stones were rough upon them and grass nourished. One to the right passed downwards between fields ; another to the left was level, or inclined to be, and went beneath the shelter of a wood, and from it one looked down upon a cleave of furze and broom to see and hear below a white and bustling stream oi broken rain- water ; and along this trackway Cyril could perceive an old man walking, slowly, unconscious ol time, indilierent to the date. He carried a stick much higher than himself, but he stooped as if an invisible load oppressed his 296 WINTERING HAY shoulders, while a perceptible interval took place between each laboured footstep. Cyril followed through the wonderful silence where the snapping of a twig made a rude disturbance. The old man was like the spirit of lost time shuffling away to hide. He made no sound ; he looked a ghostly object beside the wood ; that magpie napping down the cleave made more noise in the world and seemed endowed by Nature with more gifts ; the bird was gone in a moment with its chatter, but the silent old man laboured on towards his hidden home. Cyril went up and stopped him with a touch ; for the old man did not answer to a call ; nor could he shuffle, think, and reply to questions at the same time. Bending upon his stick he looked up, wondered at the stranger, and set his slow wits to work that he might hear and answer. "This place, sir? Why, 'tis Blue Violet, sure enough." " Where is the village ? " Cyril asked. The old man pondered again, then glanced around, swinging himself slowly east and west. " Here 'tis, sir. It be all Blue Violet." "It is very small. No church, no parsonage. Only a few farms and cottages." " 'Ees, sir, a small place, bain't much of a large place, but 'tis a gude little place, I tell ye." " You need not call me ' sir,' " said Cyril. " I am a working man." " You'm a stranger. I ha' never seen you avore." " I mean to settle here if I can find work." " There be plenty o' that ; plenty o' work, but there bain't many men. The steamships ha' took they. I ha* never wanted vor a day's work in my life." " Can you tell me the way to Sweet Briar Lane ? " Cyril went on. " 'Tis beyond," the old man answered. " Us ain't far from it where us be. T'other side of the wood there be a gate, and t'other side of the gate us comes to Sweet Briar Lane." THE RETURN 297 " Do you know Lavender Cottage ? " "I ha' lived here all my life, and I ha' never knowed more than one cottage up along Sweet Briar Lane, though they do say there wur a plenty of 'em one time, and if you goes into the fields among the brimmles you can see the ruins of 'em. Some ses they wur cottages, and some ses they wur barns " " Do you know Mr. Mutter ? " Cyril hurried on, perceiving the light historical agleam in the old man's eyes. " Him that worked vor Varmer Dunn, and had a young lady to mind vor 'en a proper young lady her wur, but he had a lot o' trouble wi' she, aw, a lot o' trouble, they ses." " Have they gone ? " cried Cyril. " 'Ees, sir, they ha' gone. Where be us now ? March, hain't it ? " " February," said Cyril. " Well, 'twur last hay-saving, no it warn't neither ; a few weeks after when the Captain went they always called 'en Captain. The young lady went a bit sooner." " By herself ? " asked Cyril, struggling to control his voice. " Us don't know whether her went alone or wi' some person else," said the old man slowly. " Her wur here one day, sir, and gone the next." " You are sure they did not go together ? " " I knows 'em didn't. The young lady went avore the hay wur cut, and Captain didn't go till it wur saved. I mind how he wur asked particular to bide vor hay -saving, and he did. Be 'em friends of yourn, sir ? " " I knew them," said Cyril sadly. " I was on my way to Lavender Cottage, hoping they would take me in." " Well, sir, it be just as Captain left it ; his furniture be in it, and not a thing ha' been touched. Us ses he ha' gone to find the young lady, and when he finds she he'll come back." " Who is the landlord ? " 298 WINTERING HAY " Squire Tucker, sir. He lives to Broom Hill." " How is it he has left the furniture ? " " He'm a rich man, sir, and he does vunny things. If he wur a poor man they would put 'en away vor certain. They ses he shuts himself up in a dark room and tells to ghostes. He wur kind to the Captain, and sorry vor mun us could tell Captain warn't the like of we. I ha' often seen Squire and Captain telling together when I wur passing." " The Squire would know where he is ? " " Some ses he do, and some ses he don't. 'Tis certain he'm keeping the cottage vor mun. He won't take the furniture out, and he won't let it to any person else." " I will visit the Squire. Is he at home ? " asked Cyril. " 'Ees, sir. Squire don't often go away. He'm an old man same as me, and he'm feared to travel. Come along wi' me, sir, and I'll put ye on the lane to Broom Hill." " You have never travelled, I suppose ? " said Cyril as they walked on. " I ha' never slept a night out of Blue Violet. What part of the world ha' you come from, sir ? " " London." " All the way from London. Well, that's wonderful. You left London this morning, I reckon, and now you'm here. I ha' lived to hear tell of wonderful things, but I don't want to see 'em vor myself. I ha' got too old vor 'em. I understands horses and carts I ha' no fear o' they ; but the steam-trains would scare the life out of me. A man be given legs, sir, and 'tis proper vor 'en to use 'em. He warn't made to grope in the air, nor yet to fly abroad on wheels. They wonderful things I ha' heard on must be sent by the Devil, I fancy. God didn't want 'em when He wur on earth, ana us don't want 'em neither." " Are you a Methodist ? " asked Cyril. " Ay, sir, that's what I be," the old man answered. They passed through the gate, and Cyril beheld upon his left hand an opening, steep and narrow, which even at that barren time of year looked like the entry to a bower. THE RETURN 299 This was Sweet Briar Lane ; over those large, loose stones Eva had hurried in flight ; up that watery way Elias had gone each evening with labourer's tools upon his shoulders ; and now it was Cyril's turn to go up, and work at last. " Vender's the way to Broom Hill," said the old guide, pointing. " 'Tis two miles beyond. Keep to the road, sir, and the first house you comes to be the one you wants." " Thank you," said Cyril. " We shall often meet again." Not much daylight was remaining, yet Cyril, in spite of weariness, yielded to the desire to see Lavender Cottage before visiting the landlord. Plunging into the tunnel- like lane he advanced for about two hundred yards, then saw the dwelling, square, whitewashed, none too beautiful, its windowless back wall upon the lane. A gate in the cob beyond was unfastened, and through it Cyril entered a gar- den choked with weeds, a sad garden where the flowers lay strangled ; and going round to the front he seated himself in the porch, trying to fill in the blanks of the old man's story. The part which dealt with Eva was too simple : she had longed to leave London, being afraid of death, believing that the air of Devonshire would heal her sick- ness ; but when she came and was healed, and the fear of death had left her, the lust for a life less sluggish had re- turned. She would have been left in that cottage alone all day speaking to nobody, having no employment beyond housework ; she could not endure the solitude, nor could she communicate with himself ; and believing him to be dead, and having herself nothing to live for except pleasure, she had fled into the world of action. But what of the Captain ? Why had he departed, leaving the cottage furnished ? Cyril could not believe he had gone in search of Eva ; had he done so, intending to return, a month or two would have given him time sufficient ; and he had been absent now for the best part of a year. " They are both dead," Cyril whispered to the rain- marked walls and crop of nettles. " Eva may be alive, but she is dead to my life ; while the old uncle may have lost his memory, or have met with an accident which killed 300 WINTERING HAY him. If I had written, or if I had come, as I promised in the spring, I might have saved them both." He rose quickly and departed, reminded by the darkening sky that he had no shelter for the night, and another walk awaited him. He hurried out of the lane, along the road, meeting nobody, hearing no sound except the call of wind and the splash of water, and did not stop until he saw a small hill covered with sycamores, and in the midst a house. Passing through the gate he mounted the drive, murmuring to himself, " This is a dreary home " ; but when near the front door he hesitated, an uncom- fortable feeling came over him, and with it the sense of a strong personality near, thinking, looking at the visitor. Cyril stopped, then started as a soft voice exclaimed, " Cyril Rossingall ; I am sure it is Cyril Rossingall." Upon the sodden turf before some bushes stood a perfect stranger, with an extraordinarily gentle and rather sleepy face ; not a country squire, but an old clergyman ; his hat in his hand, his white beard and scanty hair sprinkled with winter moisture. " I do not know you," Cyril gasped. He could not help it ; this figure frightened him, for never had he seen any human being so distinctly ; although it was almost dark this stranger stood forth like some white object seen against black in sunshine. " But I know you. Your name is Cyril Rossingall. You thought of changing your name when you came here." " Why, that is true," Cyril murmured, almost persuaded that this man was a spirit, since he stood so strangely and distinctly in the garden, and knew not only his name but his innermost thoughts, and was so obviously not the man he had come to visit. Cyril was in poor health ; he was exhausted and fasting, and in that condition was able to believe he had been transported into the midst of wonders. " You have been a long time coming too long. Why do you shrink from me ? " said the clergyman, coming forward and putting out his hand, THE RETURN 301 " Who are you ? " muttered Cyril in the same nervous way. " Can you tell me if Squire Tucker lives here ? " " I am Squire Tucker. At least they call me so." " I did not know. I beg your pardon," Cyril blurted out. " I have only just arrived, and I met an old man who directed me here. I expected to see a farmer." " And you find a clergyman who knows all about you ; who knows more about heaven and hell than all the churches." That old labourer was right, thought Cyril. No wonder this man frightened me, for he is mad. " You think I have been deprived of my senses," said the mild clergyman, making Cyril shrink again, so strong was that personality, so sure its power of divination. " I saw you coming, and I knew you. I have been waiting for you. But it is cold standing here. Will you come into my home ? " Despite the spiritual aspect of the Squire, his body enjoyed material things. The warm study was filled with a savoury odour of grilled bloaters and hot buttered toast, welcome to Cyril, who was famished, although he could not restrain the thought that if this white-faced man had visions, indigestion was probably the producing agent. He fell to heartily ; his host did likewise ; and they talked about nothing of importance until the meal was finished. By then it was black outside. The clergyman had been chatting upon the life of a recluse, upon trees, hills, atmos- phere, and seasons, quite rationally, but when he rose to close the shutters the madness, as Cyril called it, came back. He opened the window, called several times, as if some- body had been lost, listened, murmured, " They are not here. The presence of a stranger frightens them away." He went to the door and looked out into the passage, listening again, and smiling in a fashion which chilled the guest. Then he returned and said in a sane voice, " Now we will talk about yourself." Cyril had already ventured to ask questions, which had not been listened to, and he took advantage of this 302 WINTERING HAY invitation to repeat them. The Squire and his house were both haunted, and though he longed for shelter and a friend, the atmosphere of the one and the personality of the other were too fearful. He felt he would rather sleep in a barn than there. They were certainly alone, yet he felt somebody was whispering in the passage, while the very furniture appeared infected with some magnetism. " Your object in coming to Blue Violet was to find a home," said the clergyman abstractedly. " You expected to discover your uncle and sister here, leading peaceful and industrious lives. You are disappointed to see a deserted cottage, and you are now wondering what will become of you." " I have nowhere to go " began Cyril ; but the clergy- man went on without attending : " I was sure you would come to-day. I had received information." He was glancing at a side-table, where Cyril perceived certain quaint objects known as planchette and scrying crystal. " I knew you would come and ask if you might make use of your uncle's cottage." " I was going to ask first for information." " Which I cannot give you," continued the host sharply. "I let the man touch my life, but he could not mix with it. I can get nothing about him. He intended to be away for one day ; that he told me ; and he went very early in the morning, but has never returned." " I think he must be dead," said Cyril. " He is not what you call dead, or I should know of it. Living in this world he evades me ; if in the next stage of existence I should have him, I would bring him here and make him confess." Cyril did not reply to that, being afraid to excite the madman, who seemed to regard himself as master of the mysteries of life and death. Requiring his assistance he trod carefully. " Do you know anything of the girl, my sister ? " he asked. THE RETURN 303 " I am considering the man, your uncle," came the answer. " A rough, honest being, but without religion, therefore with nothing to rest his soul on, possessing no real affection, having no lovers in the next stage who could reach him, a man who lived alone in every sense, and suffered much from melancholy. Existence became too hard for him, he could not mix with the labourers, neither could they respond to him. He wore a skin which could not be penetrated. I was unable to give him my affection." " You thought him selfish ? " suggested Cyril in his grand manner. " We are all selfish. You are yourself extremely so," said the clergyman mildly. " You remain in London when you might have helped your relations, but you do not seek them until you require their aid." " That is true," said Cyril with useless penitence. " Your uncle spoke about you constantly. He supposed you were dead, and though I was able to assure him you were not, there was nothing of a comforting nature I could add. Your life was surrounded by dark clouds which your own actions had attracted. You have done no harm to Captain Mutter." " You speak as if I had done harm to somebody," Cyril muttered. " Pardon me one moment. My wife is calling," said the Squire ; and he went out, leaving his guest in horror ; for there had been no voice, nor any suggestion of foot- steps in the passage, and this was the first mention of a mistress, who appeared to live in the dark corners of house and garden and was afraid to show herself in the open. " Now it is clear so far as I am concerned," said the Squire, returning with an antique key. " You asked me about the girl, your sister. This is my reply." Handing Cyril the key, he continued : " People wonder why I have left Lavender Cottage locked up and untouched. I knew you would come, therefore I let the cottage wait for you. We must be punished," he went on as fiercely as his 304 WINTERING HAY mild nature would allow. " When we bring suffering to others we bring it upon ourselves. Here is the key of Lavender Cottage, Mr. Rossingall. You may go and live there ; others have prepared it for you." " I do not understand," said Cyril weakly. " Your sister has been with me in this room, and I have searched her soul. There is a black mark upon it, a horrible mark of corruption, not a birth-mark but a world-mark. She has sinned terribly, but the sin was suggested to her, it was impressed upon her, and she was guided to it, plunged into it, held down in it until the sin became commonplace, natural, and at last a part of life." " My elder sister told me there was something bad in Eva," Cyril murmured. " As there is in all of us. She discovered the evil after it had been suggested to Eva, and when it had become malignant. I tell you the girl is good, better by far than many a wedded woman, but there is one thing which she cannot endure, and that is neglect. I know how you tramped to London and rescued her from one form of death. I know how you succumbed to the pleasures of town life ; how they were not forced upon you, but approached willingly for your mind is lower than your sister's and I know how you sent the girl here to live with Captain Mutter, then disappeared yourself. I ask no question. You chose the path which seemed the pleasantest, and you went along it until, by the mercy of God, you reached an obstacle ; and now you must turn back, and struggle a long distance before you can regain the turning where you went astray. It is part of my duty to set your face towards that turning. Before you came, my wife and daughter both assured me that you stand in need of guidance as much as any woman, you cannot stand alone, without a friend you fall and fall again. Since you came my wife has impressed upon me that you must suffer, and the way I have chosen is the best. You neglected your sister I give you the key of Lavender Cottage. My meaning will be clear to you now." THE RETURN 305 " It is not," said Cyril. " You are giving me permission to use the cottage, and for that I am most grateful ; but you talk about punishment while you reward me." " Your sister suffered there," went on the clergyman. " In the midst of a solitude which sometimes terrified her she went through all the stages of remorse, reaching at last the stupor of indifference because she was neglected. At last she must have said to herself in simple human fashion, ' I care no longer.' Even when she appeared to you ill-tempered she loved you ; I noticed the sadness in her eyes when she spoke of you and said, ' I shall never see my brother again.' I am sending you to Lavender Cottage, the furniture and walls of which are, by a spiritual process, to you incomprehensible, impregnated with suffering ; and when you enter, and while you move through its rooms, and whenever you touch an article, you will see, and feel, and hear, your sister, whom you neglected and sent forth to be destroyed in this world's misery." " Is the place haunted ? " cried Cyril dully. " Not in the sense which people mean when they use that word. There is no spot in the whole world which is not haunted ; no spot where the voices are not heard and the spiritual life is not present. Any article which your sister has held between her hands will haunt you." Cyril was not disturbed by these words, nor by the thought of entering Lavender Cottage. That house terri- fied him ; that white-faced clergyman, whose presence overwhelmed and fascinated, caused him to shrink so that he could not collect his senses sufficiently to speak on his own behalf, to explain what pleasure he had gained from his London life, and what good reason hindered him from living here with Eva ; nor did it matter, for everything seemed lost except his own life. His aunt, sister, uncle, Lilian, and George, even Sharley and old Joll, were clean gone ; but friends were forced upon him still, this madman offered him a home, calling the act of kindness a just x 306 WINTERING HAY retribution for his own shortcomings, and possibly it seemed as much to one who lived among the ghosts. " There is a business side to be discussed," Cyril said more boldly. " It will be necessary to see you often," came the answer. " I cannot talk of sordid things to-night." " You will let me thank you ? " " Some day I hope to give you cause. Regard me as a friend. I see you cannot do without one." Gladly Cyril escaped from Broom Hill into the bleak road, and so towards Sweet Briar Lane. The lethargy of the past year had departed while speaking to the old labourer at the edge of the wood. He had been fully awakened by the sight of the cottage ; his imagination had been startled into life by Squire Tucker ; and now that it was night upon Blue Violet he felt once more the quickening power of Nature. Tired though he was he ran, being eager to reach the home which was prepared for him, the home where he could work at last, and win. He slipped upon the stones, fell against the hedge, the brambles scratched his face, but they were welcome, so were the docks and stinging nettles, and all other things which grew or had their being on these lonely acres. If this was punishment, let heaven rain it : a home, an opportunity, and a friend. Now to win back the others, make his peace with Wintering Hay, search out George, fight for Lilian, and force the Squire with his enchantments to call back Eva ; but first to make his position sure, and stretch the shillings he had left, and use every hour in labour. All things were possible with that night air upon him. Cold wind and rain from Dartmoor had blown through cracks of doors and windows, keeping the cottage ventilated but damp, and Cyril was too weary to search for turves to make a fire. Striking a match he entered the living-room, where he found a lamp with oil, and having lighted it he explored, untroubled by any thrill of fear. There were five rooms, two below and three above, just as if the cottage had been intended for Eva, Captain Mutter, and himself, but THE RETURN 307 one bedroom contained nothing (that was his room) and the two others were furnished after the manner of a poor man's home. Cyril last entered Eva's room, and here seated himself, and here resolved to sleep. He had opened all the windows downstairs, so that there were noises in the cottage, flutterings, whisperings, shocks- and groans ; and Cyril, shivering suddenly, closed the door It was rather terrible in Eva's bedroom with all Nature pouring in. " I was never afraid of being alone," he murmured. " I am not now. This solitude is splendid ; it will give me strength, it will make me, but I have been in the town so long that it is strange. The lamp burns badly. The wind would moan like this round Wintering Hay, but not so gently. It was angry there. Here it is patient." Articles belonging to Eva were there : an old skirt, discarded shoes, a few feminine trifles, all pathetic because so shabby, useless even to poverty. Cyril touched them, angry to know that the mad Squire had sense. This did seem more like punishment ; there was a pang of remorse to be wrung out of that old skirt, and a thrill of pain lurking in those shoes ; while the wind became more bustling in the cottage, and it seemed to Cyril little folk were running up the stairs carrying torches, furze-pricks, arrow-grass, rose-thorns, and broom-whips, asking each other in which room was the man who had deserted his sister ; as he had heard them running in the light of the moon upon Dart- moor, anxious to bring him honey-bags and ointment to strike upon his eyes, that he might behold the land of happiness revealed, in those days when Nature had been his friend. " Old fools are right sometimes," Cyril muttered. " I have gone the wrong way ; and I was not conscious of it until now." Taking the lamp, he went downstairs and closed the windows better the damp than those angry voices then returned to Eva's room and shut himself in. "I am young," he murmured. " But so is Eva, and what hope is 308 WINTERING HAY there for her ? What is my duty ? Why, to send a letter to George and another to Lilian, telling them all. Lilian shall know what I have done and not done ; she shall know about Alice and Eva ; I will keep nothing back. And I will write boldly to Uncle Andrew, and tell him that if he had brought me up differently I might have done better, but I will admit he spoke the truth when he said so often I was on the way to hell. And I will do everything that lies in my power to discover Eva, and if she is returned to me I will give my life to her, I will place her before Lilian, I will work to give her happiness and comfort. Eva, poor girl, these shoes are full of holes like our two lives." Beneath the bed more rubbish was scattered. Presently Cyril discovered a crushed cardboard box containing scraps of ribbons and artificial flowers ; beneath some scraps of paper, which he turned out and examined by the dim light of the lamp, until a mist before his eyes dissolved in tear-drops which fell upon the ill-spelt words. So poor little Eva had spent some of those lonely hours trying to scribble poetry ; childish stuff, yet equal to the best, since there was the cry of a human soul, there was a human heart laid open, and out of those lines, expressed by the words themselves and the formation of letters and by blanks, proceeded the old, piteous prayer of the sufferer to the unknown, " Give me a new heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me." That cry was there, and upon another piece of crumpled paper all manner of forms were trampling on the garden written in that childish handwriting, yet prettily, " My Brother." Here was stuff to make poor Cyril curse his birthday, for those pointed letters went all into his heart and stuck. " She is not lost," he shouted. " I can find her, I can bring her back. She wrote with me in her mind, never dreaming I should read this. She has gone to find me ; and when he, that is to say Uncle Elias, writes to her at the General Post Office to tell her I am found, she will return. She is good the madman's right she went THE RETURN 509 away to rescue me, knowing I should fall so much lower than she had ever done. Eva, dear unselfish, loving little sister, our home shall be together here, and we will help each other to stand straight." He spread the torn skirt reverently across the bed, and slept under it that night. CHAPTER XVIII THE PAST NOT DEAD ANIGHT of sleep, a busy morning of confused thought, and another of Cyril's weak spots became exposed ; not cowardice this time, but self-love. At once he wrote a letter over his own signature to Eva, and there stayed his hand. As usual when relying on himself he blundered. He could not write to Lilian and say, " during the last two years I have been a weed " ; nor to George confessing that the good friend's sacrifice had been thrown away, nor to his uncle owning that his judgment had been right. The time had not come for his rebirth into their lives. Cyril decided to wait until he had put himself to the test, and had extracted from his mind grains either of gold-dust or base lead ; and if the precious metal he could return a victor, and if the dross he could remain unknown. It was a policy not of honesty but of weakness. Confident of what he could do, he thought to set the moral balance straight by concealing what he had done. Necessity forced him out early to discover human beings who dealt in foodstuffs. The search took some time; because human beings were scarce, and he was quickly lost in a cobweb of lanes, each one of which appeared to have been made for the purpose of confusion ; but at last he reached a cottage which was proclaimed a shop by the advertisement of glass bottles filled with sweets in an obscure window, and the words " Post Office" above the humble door. Within was a kind of store, where drapery and butter met together and postage-stamps were mixed with liquorice. The rude jangle of a bell conjured the 310 THE PAST NOT BEAD 311 mistress of this emporium from a region of packing-cases. This good woman knew everything about Cyril except his name and character ; and what was lacking imagination had supplied. She was well aware of the time of his arrival, of his visit to Broom Hill, and his possession of Lavender Cottage. She simmered with interrogations while she displayed her stock and like a magician produced packets of tea and sugar from rolls of flannelette and calico. While Cyril joyfully discovered that in this solitary place a shilling was composed of twelve productive pennies, and a sovereign would gather a fertile harvest 'for a month. The history of Blue Violet was told him in a sentence : the population of the hamlet was under seventy ; Squire Tucker was the only resident gentleman, and he did little for the place ; the soil was rich but the people were poor ; there was a Methodist chapel within easy distance, the school was a mile away, and another two would have to be covered if Cyril should desire to sing in an established church. " The young lady used to walk over every Sunday," she announced. " The young lady ? " questioned Cyril, hoping to get information. " Miss Mutter, sir. You knows she surely." " Oh, yes, the Captain's daughter," Cyril hazarded. " That's right, sir. Funny thing they going off so un- expected," she suggested, fishing in her turn. Somehow Cyril could not be true to Eva even then. He was glad to know she had not used the name of Rossingall ; it was wise in a place where scandal would flare up readily ; and he was more than ever determined to follow her example. In a parochial sense Blue Violet was separated from Burntbeer by a continent ; yet under his own name the Corindons had only to make inquiries to discover him. Cyril decided to free his personality from all mystery, and to tell the woman, and through her everybody, sufficient about himself to remove suspicion. " Captain Mutter and his daughter are connections of mine," he explained. " My own name is Wilson," giving WINTERING HAY the first name which occurred, and one which might be found in any village. " I do not belong to these parts, but have been living for some time in London. I was forced to leave owing to financial losses and bad health, so I came here hoping my friends could take me in. I was very much astonished to find they had gone, but I had heard nothing of them for over a year and they did not know my address. I went on to Squire Tucker, who was kind enough to give me permission to use the cottage." " Be you going to take up land, sir ? " asked the woman with much interest. " I shall probably have to work as the Captain did. I am a poor man at present." " That's London, I suppose," said the woman scornfullya " They say it takes 'em sound and sends 'em back rotten. You'll be wanting a woman to mind vor ye up to Lavender Cottage ? " she added. " For the present I shall look after myself," said Cyril. Having purchased sufficient stores to last him for a week he departed, and spent the rest of the morning writing his one letter and making his new home habitable. The first few days he meant to rest, and to wander about the lonely country, winning strength and building up self- confidence. He dreaded the prospect of the evenings some- what, and in a moment of weakness determined to sleep no more in Eva's bedroom, but to keep it locked until she came ; though it did not occur to him, until he had spread the false report, that the scandal would be grievous if Mr. Wilson and Miss Mutter lived together. Still more he dreaded the idea of visiting the Squire and of having the truth crushed out of him by that insane personality. " I will not go unless he sends for me," he said. " Let him come to see me here." That afternoon Cyril walked over to the next village with his letter, not daring to post it in Blue Violet, where the address would be noticed and talked about. This fact being present in his mind produced a certain confusion of thought ; Cyril was clear that he must post the letter THE PAST NOT DEAD 313 elsewhere, since the name Miss Mutter would certainly be recognised, and being obsessed with the idea that this name was to be avoided, while his mind, working sluggishly on account of poor bodily health, dictated Eva's rightful name, he unthinkingly addressed the letter to Miss Rossingall and let it go. The same evening the door in the cob wall opened, the light of a lantern gleamed in the garden, and a gentle voice from the weeds announced to Cyril that his landlord had lost no time in visiting him. Hurrying out he led the white figure in ; but immediately the Squire beheld the trans- formed living-room he exclaimed, " It is literature ! Why did you not tell me last night it is literature ? " " I was too confused," said Cyril. " I frightened you ? " Cyril made a motion of assent. " You think I am mad ? I do not press the question. From you I expect a kinder judgment than that passed on me by the countryfolk. So it is literature ! " he said again. " The greatest of all material things because it helps to make a man more spiritual. I can forgive you much. There is something in the life of letters which detaches a man mentally and bodily from his kind, makes him desire solitude, and a life which others deem unnatural, and bring to him temptations terrible." " Did not the Captain tell you ? " Cyril asked. " He would not think of it. You see, I am no magician ; I can only read what you choose to reveal, not what you keep hidden. Do not think me mad," the clergyman went on almost plaintively. " When you have lived here long enough for the spirit of Broom Hill to work upon your mind, a new awakening will come, you will lose the sense of sorrow, happiness will colour every action of your life and they will dictate to you poems out of heaven. You must be brought into touch with the spirits who move in the presence of God, before you can find the road to perfect happiness. We have to submit ourselves to the divine will, and if we do so willingly, the punishment we WINTERING MAY call'sorrow becomes a great reward. Sorrow has brought me happiness. My wife and daughter passed away in the same year and left me mad indeed. Madly I mourned them, madly searched for them in the place where their bodies lay, madly called them dead, when they were living and nearer to me than they had ever been, watching over and protecting me. Then I became sane, for out of the sorrow of their loss came perfect happiness, through the knowledge that my beloved were not dead, God in His mercy permitted them to send down heaven to me and to remain themselves in my earthly home until I should be allowed to join them as a spirit. Which is the madman, Mr. Rossingall : he who believes in what is revealed, or he who does not believe ? " " You are a spiritualist," said Cyril evasively. " You are a spiritualist too. You cannot escape. You are a materialist only when you pamper the body ; in your thoughts and dreams you are a spirit." " I have never seen a ghost," said Cyril somewhat child, ishly, made so by that terribly distinct face. " And I have a horror of death." " Not many see what they seek to avoid," came the answer. " If you banish your dead from the daily life they will not insist upon approaching unless the need is urgent. You cannot preserve friendship with a being in the flesh by perpetually neglecting that person. The horror of death is to me incomprehensible. It is with you dread of the unknown ; your spirit would be equally terrified if, having no knowledge of this world, it should be warned that it must dwell in some body here. Have you ever gone out, sick and weary, to come suddenly upon some place of beauty, some natural happy valley of soft grass and flowers ? " " Oh yes," interrupted Cyril, thinking of his younger days. " There to feel your sickness and heaviness depart and a glorious sense of freedom in its place ? That is much the same as death and no more terrible. One hour sick and THE PAST NOT DEAD 315 weary ; the next free as a bird in the air. And even if your life has been wholly bad, the glorious sense of freedom will be there, I think ; for the knowledge may come that another life will be offered, another opportunity given." " You a clergyman ! " Cyril murmured. " Many years ago I resigned my active connection with a church, which reverences the spirits of certain dead, but disowns all others, which revels in the materialism of gold and silver, bricks and mortar, which maintains the shadows of the dark ages across the lives of the people, and flaunts the skeleton beside the cross. I could not be orthodox, so I had to go." " May I speak to you about my work and plans ? " asked Cyril, when the Squire paused, but unable to keep his eyes fixed upon that patient face which looked so affectionate yet did not smile. " First may I tell you that Eva has gone back to London, hoping to find me, and I have written to her ? " And he went on to mention the discovery of the ragged poetry. " Spiritual influence compelled her to write, and you to discover what was written, and me to leave the things in this house untouched," was the landlord's comment. " Had you no vision in the night ? " " I was afraid of the wind." " You saw no strange light ? You felt no oppression ? " " The place seemed musty. That was all." " It is not all. I was right to send you here. You are a better man to-day than you were yesterday. You are looking about already to find a means of escaping from the path of pleasure which leads to misery as surely as the path of sorrow makes for joy. Your face has been turned in the right direction by the aural vapour caused by your sister's suffering. I knew it would work. Here you will do no evil, and avoid all errors which might harm you, because this is the one place in the world where the atmos- phere has been prepared for you, the one place where success in life is certain. Tell me the history of your life up to now, but do not speak of your plans. Let me." 316 WINTERING HAY That moment Cyril found it easy to speak, for the Squire, apparently without effort, withheld the strong mental pressure which made him so uncomfortable a companion, and remained in the passive condition of receiving instead of giving, while the history was revealed with the leading incident omitted ; but concerning the birthplace, parents, Mutters, life of Wintering Hay, and Corindons, all the truth was told, even to the act which made him free from Adolph Carr, the drunkard. Not a word said the clergyman until Cyril went on to speak of the future ; and then he released his personality and stopped him. " Think of the past only to repent of it," he said, " and when repented of let it lie as dead. The obstacles to your progress have been great ; mercy will be dealt you in proportion. Your first stage will be loneliness, and you must make the best use of it ; the second stage will be desire for sympathy, and at last will come love for the best thing in life, which to most is a woman, to a few Nature. You are among the few." " Oh no," said Cyril. " I want Lilian." " Am I wrong ? " murmured the Squire, scanning the young man closely. " I think not. I do not believe love for a woman will satisfy you." " I have changed my name, and am hiding from Lilian until I can tell her I have done something. Am I wise ? " " Deceit, however harmless, is unprofitable ; it brings forth bitterness. These are matters I leave to your own judgment. I remember you have already announced your name to be Wilson ; I understand your shame and pride forbid you to tell your lady that in the contest between the world and herself for your love she has not been first. The hardest course is generally the safe one ; the most difficult thing to do is always best. But in all matters of the heart a man should be left to his own counsel ; otherwise, if he goes wrong, he will throw the blame upon his friend. Now for the immediate future : success will come to you here, and it will come quickly, because this is the place where it has been ordained that you shall THE PAST NOT DEAD 317 succeed. Have no fears for your necessities, do not trouble to search for labour, which you would dislike and could not properly perform. Merely work on and trust ; and if a few coins should be required I will be your banker for a loan." Cyril expressed gratitude as well as he could, adding, "I do no good to others, but while I am in this country I find friends anxious to help me on. Sharley would accept no money for the rent of my garden, old Joll did not care whether I paid him rent or not, George Corindon was ready to give me all that he possessed, and now you give me a home and offer me assistance to live. What makes you all so fertile in kindness, and myself so barren ? " " Nature prevails in us as she does upon the ground when she sends rain to nourish her little children the plants. You think yourself barren, but as yet you have made no growth. You, too, will bear fruit and be lavish with it." " I hope you will forgive me for my strangeness last night," said Cyril impulsively. " I was ill and tired ; and there was something in you which alarmed me. I know now I was frightened because you are good." " You shall not say so," said the Squire with feeling. " The forces which surround me frightened you. They are about us all, but in my presence they are felt. Some time, when you have turned yourself again to Nature, and the atmosphere of this cottage has shaped you to its purpose, you shall sit with me, if you have the courage, and behold the spiritual life. Use me as much as you can," he continued smiling for the first time, not at Cyril, but at the thought which was in him. " I have not more than one year of this existence. The mad Squire of Broom Hill soon will make the brief step into the higher life which is always near him. One year they say, and they must know," he murmured. " Can you foretell the time of your death ? " asked Cyril, flinching. " Doctors agree with my wife and daughter. ' Before one year is over you will live/ say my dear ones, ' In 318 WINTERING HAY a year's time you will be dead/ says the practical tongue of medical science. This whiteness of my face tells you nothing," he went on, placing a hand upon his breast, " but cancer is here. Now let me see your work. I am no judge, yet I can tell you what is chaff and what is wheat." It was impossible to utter any expression of regret to a man who had no wish to live upon earth ; and Cyril did not make the attempt, but produced the old manuscript which had come into being so long ago at Lilian's call, and had accompanied him throughout the distressful pilgrimage. " I will take this home with me," said the Squire, receiving the bundle into his delicate hands. " You will, no doubt, be glad to receive some spiritual advice. Come to-morrow about four o'clock ; then I will tell you my opinion, and you shall also hear what message I have received from those who cannot err. I will ask you," he added, as he gathered his cloak about him, and Cyril turned to light his lantern, " to devote one hour each evening to concentration. Sit here in darkness, and think of the best, remain in a passive condition, fearing nothing, and if the trance state comes do not resist it. Those hours will influence your life and guide you on the way." He was for going out alone, but Cyril went with him to the foot of Broom Hill, and the Squire was pleased by this attention. It was a notable night-walk ; the tongue and curious mind of the man who was haunted to his happiness gave life to the stones and turned shadows into light. Certainly his talk was often wild, his mind not adapted for working-day life, yet both were helpful ; and while Cyril walked with him the soul of the early years was restored, those wonderful hours of the first conscious rambles came back. It seemed to him his vision had been clearer as a child ; he had then glanced beneath the outward show of things, and seen the divine principle Stirring in them, found the spirit in the water and the fairy THE PAST NOT DEAD 319 of the flower, while lacking the power of expression which could only come as the seed of experience and the result of growth. That night the power was present, and Cyril was more a mystic than the clergyman who explained every motion of air, fluttering of unseen bird, each sudden thrill or touch of inspiration, as simply as a child by saying, "It is the work of spirit, of human beings like ourselves, but, unlike us, free " ; while Cyril believed in a personal Nature created by the will of God, established by His law to rule the world by guiding minds with wonder, and he retained the lingering fancy of a race of beings, not made directly by the Creator, but produced by Nature, therefore a little lower than humanity, always invisible, sometimes helpful, at other times hostile, creatures which had no soul and could not sin, but hating human sin and punishing it, because it disturbed their happiness. The old man and the young had each an unusual mind ; one had behind it faith and a firm courage, the other cowardice and a confused religion. Both were mad to those who had no mind at all. The following afternoon, in the fearful study of Broom Hill, Cyril heard judgment passed upon his work. " There is a fine fancy here," said the Squire. " They are the ideas of a man of forty wrapped up in the language of a child. They are arrow-heads without shafts. If you have now the strength to supply what is lacking, success must follow ; but there is a fault, and to me a great one, which I believe you cannot yet amend. These studies of the earth and atmosphere might have been written by some cultured Greek, by a polytheist. How is it two thousand years of Christianity have failed to influence you ? " " I do not know," said Cyril awkwardly. " I turned against my uncle's religion because it was his." " Have you no religion at all ? " " I felt I might find one in Nature." " To worship Nature is idolatry. You will accomplish good work, but it can never be great, nor will it make an appeal to the human mind, until it is softened by religion 320 WINTERING HAY and sustained by faith. There is only one religion, and it is made purposely so simple in order that the meanest intelligence may have power to comprehend it. Yet you have missed it." " I was very young when I wrote those poems. I did not ask my sell what it was that I believed in," explained Cyril, and added, " I will try to correct the fault now." " You cannot put into your work what is not in your heart. You cannot define love unless you have loved. Never force yourself to express a sentiment which you do not feel, for however cunningly you may speak or set the passage down, he who listens or reads will notice the de- ception and suspect the motive. Be honest in your work as to your neighbours. If your mind rejects Christianity, reject it with your pen. If in your soul you love polytheism, accept it openly ; faith will strike your heart one day, and compel you to recant the error." " He may be a spiritualist, but he does not always speak like a madman," was Cyril's comment, as he left the house with his time-worn bundle. This was the beginning of a peaceful period, a chap- ter of work untouched by any startling incident, spent in the fragrant atmosphere of Blue Violet. It was also the happiest time of Cyril's life, because he had entered the environment which suited his nature. He might hate the solitude often, yet he had been made for it. Strong again and well, he worked his hardest, find- ing it easy since it was a pleasure ; and he rambled about that marvellously silent country, through sunlight and moon-mists, down into the cleaves along scented bottoms, across fields and hedges, through woods and over bogs, revelling in the stillness and his own power of flight, gathering knowledge, learning the signs of wind and weather, watching the migration of birds, the rise and wane of the moon, marking many an unwritten wonder, quickening his eye to interpret Nature aright. It was the life of the earth wrapped in the haze of twilight or morning mists that he loved, not the clear light of noon and the sweeping THE PAST NOT DEAD 321 clouds, and the lark's song. And success came so easily and so quickly that Cyril found it hard to understand his previous failure ; all that he wrote found a ready market ; the poems converted into essays, with an ease like magic, were taken in by the house which had first rejected them, and the kindly old publisher, who had once shown himself a friend, now proved himself also an ex- cellent man of business. Nothing in life seemed so simple as success. Cyril had reached that stage of his existence when he could do nothing wrong. Yet no letter arrived from Eva, and she did not come. Cyril felt it was useless to write again. Neither he nor the Squire with his power of divination could know that Eva worked honestly for a living upon a pittance, or could see her passing between the columns of the post office to enquire if any letter might be waiting for Miss Mutter. The letter was waiting, but not given, and at last was returned to the writer as not called for ; and he supposed that Eva had gone back to the old life, until some weeks had passed, and the idea flashed upon his mind that he had used the wrong name, and then he wrote again ; but that letter also was returned, for Eva had given up calling, and was setting her own future in order. Alice was left, and Cyril wrote to her with the same result. She had left the old address. Both sisters were lost as completely as Captain Mutter. That life swallowed months greedily. Days passed without any event to mark them, except a visit to Broom Hill, or a tramp of unusual length. Lavender Cottage was now better furnished and comfortably supplied with a housekeeper, while Cyril was not only paying a fair rent, but saving honest money, and had actually suggested to the Squire that he might hope to purchase the dwelling of good fortune, build on to it, and make a garden-house for Lilian when the time came ; for his mind was still occupied with the young sweetheart of Whist ly Down, although he did not communicate with her, and would not, until he was in a position to visit Burntbeer and tell its 322 WINTERING HAY master, " I have conquered, and have come to claim the prize." The red-letter day of publication came, and the Squire visited the essayist, displaying a newspaper which con- tained an advertisement of the book. " Think a moment," he said. " You will perceive what this means." " It means the commencement of my career," said Cyril joyously. . " It means publicity," said the Squire. " The name of Cyril Rossingall will be printed in many a newspaper. If Cyril Rossingall has enemies, they can find him now. If he has friends, they will discover him." " I had not thought of that," said Cyril simply. " Your name is not common," the Squire went on. " If it is still your wish to hide, you would have been better served by a nom de plume. I am glad you have not used one." " Lilian will certainly see the advertisements. She would be looking for them and how glad she will be ! My uncle will not see them, nor will Eva." Cyril added to himself, " If by any chance Maria should see the mention of my name, and suppose that I have suddenly grown rich, she may blackmail me." " Now you are thinking of your enemies," said the Squire. " I have one," Cyril admitted. " Man or woman ? " " Woman." " I would rather it had been a man." " I am not sorry, after all," declared Cyril. " My name has spelt failure ; my father sank, my mother died in frightful poverty, my poor sisters have done no good. I will succeed in my own name, and in spite of it. Nobody need know that Blue Violet is my home, not even Lilian unless I choose to tell her." There was a road beyond the fields in front of Lavender Cottage, leading gradually downhill into the cleave where THE PAST NOT DEAD Cyril had met the old man carrying his weight of years homeward. Here the Squire was wont to linger on the way to Broom Hill, resting his feeble body upon one of the flat rocks, and his strong eyes on the wealth of foliage opposite. That evening, while taking his accustomed ease, a few paces from the track called road by courtesy, with Cyril standing by his shoulder, a man descended towards the bridge of dry masonry, attracting attention because he was not a parishioner, and his clothes were ragged. Yet his body looked well nourished, and dirt had left more lines upon his face than life. " Beg pardon, gentlemen. Is there any work to be had about here ? " he enquired earnestly. " What is your profession ? " asked the gentle Squire. " An old soldier, sir. Cast adrift by the country when past service. Forced to tramp the roads with the children calling after me. A teetotaller, sir. A churchman, sir. A humble servant of the Queen, God bless her." At this first word Cyril started. Here was the rascal who had abused his kindness at the Chapel, the professional tramp, the louse of the roads, who had evidently made the Dartmoor round too hot for him, and had sought the more secluded pastures of mid-Devon. The man looked no older, despite his exposure to wind and weather ; the same red face and bleary eyes, the same coat with large pockets, and upon his tongue the same old creed ; an honest man because he had never been apprehended, a God-fearing man because the contrary had not been proved against him, but a curse of the country for all that. " What is your name ? " asked Cyril suddenly, per- ceiving that the vagabond did not recognise him. " Kit Coke, sir an old soldier." Again Cyril started. On the former occasion he had accepted the fellow's story that he knew Fley slightly, and had looked him up in passing ; but he well remembered how he and Maria had planned together to state as an explanation of Gideon's disappearance that he had gone off to join this very man. 324 WINTERING HAY " I know the rascal. Let me deal with him/' he whispered to the Squire ; then called to the tramp, " Where have you come from ? " " I have tramped from Barnstaple, sir. I have asked everywhere for work, but cannot find it. This morning I disgraced myself by begging." " It is better than stealing." " Not much, sir, to a man who has served his Queen and country. I had to beg, sir, though it brought the tears into my eyes." " Have you been on Dartmoor ? " Cyril continued, looking at the distant tors. " Never in my life, sir." " Have you ever done any poaching ? " " Never, sir God being my witness." " What have you in those pockets ? " " A few carrots, sir. A dear old woman pulled them for me from her garden. The poor are kind to the poor, sir." " Hares are very fond of carrots, and they are plentiful in this neighbourhood. Have you ever netted the stubble for partridges, or dragged the standing barley, or burnt brimstone under trees where pheasants have been roosting ? " The fellow's wonderful assurance carried him through, though he could not restrain one fearful glance as he answered, " I am an honest man, sir. I have never to my knowledge broken the law of my country. An old soldier knows his duty." " Are you a gardener ? " Cyril went on. " Yes, sir. I am a good gardener." " Do you know any natural history ? " " The flowers and birds have been my only companions for days, sir." " You notice them ? You take an interest in the birds ? " said the Squire, looking up suddenly. " Too great an interest," Cyril hinted. " I know the birds which are the friends of man, and those which are his enemies," said the cunning rogue, THE PAST NOT DEAD 325 addressing himself to the last speaker, whose face seemed to him good value for half a crown " I will tell you, sir, to prove that we old soldiers, deserted as we may be by the country, are no fools. The owl is the best friend of man, sir, for he destroys the vermin which are most de- structive. The thrush and blackbird are good friends of the farmer, but the enemies of the fruit-grower. The dipper is the best friend of the fisherman. The robin is the friend of everybody on account of sentiment, though he is such a pugnacious little rascal that his species does not increase in numbers. The rook is the farmer's friend at ploughing-time and his worst enemy at seed-time. The cuckoo is the gardener's best friend, but he is not popular owing to the belief that he turns into a hawk in winter. The wood-pigeon and the house-sparrow are the farmer's greatest enemies." " Were you taught all this in the Army ? " asked Cyril cynically. " I can use the eyes which God has given me as well as any man," replied the tramp briskly. " This is no ordinary man," said the Squire, placing a charitable hand into his pocket ; but Cyril restrained him, saying, " That makes him dangerous. I know him for a scoundrel and a poacher." " Can you help me to find work, gentlemen ? " implored the weary voice. " As you are a gardener, I will give you work. It is too late now, but come to-morrow to that cottage," said Cyril, pointing upwards and over the fields where the white walls of his house were plainly visible. " I will give you another chance," he added with a meaning which was lost upon the tramp. " Thank you, sir," said Kit, straightening himself and standing at attention in the old familiar way. " You will find me a faithful servant and an earnest workman.'' Then he hesitated, fingered his ragged coat, shuffled his feet, and played those little tricks which helped him well to live. 826 WINTERING HAY " Do you agree ? " asked Cyril, without pity for these antics. " With all my heart, sir, but you are a gentleman, and in these clothes I should be ashamed to serve you." " You would like me to give you clothes ? " " I could not beg, sir, but if you would advance some- thing out of my wages, so that I might dress myself decently, I should esteem it as a favour." " Can you buy clothes here ? " " Rough ones, sir, but in the nearest town ' " You would require money to pay your fare ? " " True, sir. I am penniless. An old soldier, sir. If you engage me " " I have done so." " I must find a lodging for to-night." " You wish me to supply you with clothes, and to provide you with food and shelter for the night ? " " I would not ask you, sir, for anything except the means to live by honest labour. To-morrow I am at your service. You will not wish to see an old soldier in rags working in your garden. As for lodgings I will, if you desire it, sleep in the open air." " You must shift for yourself. I do not pay for work until it is done," said Cyril. " A few years ago I engaged a man to work for me, and I was foolish enough to give him clothes and to trust him with money. He took advantage of my simplicity, and made off." " He was not an old soldier, sir." " I have reason to believe he was an unprincipled scoundrel," replied Cyril, careful not to say too much. " I have gained some knowledge by that experience. You come to me without a character ; and I offer you work. Be at my cottage to-morrow morning as early as you like, and my housekeeper will instruct you what to do. When you have earned your clothes you shall have them. As for your lodging, that is a matter you must arrange for yourself." Kit saluted and slouched along wearily until he was out THE PAST NOT DEAD 327 of the cleave and their sight. Then he waved his cap, slapped his chest with a laugh, and stepped briskly forward, saying to himself, " The young gent is sharp, but I'm sharper. He's been had once by a gentleman of the road, and he'll get had again. A young gent who tries to be smart with me will smart himself." At the turning he was attracted by some marks scratched upon a signpost by the hand of some other highwayman, and he stopped to read them. " A rotten poor place, one rich fool that would be the old parson no money without work. It's a fine bit of country anyhow, and I'm a lover of the beautiful. I'll work the place before I go." He went on, and the lane became full of bullocks which had escaped from a pasture, and were being pursued by a farmer and his dog. Kit ran up at once to drive the creatures back, for work without compulsion was no bad thing, and this was the kind of sport he loved. He pulled off his coat and rushed from side to side, waving his arms, shouting at the beasts until all were safely gathered into the field, then mopped his forehead, laughed with honest pleasure, and began to pull on his coat. " Thankye," said the farmer. " You came along just at the right time. You'm a tramp, I fancy ? " " An old soldier. Looking for work." " Seems you can work well enough. I could find a job for a chap like you." " I'm a handy man with animals," said Kit. " I'm so fond of 'em that I did think once of working for a butcher." The farmer chuckled, and said shrewdly, " I know you fellows ; you work to please yourselves. If I gave you a job you would leave it and be off by noon to-morrow." " I'm an honest man, and a teetotaller," said Kit, in a long-suffering manner ; while the farmer, who treated all strangers as enemies, and had to for his pocket's sake, fastened the gate of the pasture and walked away. " I'm a gentleman," Kit went on. " I'll see you all damned before I turn slave. Keep to the road all your life, 328 WINTERING HAY the old man said. There is always luck upon the road, and I'll keep to it till I die." Soon after it was dark Kit presented himself at the door of Lavender Cottage and humbly requested the house- keeper to specify what work would be required of him upon the following morning. " 111 be here before the boss is out of bed," he explained. " I don't want to waste his time." The woman, who knew nothing of the engagement, went to her master. Cyril, suspecting that the tramp had come for clothes and money, smiled to himself, instructed the housekeeper to give the man nothing, and to inform him he was to commence digging a particularly rough piece of ground beside the wall ; then dismissed her with the satisfaction of feeling he had outwitted the scoundrel. He was very sure Kit would not turn up, but would spend the night securing hares the value of which he would drink in the next village. " See how shabby I am," said Kit gruffly, when the woman returned to him. " It cuts me to the heart to be seen like this. I can't get clothes till I've earned them, I know. That's fair enough, but the folk here don't believe when I say the boss has taken me on. Nobody will have me in. They call me a tramp me, an old soldier. Give me a bit of writing. I can't get a night's lodging without it." " What do you want ? " asked the woman, feeling sorry for the destitute creature. " Just a line of writing to say I am the gentleman's servant." " I'd better speak to master.' " I'll give ye a word of advice, if I may," said Kit respectfully. " Never bother a gentleman about un- necessary trifles. I'm an old soldier. I have been an officer's servant. I know what I'm talking about. What's your head given you for if you can't use it, I used to be told." " It's a shame the country don't look after the old soldiers," said the woman warmly. " I don't say anything. I submit myself to the will of THE PAST NOT DEAD God. Tis weary work, miss, tramping the roads, looking for work, having the dogs set on ye. There's no honour and glory to be won on the road. Give me the writing and let me go. I have tramped twenty miles to-day, and 'tis as much as I can do to stand." " I suppose it's all right," said the woman, while Kit, with weary movements, produced a pencil, saying, " This is to certify Sergeant Coke is the servant of Mr. Wilson. That's all I want. I went up in the Army, miss, but I have come down in the world." " Didn't they ever give you a pension ? " asked the woman, sympathetic as she scribbled. " Not a penny. I saw active service. I shed my blood for the country, and now I am turned out to grass. I was entitled to a pension, but I couldn't get it. I was so un- fortunate as to lose my papers. You don't know what that means to an old soldier. There's a lot of red tape in the Army, and if a soldier loses his papers he can't get a pension." " It seems very cruel," said the woman. "I say amen to that," said Kit piously. Then he grabbed the precious piece of writing and made off. No poaching went on that night, as Kit was not in the mood for it, neither did it appear necessary. It became an easy matter to obtain food and lodging by the aid of his letter of introduction, and a promise to pay when he received his first week's wages. He spent the night in comfort, awoke late, declared he had overslept himself, and hurried out, but not in the direction of Sweet Briar Lane. He knew a better trick than that. Entering the little shop and post office he quickly charmed the proprietress with his clever tongue, then produced the slip of paper and explained, " Master sends his compliments. He has engaged me as his gardener, but he's ashamed to see me about the place in these old rags. He told me to come here and get a new rig-out." The woman knew perfectly well that the tenant of Lavender Cottage had engaged a man-servant, as the 330 WINTERING HAY postman had informed her of the fact, and as Cyril's credit was as good as Squire Tucker's she was prepared to be gracious to his man. That piece of writing was as valuable as a bank draft. She kept ready-made garments for work- ing-men, and she displayed her stock, inviting Kit to take his choice. Not being of a niggardly turn of mind at that moment, he selected two suits, had them wrapped up for him, then tried again. " Master's got no money handy, else he would have advanced a little for my pocket. He knew you wouldn't mind giving me five shillings, and putting it down in the account." The till was opened, the money handed over, and the unsuspecting woman asked if there would be anything else. " I'll take two pipes and half a pound of tobacco," said the liberal-minded Kit. " I'll take a pound of chocolates too. I like to suck a sweet while I'm digging in the garden." " You have got a kind master," said the woman, while attending to these orders. " Us would be very sorry to lose him, for he pays well." " There's not a more generous gentleman in the world," declared the tramp with enthusiasm. His next visit was to the butcher, where the piece of paper was again presented, and the order given, " I'm to take a couple of pounds of lamb-chops back with me. Now there is another man to feed they want more meat." Having placed the butcher in an amiable frame of mind by the suggestion of more business, it was no difficult matter to get ten shillings out of him by repeating the former story ; and afterwards Kit deemed it advisable to use his feet. He had not done so badly ; he had two suits of clothes which could be sold in the first town he came to, plenty of good meat to be cooked at his stopping-place that night ; new pipes, tobacco, and chocolates as refresh- ment for his journey, and fifteen shillings in hard cash ; yet he was far from satisfied, and grumbled because there was no inn and not another place of business in Blue Violet where that piece of writing could be shown ; but he THE PAST NOT DEAD 331 could not forget the gentle face of old Squire Tucker, and he felt it would be a sin to desert that neighbourhood with- out doing some honest labour at Broom Hill. He hurried there, meeting nobody in those solitary lanes, concealed his parcels among the ferns beside the gate, assumed his weary hobble and heart-broken ex- pression, then ascended towards the house, having the luck to find the Squire seated upon the lawn with the breeze blowing the white hair across his eyes. He stopped and told his story : how that Mr. Wilson had dismissed him already, declaring that he was incompetent and had not the strength for garden- work, when, as a matter of fact, his body was weak after many days of tramping and lack of food. " The gentleman was hard on me, sir," he added. " Perhaps I lost my temper and answered back. I am jeered at by children as I go through the villages. Sometimes I cannot restrain myself, and I turn to curse them. It is wicked, I know, but human pride is in me, sir. I own I lost my temper when Mr. Wilson called me a use- less tramp me, an old soldier, sir, and a churchman, sir." The Squire had not heard the story of what happened during the days at the Chapel, and upon the previous evening had considered Cyril was somewhat too harsh with this old soldier. He accepted, therefore, the main part of Kit's glib story, and asked, " If I give you work, will you perform it ? " " Try me, sir. I will be a good and faithful servant. But I cannot serve you in these clothes. My pride rebels against it." " You must conquer that," said the Squire gently. " Have you any money ? " " Not one penny, sir. A man does not feel a man when his pockets are empty. He cannot put any heart into his work." " I will try you," said the Squire, who thought well of his fellow-creatures. " If you are destitute you will accept my terms. I will give you board and lodging, with five shillings a week." 332 WINTERING HAY " God bless you, sir," cried Kit. " Am I to have an advance, sir ? An old soldier needs tobacco." " If I engage you I will trust you," said the Squire ; and he gave the man two shillings, looking him straight in the face and saying, " Remember, Coke, I trust you absolutely." " I'll be true to you, sir," came, the steady answer. " Go into the kitchen," said the kindly Squire, " and tell the cook to give you some refreshment." . Kit made off towards the house, but directly he was hidden from the figure upon the lawn, darted into the shrubs, climbed the hedge, went back to the gate and reclaimed his bundles ; then made off as fast as he could go. " A little place, but I worked it well," he sang delightedly. " There's luck upon the road. I'll keep going along the road, and I shall never starve." CHAPTER XIX THE RETURN TO BURNTBEER A LETTER did appear among the falling leaves of a jf"Y. most hopeful autumn, and it might have been written by a woman, but the name signed to it was George. Not a word of reproof, no lessening of love, no sign of swerving from the course he had chosen ; merely a critical note of admiration. " I understand your silence now. It has been the golden silence of apprenticeship." George could appreciate that going aside to wrestle with self, and he was not to know how those years had actually been spent. The result seemed to him splendid. " Whether you aim at the sun, lie upon the dew, or sink into the ground, you are the same strong force, natural yet not human. The lack of humanity I mean tenderness is the one fault of your work. The elements scourge the earth it is true, but you scourge them. You think there is a vindictive force behind the lightning because it is destructive ; that the wind is sent to punish the flowers because it happens to break them ; that the rain hates the rocks because it is ordained that it shall wear them away. You imply that these forces have reason since they are directed by a personal Nature, and one at least of her objects is to inflict suffering ; but here Lilian whose opinion you will value more than mine disagrees. She will not have a personal Nature. ' It would be horrible,' she says, ' if every flash of lightning, or drop of rain, were charged with malice desiring to destroy life and only hindered from doing so by superior cunning on the part of ourselves.' We see here the influence of the Mutters 333 334 WINTERING HAY upon your life. But if you strike against the striking forces you are very gentle with those that make for peace. The portion of the book which deals with moonlight is delicious ; a piece of soft music without a jarring chord." The wonderful thing about this letter from Burntbeer was that no questions were asked. Apparently George had learnt of his father not to inquire into any man's business, since he did not seek to know where Cyril lived, or what had happened since last they met. Nor was any informa- tion given concerning himself or Lilian. Yet every letter between friends conveys either some fragrance or a sting. Cyril guessed that George carried as much as he could bear, and his own whispering self suggested the cause. George had not cast his body into low life, but had gone to study, with brooding on the past as recreation. He doubted his friend's faithfulness ; he questioned whether a man who remained dumb so long could ever speak in love, and whether he and Lilian had not spread their treasures before unworthy eyes. " All the work is wanting in humanity," was the keynote of his criticism ; and Cyril fell to thinking of his friends, asking himself what service he had rendered them ; what he had given to Lilian except the 'hours of his loneliness, what to George more than beast of burden blows. He answered that letter the same day, with affection in his heart and a lying spirit at his elbow. From his earliest years Cyril had been given to suppressing the truth, a fault almost forced upon him by the Mutters, who would punish when no sin had been committed. Thus he felt no active shame in owning that the last two years had been devoted to observation, to studying mankind, acquiring knowledge, gaining experience ; and he was now looking for harvest, " within sight of Dartmoor, not twenty miles from the oaks of Burntbeer, in the finest solitude of the land." He added moreover, " I purposely cut myself apart from you and Lilian, resolving to report myself, as now I have done, by some work accomplished. Do not think that I forgot you. I am serving my apprenticeship for Lilian, THE RETURN TO BURNTBEER 335 remembering your father's words, ' Come again in ten years.' Three have gone, and before the seven are over I hope to have done enough. I do not give you my address because I am determined to remain hidden until I have set the seal upon success. Tell Lilian she has helped me, she brought me here, and the thought of her was stronger than my difficulties. Will she send a message sometimes ? Write to me about herself and yourself, and my enemies at home ? " Stuff with some grains of truth in it, for Cyril in his loneliness had many a tender thought of Lilian who had dropped the spark of her love on his romance while he played in the garden-field. She would be twenty now, a very perfect age ; she would have finished growth and have taken all the gifts reserved for her. Sincerely Cyril longed to see her with the crown of twenty summers on her head, yet he feared approaching lest she should ask why he had neglected her. Love, which abhors silence, calling it indifference, would demand that three years' record to be shown, would discover somehow the story of loose living, and declare the teller had divorced himself, and had become by his own forgetfulness a shadow in her sunshine, a flowerless growth too rambling for her garden. Some time passed before George replied again through Cyril's publishers, most needlessly and there was a note of harshness in the letter, not caused by any waning of affection for his friend, but by those troubles which that friend had brought upon him. Uncomfortable lodgings, a dishonest landlady, noises in the street, thought Cyril, as he noted with amazement the address. So George was in London, a student of King's College, preparing for the Church and expecting to be ordained next year ; giving no reason for his locale except that he desired spending no more money than was necessary. Three years had not altered Lilian, but " she became silent again," and the question, written in sharp letters, followed, " Why do you not write to her ? " Even George could not answer for his sister. It was the last sentence which aroused all Cyril's wonder : 336 WINTERING HAY " We have heard of great changes at Wintering Hay. Your uncle seems to have recovered, not only his health, but his humanity. He smokes and laughs, and works in the garden so we are told, though the rumour from another parish is not always to be trusted but it is certain that the wilderness is threatened, for during my last home visit I went over and noticed the garden was creeping on towards a certain place. Will you not go over and make your peace ? " " I must," said Cyril, as if George had been standing before him. " If this is true, if the rocks are being removed, the bank cut down and cultivated, I must go. Creeping on towards a certain place," he murmured, and then smiled. " I need not fear, for unless a number of men are employed the fir-tree cannot be disturbed for years ; the ground rises sharply, everywhere are boulders, while the brambles beneath the Shelf would be a small forest now. Still, if fate has moved my uncle to reclaim that wilderness, it may also lead him to the grave. Uncle Andrew making a garden ! smoking and laughing ! Old George has listened to the wildest rumours." Impossible as was the idea of Mutter behaving as a worldling, Cyril was forced to ask what roots this tale had sprung from. George with his own eyes had seen the enlargement of the garden, and as that portion of the tale was true some great thing must have happened ; either his uncle's nature had been changed entirely by some shock of illness, or else his aunt had become possessed by worldly notions. Cyril could not forget what old Joll had told him more than once : " Don't ye ever say there's no such thing as witchcraft. I tell ye it ain't possible to give a man the bad eye without harming 'en. That there place," nodding to Wintering Hay, " be vull of what the likes of you don't give a name to. I ha' stood beside the wall and seen the lights up and down the garden, and heard the screams o' they who pinches volk. They'll change ye in a night if they've a mind to You ha' seen a man go to bed drunk (Cyril had THE RETURN TO BURNTBEER 337 since then) and get up sober ; and you might ha' seen a man go to bed a good Christian and rise up wi' a devil in him. That be witchcraft and you can't deny it." Foolish talk perhaps, but a natural way of explaining the weather-like changes hi the heart and soul of man. Cyril decided to return to the old home, but did not hurry. He turned himself to things more pleasant and wrote to Lilian, banishing the lying spirit, but not its mantle ; telling her he had a sister only one " filling a very humble place in life," and it was her cry in want and sickness which had urged him to leave that country ; admitting that his own conduct in London had not been exemplary ; adding that thoughts of herself had kept him from going wrong ; but not a word of Sleach & Darkness, nor of Carr, that terrible spirit of town vice, nor of the prostitution of his mind and body. What man, he argued, would unravel such a skein of beastliness as a penance before his lady's eyes ? Few men, he knew, went innocent to marriage ; none confessed their amours on the eve of matrimony ; all relied upon future conduct to wipe the record clean. If women knew they might draw back or think of convents ; if Lilian knew she would turn to her garden and think of flowers. Half-truths were good enough for Lilian. With a whole truth she answered. He had addressed her as " Dearest Lilian. What a long time it is since last I wrote " as if she had prevented him concluding with the customary eternities. But she remained Lilian Corindon, while he was without a name of baptism. The letter was not cold, but truthful. So long a silence meant to her forgetfulness. Memory would have made at least a monthly letter ; memory must have felt a little interest, and have sought to know whether the dead owl had yet been seen at Burntbeer. " The disappointment was hard to bear. It was my wish to send you every week a gardening letter ; but you did not need it. To receive from you a record of your work ; but you would not send it. You have hurt me, the more because I am plain and insignificant. Had you written and said, ' Shall it be 838 WINTERING HAY silence until I can blow my trumpet with confidence at your father's gate ? ' I should have protested, but con- sented. You did not ask the question. You left me, and forgot." " I did not," was Cyril's answer, partly true. " The sight of my sister shamed me, the sense of my own weakness frightened me, and the certainty of failure oppressed me. You were always in my mind. I tried to keep your example before me failed I know but I kept you in my heart, and you delivered me from bad company, brought me here, and shed your old influence on my work. I love you, Lilian. By any other name I will not call you." " You loved me on Whistly Down," she answered. " You did not love me in London. Do you say you love me now because you are lonely ? " And still he was Mr. Rossingall. " I love you because you are Lilian, my first and only sweetheart, because you have brought me what happiness I have yet received, because you discovered what was in me and drew it out, because without you I feel I can do nothing. I was desperate when I gave you up for ever, as I thought. I would not tell you. I will win you, Lilian. I will come to Burntbeer and claim you in your garden." " Part of your letter I showed my father," she replied. " ' He has grown up a little. He is stronger now,' was his comment. It pleased me rather. Do you think you love me now with a love which would survive a visit to the court of beauty ? Will your love draw you out the first wet windy night to light a fire upon Bald Hill I see it marked upon the map, five miles from Blue Violet pro- ceeding in this direction as a signal to me ? I would walk out to the hill behind this house to watch for it." " I will," wrote Cyril, and he did so quickly ; for it was October when the nights were wild. " Will you come over to Burntbeer, Cyril, and see me, Lilian ? " was the soft answer to his fiery message. From a farm which supplied him with dairy produce, Cyril obtained a horse, and was off by noon towards the THE RETURN TO BURNTBEER Dartmoor hills, regardless of black weather and strong wind in his face, for this was a journey in the right way undoubtedly, and the end of it would be happiness. He had now entered a period when all things were made easy. All was plain and straightforward ; he had found himself, and his life henceforth, like that of a tale, was clearly outlined ; a long chapter of quiet work, an incident of marriage ; afterwards a gently running stream of peaceful happiness descending to the last scene of all. A simple history needing no index. What then had he gone out to find in those early years, with a head stuffed full of magic and a mind excited by romance ? The path of perfection which would bring him to the only thing in life worth winning. And now he was apparently within sight of that gift, and it was nothing but the society of a human being, and their mutual affection was the perfect gift, and the life which they could give each other was the perfect happiness. It seemed too simple. As a boy his heart had never suggested that he was search- ing for a human being, who could not under any circum- stances have been waiting for him among the mountain mists. The word in those days had been religion ; there was no idea of women. Was there something comprised by the word love, but having nothing whatever to do with ordinary human desire, which the wonderful mind of child- hood was able to guess at, but gone out of sight when manhood was reached, although still attainable and waiting to be found, something even purer and higher than any longing after a human soul, a state of earthly happiness without women ? That was the question, and Cyril could not answer it. He was happy then, but with thoughts of Lilian, and without her this happiness would not last. Yet he had always gone into the solitudes of Dartmoor and would willingly have done so again to find happiness, and when troubled he had there found peace. Lilian, fully expecting somebody, no stranger, to pass in good time along the drive, ignoring like herself the rain and wind, became entirely feminine, and fell to musing 340 WINTERING HAY upon clothes, reflecting that green was a colour they both preferred and one well suited to her. Mrs. Corindon, with her usual fashion of skimming the surface of life lightly, was merely delighted to think " dear old Cyril " might soon be with them. The master who had suggested the bonfire, and knew of Lilian's answer to it, was sullen until he canie in at noon, then to discover his daughter in the act of ascending the stairs. He noticed she had arranged her hair becomingly ; so he called her down, and in spite of protest took her out. " I must get a hat," she cried. " Let the wind make you look yourself," he answered ; and when he had taken her through the garden went on, " Now you are Lilian. I hate this fooling with hair as I would the sight of the yew hedge clipped into urns and peacocks. A man, looking at you, feels you have done it for him, and either flatters himself or despises you. Waste no more time in dressing, Lilian." " Why not, father ? It pleases me." " By it you displease me and disfigure yourself. Appear as you are." " In this my old garden frock ! " " And the old sun-bonnet. Be to a lover as you are to your father. Some women spoil men before they are married, and ruin them afterwards. This dressing-up causes more misery than infidelity. If a man loves a girl he does not care what she wears ; and if his affections boggle at a dress, let him go, and thank heaven when you see his back." " May I have my own way this once ? " she begged. " No, child. Be yourself. Work in the garden, and if the boy comes, tell him you are too dirty to shake hands, then look at his face and find out what his heart is made of." " Tyrant, father," she laughed, but obeyed him ; and was soon in the sweet way of Nature, and herself looking quite her best, with a flush upon her face, and her hair blown about, and clay smeared richly on her garden skirt. The return of Cyril, as far as it went, was marked by THE RETURN TO BURNTBEER 341 nothing heroic ; he came mounted upon his bony Buce- phalous, hired by the day and bred for the plough, un- dipped and huge of hoof, with a mouth unresponsive to arm-tugging, and a disposition to rub against gate-posts and to snatch fodder from the hedge. The rider was by no means master of the beast, which had consented to bring him to Burntbeer, while refusing to obey in minor matters ; but Corindon, not Lilian, waited at the entrance to the drive. The master had a word for the young man, who came after the fashion of a knight of chivalry to fight all others for his lady's hand, although he could not ride, and was holding on by the mane, while the rough steed would neither prance nor amble. A ploughboy might have turned that corner better. " The gate is made of wood, and as you may perceive the horse is shod with iron," was Corindon's greeting ; for the rider had backed into the gate, as a preliminary to opening it, and the wise beast was taking upon itself the duty of assisting in the operation with its hoofs. Cyril jumped to the ground, went up to the master, waddling a trifle for he was stiff, and said, " How are you, Mr. Corindon ? " with the air of one who dropped in every week. "About the same as I was three years ago," came the answer sharply. " Walk a piece along the road with me. I have a few straight words to say before you make your flutter to the house." He slipped off the horse's bridle, turned the animal into a field, then led Cyril on, staring at him almost offensively, and muttering, " Thinner, harder, but still wobbling." " Am I welcome, Mr. Corindon ? I remember there are seven years left," said Cyril nervously. " I was wondering what you want here," said the master quietly. " I want to see Lilian," came the whisper. " Don't be ashamed of the name. You want Lilian. What do you want her for ? " 342 WINTERING HAY " Because I love her." " For what purpose do you want her ? " " As a wife, a companion, a helper." " A useful piece of furniture," added Corindon. "I see you are offended with me," said Cyril clearly. " I don't interfere with others," the master went on. " I let 'em go their own way unless they interfere with me as you are doing, as you have done since you first brought the atmosphere of Wintering Hay to Burntbeer. I am not offended with you, my boy, but I hate your atmosphere. It suggests intolerance, cruelty, bloody passion. Under- stand what I mean : I don't say you are bloody-minded, but you carry about with you the suggestion of crime. I declare I wouldn't be in your power, shut up in a light- house, if I knew you hated me. Tell me this have you ever, either with intent, or by mischance, done some great evil to a neighbour ? " " No," said Cyril sharply. " Very well. No is as easy to speak as yes, and it often means the same. This is prying into your affairs, you think ; I call it defending my own ; I break all my rules for Lilian. Let me go on. Three years ago you brought some horrible thing into my house I give it no name and you forced the substance of it on my son and the shadow of it on my daughter. You told George what you had done. You took him out with you and claimed his life. Then you took Lilian out and claimed hers. I know the nature of my children, because I know my own. Their faces are my books, and I can read them. Your act, whatever it was, made George a man before his time, made him decide to enter the Church a small matter, you may think, but it means the sale of Burntbeer at my death made him refuse to go to Cambridge because, no doubt, he wanted his allowance to shield you. What is your answer now ? " " The same," said Cyril, roused by the master's con- temptuous manner, and longing with all his heart for the solitude of Blue Violet. THE RETURN TO BURNTBEER 348 " You have been given opportunities of studying me, though I do not flatter myself you have taken advantage of them. You should know I am not a man to be easily shocked, and the ordinary sins of passion do not move me. Tell me," he said roughly. " Have it out and make another helper. Trust the father as you did the son. Keep your mouth shut upon the next no think. The answer settles your life, so far as Lilian is concerned. Say no again, and I call you a liar. Mind you," he went on smoothly, " I am going to get this out of you. I have at home a sheaf of notes, where every hour and date is faith- fully recorded ; and with your final no I must enquire if at a certain time, in a certain place, any unpleasant event happened ; and should that fail I fall back upon a scheme which cannot. I shall have George watched closely, learn how he lives, upon whom he spends his money. When I must interfere, I do so thoroughly," he added, kicking the wayside weeds. " You would tell Lilian," Cyril gasped, white and shaking, knowing the master had him on every side. " Now the truth begins to drip. Here is my hand, with the tradition of three centuries of straightforward dealing marked upon it. A Corindon is safe, my boy ; you ought to know it. Not even to Lilian will I say a word." " You would not let me marry her." " She must choose her own way in life." " You would not give your consent." " I shall let her heart lead her when she comes of age." " Then I must tell you," cried Cyril. " I wish you had known of it at the time " ; and coming forward, almost to the master's side, he gasped out the story which only George had heard. The first moment Corindon looked grave, for Cyril began by calling himself a murderer ; the next he smiled ; and soon he laughed outright. " That is enough," he said. " Leave the apology for another time. I understand you now ; with all your 344 WINTERING HAY weakness you are more natural than my son. Why didn't you come to me ? In that crisis you wanted a man." " I was afraid of you/' " As you are now. If you had left that fellow's body in the brambles, come over here and told me what had happened, I would have cleared you and saved my home. I'm not surprised that you lost your nerve when you realised what you had done, and thought of your relations. Your uncle is to blame. So am I." " What have you done, Mr. Corindon ? " "I let the rascal off only a few days before. I was out late one night in Middle Marsh you know the place, a stream runs through, and hills covered with bracken are on either side when I heard, as I thought, a partridge calling. After a time it occurred to me the sound was too regular to be real, so I searched, came upon a place where the rushes were trodden down, and discovered a little rusty wheel, fixed just beneath the water and turned by the motion of the stream. This imitated the call of a partridge exactly. I waited, knowing that poachers were about, and caught this man Fley. Prison is no good to these men ; it does not alter their lives, nor does it punish them,; but the more cowardly of them don't like it because it shows them up. A poacher is either a cur or a desperado, and this Gideon was a cur. I said to him, ' You can have your choice between a thrashing or going to prison,' and he took the thrashing. I gave him a few strokes with the stick I was carrying, then let him go. I hit him half a dozen times, without doing him either harm or good ; while you hit him once and killed him. I wish your bad luck had been mine." " I wish you had sent the man to prison." " So do I now. Poor lad, I'm sorry for you. This story of yours will take a deal of twisting to make it end happily. Did you ever think of murdering the woman ? " he asked, with one of his sardonic flashes. " Oh no," said Cyril simply. " I believe I have nothing to fear from her. George has made her safe." THE RETURN TO BURNTBEER 845 " What was the price ? " " Fifty pounds a year. So soon as I am able I mean to take that burden off. him." " I am free to discuss this matter with George ? " " If you think it necessary." " I must win him back to Burnt beer," said Corindon ; then he took a turn along the road and came back frowning. " There is only one way to end this. We must get those remains out of Wintering Hay and dispose of them else- where." " That is what I told George, and he declared it was impossible," said Cyril earnestly. " Not now. You cannot own up," the master went on. " There would be absolutely nothing to show how the man died, and there would always be that question, ' Why, if you were innocent, did you conceal the body ? ' Do your relations ever go away ? " " They used to go for one of the summer months. I don't know what they do now, but it is unlikely they have changed. They always left the servants." " You must make your peace with them." " I cannot live there again. It would be impossible to work in that house." " You will strike up a friendship with your uncle, wait until they go away, then return ; and I will come over with a wagon for a load of stone to make a rockery. You understand ? " " We should be seen from the Shelf." " We choose a wet day. It is a nasty bit of work, but we must do it, for I have George to set free and these old acres to keep. When you hid that body, you not only spoilt your own life, but you broke up my home. This woman holds you in her power, and when she hears you are getting on in the world she may be down on you. But with those bones removed she cannot sting." " They would think it strange that you should go to the garden of Wintering Hay for stones." " They would," agreed Corindon. " Nothing can be 346 WINTERING HAY done in a matter of this kind without arousing suspicion. The servants might wonder what I had really come for. Your relations would be angry with you for giving per- mission, and with me for availing myself of it, but with those bones removed they may be as nasty as they please. The next time you find it necessary to kill a man, my boy, make sure there are no witnesses. Leave the matter to me. I will tell George that I know I will make a farmer of him yet." " May I see Lilian now ? " asked Cyril unsteadily. " Go to her with that white face, and give her a shaking hand," said Corindon, becoming harsh again. " Let me be plain with you. In this matter of Lilian I am still against you, for I perceive you do not love her." " I do, Mr. Corindon." " You are in love with something what it is I do not know. You may think you see it in Lilian, but you do not love my daughter as a woman. Therefore I am against you. This is not vindictiveness, but until the last shadow of your tragedy clears away, until George is free, until I know Burntbeer is safe, and until I can see in your eyes a very different expression when you mention the name of Lilian, I am your enemy, not in a hostile, but in a protective sense. Get on your horse and make for home. I will tell Lilian I turned you back." " Let me see her, Mr. Corindon. I will not speak." " You want to find out whether she has grown beautiful, whether she is worthy of your affection. Very well then ; I will humour you. Give me ten minutes, then follow, and stand behind the yew hedge. I will pass on the garden side with Lilian. When we are out of sight, you will make for your horse and ride away." " I promise," said Cyril. Burntbeer was thickly wooded, and the trees had not yet lost their summer mantles, so that it was easy to pass to the appointed place unseen. Lilian would not be looking out, because Corindon had gone to engage her attention. Rain was still falling, or rather sweeping the THE RETURN TO BURNTBEER 347 ground in clouds of drenching mist. The yew hedge alone was silent and unshaken. In the place where it was thinnest life was fiercest. " Cyril has come and gone," Corindon was saying. " I met him upon the road, and told him to go home. He is still weak, Lilian. I mean to harden him." She did not show anger, because that was not her way ; but she did display unhappiness and grievous disappoint- ment. "He is mine," she seemed to say. " Whatever he has done it is for me to punish or forgive. Surely I have a right to my own." " I have told him not to come until I send for him," the master continued. " He does not love yet ; some day he may. I will put him to the test and see what he is made of." " Could you not have told him by letter ? It is hard on him and rather on me. I wanted to look at him. You may harden him too much." " Trust me, Lilian. I know how far to go. I will make your happiness, not mar it. Let Cyril work another year and go on learning." " Or forgetting." " Let him be punished," said Corindon so clearly that Cyril heard, and almost hated him. " Let him go without you until he finds his life is nothing, and he cannot fill it with himself. This is protection, Lilian. I'll save your bloom with my thorny self. I have never led you wrongly yet." " That is true, father ; but you have never stood in my way before." " Call it guidance, not obstruction. One more year I will stand in the way. Now I am your master. Then I will be your father. Will you follow me, child ? " f< You know best. A girl's heart is like a rosebud, easily hurt and crushed, but knowing very little, for even an artificial warmth will open it." And then she murmured something very softly. " You are sure ? " came his sharp question. 348 WINTERING HAY " Nothing will ever change it. I must show pride- but my heart is fixed." " Nothing could alter it ? " " I believe nothing." " Yet you will obey me ? " " I will because I am so grateful to you for having given me life, and Burntbeer, and a happy garden." They had passed and gone out of sight towards the house ; but Cyril, who had heard only one single sentence, did not immediately leave his hiding-place. Again his mind was in confusion, and there was war between it and inclination. He had seen Lilian and her twenty years of girlhood. Perhaps there was a little disappointment ; her face had grown fuller, her figure was getting ample, and her hands were certainly too large. Minor details, but they were noticed, hardly forgotten until her eyes were reached ; and then it seemed to Cyril that the memories of early years rushed back, and he was again fleeing from the dark shadows of Wintering Hay to get upon the moor, searching in the evening sun-mists for -the pathway, finding it, and walking on, not discovering any new thing, but some- how receiving inspiration, strength, courage to live, en- joying the comforts of religion, and drawing out of the path itself the peace and happiness he longed for. Lilian's eyes contained the blessed secret, and her tongue could speak of it, unless she preferred to remain silent, as he had done. Whatever it was that he loved Lilian had it, possess- ing it fully with all the wealth of expert knowledge, and could pass it on or die with it unshared. CHAPTER XX WHAT SEEMED NECESSARY NOBODY could have been more gratified at Cyril's good beginning than the Squire of Broom Hill ; nobody at that stage exerted so strong an influence upon his life ; and nobody was so great a hindrance to his advancement. The old man's opinions, stamped by his personality upon Cyril's mind, brought forth a crop of hybrids, theories which actually belonged to neither and were indeed not wise. Cyril's work became gloomy ; his mysticism, crossed by that of the Squire, gave birth to melancholy ; the visions of Broom Hill became nothing much more than morbid ghost stories. Squire Tucker spoke in rapture of the spirits of wife and daughter, whom he never doubted were always present, and of the nearness between earth and heaven ; Cyril responded by writing upon neuras- thenia, madness, and the like. The Squire gave messages of hope wrapped up in the stuff of dreams ; and Cyril replied by essays of despair. Lack of society forced him to Broom Hill, for the sake of his tongue, but he quitted the house as a rule with more pleasure than he entered it. That white staring face, so marvellously distinct even in partial darkness, the extraordinary beliefs of that haunted mind, the atmo- sphere, the sensation of being watched by fleshless beings impressions engendered, doubtless, by the living man in addition to the creeping silence of the house and its lack of light, all tended to make these visits hours of horror which could not fail to leave a mark on Cyril's 349 350 WINTERING HAY life and work, possibly on his beliefs also, since it became hard to declare that the Squire deceived himself completely, and the processions which passed by day and night before his eyes were altogether subjects of the fancy. The ex- planation of the matter was beyond Cyril, who, after all, knew nothing of love as a maddening force. The Squire was one of those rare beings who loved with more than human fervour ; and his desire for dead wife and daughter, while he lived in solitude mourning them, had, in a sense, restored them to him, even as a man who gazes long upon a picture may, upon turning his eyes to a white surface, see that picture reproduced. In that respect the Squire had passed beyond sanity, but there were other matters of mystery about him. It did seem that future events were sometimes revealed to him ; he did appear to know something about the dead of others ; and he did seem able to describe figures and places which Cyril had seen and he had not. Possibly a strong active mind, working unconsciously upon his failing one, transferred its images ; as the nearness of the body to its death may have sur- rounded it with the vision known as spiritual. In those days of November, when Cyril was trying to shake off his inertia and travel to Wintering Hay, and the only voice which reached him from the outside was the necessary one of Lilian, it became evident that the Squire's thread of life was wearing thin. He was spared the suffering usual with cancer patients, at least Cyril never heard him complain, and he was a trifle impatient where bodily pain was concerned, still he refused resolutely to be visited by a doctor, but rose every day and came downstairs to sit propped up with pillows in his study, chatting at ease with the invisible passers-by. He was well cared for by his servants, man and wife, who were sworn not to admit a doctor ; but not satisfied, or possibly fearing some ghostly enemy who could not enter save by doorways for his mind was getting troubled he ordered large stones to be rolled into the hall and placed against the door, so that Cyril had to enter by the back or climb in at the window. WHAT SEEMED NECESSARY 351 It was then he mentioned the dread of losing Lavender Cottage, and respectfully invited the Squire to leave him by will the right to purchase. The old man laughed as loudly as he could, being often hysterical with joy at the prospect of death, and assured him : " They have seen to that. It might have passed my memory, but they miss nothing. I shall have gone from here before the bells ring Christmas in, and they and I will look down on Broom Hill filled with lights and revels. It will be empty then, but full of the world. You will see creatures of clothes going in and out, a nephew and his family, dull bookless ones, but harmless. They will not turn you out of Lavender Cottage, they cannot ask you for rent " " You have left it to me," cried Cyril with a gasp of gratitude. " It will belong to one who will, I believe, not turn you out. The idea occurred to leave it to you, but they would not let me they know better. Leave it to her, they said. Give her a home, let her have shelter against the world, and we will bring her to it. She has been given nothing. To Eva Rossingall, poor child. She bought it with a thousand tears." " But she is lost." " Not to a man half-way in heaven. Not to those who descend half-way to earth. We will find the child and lead her home. She will not know. She will call it a happy chance, yet these hands will guide her. Cyril, put that thought well away or it will harm you." " What thought ? " " Sorrow that the cottage will not be yours." " I could not help it for a moment. Suppose she should wish me to leave ? " " All is provided for. They have overlooked nothing. If by the will of God we are not allowed to bring her back the cottage is yours. If she marries it becomes yours. Let jealousy depart, for you are safe." That same evening Cyril told the Squire more of his 352 WINTERING HAY early life, fully describing his uncle and aunt, the house and garden of Wintering Hay, and his own habit of wander- ing upon the moor ; and being pressed by the listener he went into details, mentioned his discovery of the Christ- mas-tree, adding, that while descending with it he had met with a certain rough character, and had quarrelled with him for ill-treating his wife. At last he referred to the secret longing to revisit his home, for his aunt's sake, and sought advice. " F&r some cause, at present not shown to me, the incident of the tree, removed from the moorland to the garden, strikes the dominant note," replied the Squire. " In that trivial incident I seem to find a crisis in your life. When you depart, and they return, this matter will be explained. In regard to your proposed visit, I tell you with all confidence to go. Be generous and forgiving to your uncle, remembering there are public highways towards heaven, but his nature has compelled him to reject them and to make his own. Be very kind to your aunt. She may have offered you affection which you did not notice ; and when a woman has the offer of her love neglected, whether she is a mother, aunt, friend only, or a wife, she feels pain like a wound. This harshness you perceived in your aunt was due, in part, to your neglect. Go, and if you cannot love her, be honest and pay your debt. The Christmas-tree disturbs me strangely." " My mind that night was very troubled," said Cyril unsteadily, afraid to look at the staring face which seemed to defy the darkness and the clouds. " When you come to see me again I hope to know the cause. In the meantime, I find a word in my mouth, which was not there when last I spoke. My wife, I think, has placed it there. I am bidden to advise you to revisit your home upon Christmas Day. The time will suit the place, and matters which perplex you now may then be explained. That day will suit me very well," added the Squire in his own strange fashion. " As I shall then be a free spirit, not very far removed from the earth, and WHAT SEEMED NECESSARY 353 still able, by God's will, to take a keen interest in my friends, I shall make it a point to be present myself at Wintering Hay to watch all that is going on, and I will also do my utmost to make your visit a success. If there should be an atmosphere of mystery in the house which you have never perceived before, you will know that the old madman of Broom Hill is passing free and happy along the passages, very anxious to be of service to all who need him." This was wild talk, yet gospel to the speaker who stared life out of body with those spiritual eyes, and kept the key of heaven in his pocket. Again Cyril was confused to his own hindrance, and turned his eyes from the Nature which he understood to search in thick darkness for the preacher's friends and those signs which were not for him. If this religion was false to the core, how was it the old man knew more than he should have done ; what brought him the knowledge ; who whispered the tale of Cyril's early life, unless his own mind was traitor ? " If he lives much longer I shall confess the whole truth without speaking a word," he told himself, and resolved to keep away from Broom Hill, but he could not do so ; for with December the month he feared and hated came a message from the Squire, " I must see you at once. Your enemies are troubling me " ; and Cyril went off with the inward cry, " Will this business never have an end ? " He chose daylight, such as it was, knowing the house and man were cLreadful in the twilight, and found the Squire sitting between his material barrier of rocks and the wreck- age of the spiritual one, whiter than ever, and as smiling, declaring with the joy of a holiday upon him, " They all agree this is the last week. One more Sunday, and I go into the air. How you envy me, young man. How jealous you are ! " For once he is wrong, thought Cyril, always wondering at this excitement and eagerness for death. This old man was surely very like a chrysalis shrivelled up in the earth, 2 A 354 WINTERING HAY and given enough consciousness to long for the butterfly- days. Apparently he desired the existence of a moth, with its power to flutter through the air towards the light of some house or human presence. The heaven of Andrew Mutter was assuredly not the heaven of Squire Tucker, nor his. The one hoped to be an ordinary choragus, the other desired nothing better than to fly through rain and mist with those he loved, while he himself longed for perpetual life in the midst of perpetual beauty. A state satisfying to the one would have been rejected by either of the others. " During my earlier ramblings through the world of spirit, I was much disturbed by such as are earth-bound for their sins, the idle, the sensual, the criminal," went on Squire Tucker, in his usual style. " The lying spirits also did their best to lead me wrong with their terrible intro- duction of, ' Thus saith the Lord.' Through a wild host I had to fight my way towards the holy ones more distant, but when at last I reached my wife and daughter the lost creatures ceased to trouble. For years I have lived in peace ; but now, during these last days, another spirit troubles me. The evening after your last visit I was sitting here, holding my dear daughter's hand she did not speak, however when a little friend of mine entered, a young village girl I am very fond of, who left this world's out- ward form after seduction and much misery. She laughs and dances about this room saying, ' I am so happy, I am so free. It is so lovely to be a spirit, Mr. Tucker ! " (Cyril was smiling here.) " On this occasion she w T as as happy as usual she cannot, indeed, be anything else but she told me a man was near her, ' a horrid man/ she said ; ' he cannot touch me, of course ; still, if he stays I shall go,' and she went out, while I became conscious of another presence, and the protective pressure of my daughter's hand increased." " Do you really see these figures ? Do they actually speak to you ? " asked Cyril. The Squire did not reply to that, since no man will argue WHAT SEEMED NECESSARY 355 concerning his religion. Figures and voices had been once the fancies of a mind in solitude, forced open by a heart panting for the dead ; now dreams of a spirit loosely held, coloured by a process of nature, most inscrutable, with some vivid lines of truth ; for what a man believes he can see he will see, and what Nature is able to give may by him be taken. " I received the impression of a man, somewhat slight in body, clad in a long coat and knee-breeches I was con- scious of his bootlaces trailing along the ground," went on the Squire. " The title of thief was suggested. He did not approach, nor did he appear to have any desire to hinder me, but he was sullen, he seemed to ask for justice ; and now he will not leave me, he comes in and out as if the place belonged to him, he will return as soon as you depart, and will bring with him the suggestion of Wintering Hay, your Christmas tree, and the roots of it growing down- wards." " What else ? " asked Cyril hoarsely. " You planted the tree upon a grave where this man's body is buried. I have received definite information that he is your enemy, and is not without power to harm you. As the impression of Wintering Hay is clear I feel sure the grave is there is it not steep, are there not great boulders and brakes of bramble ? " he murmured dreamily. " Yes, yes," whispered Cyril, more angry than frightened. " I go no further. I dare not, for I must have my peace. A grave in a garden secretly. The tree planted by your own hands secretly. This man your enemy openly. It is too strong for me, too full of the madness I am leaving : but you are far off, Cyril you are far off." " I am here, Mr. Tucker," said Cyril, supposing the old man was losing consciousness. " In the hands of the lying spirits. Come back, for you can it is not too hard. That man is waiting for you at the door. Go out, grave-digger, go out, and^take your spirits with you." Cyril was glad to obey, feeling not sorry that the old 356 WINTERING HAY man's days were numbered. " This is not insanity, but the clear sight of death," he murmured. " Thank heaven I see no ghosts. Neither does he, but with him imagination is as strong as vision. Gideon's body is more than I can dispose of ; I will not have his spirit forced on me as well." Firm as his resolution was not to enter the house again he had to break it ; for a few days later the Squire's man came at a run and begged Cyril to return with him. " Master is better, sir. At least he's stronger, but his mind has gone, poor gentleman, and he's been fighting with somebody in the study, hitting out with a stick and shouting, ' Go away, you thief. I did not kill you. Go to him who did.' We can't do anything with him, sir, and if he dies like this there may be trouble." " I cannot control him," said Cyril. " If he seems better it means " " Yes, sir ; he'm going. That's what my missus says. Tis the last flicker, sir." " Has he never seen a doctor ? " " Not for a long time, sir. Won't have one near the house now." " I will come with you," said Cyril. " You must go off at once for the nearest doctor." " Six miles away, sir." " You must go. If the Squire refuses to see him that is not our business. We shall have done all we could." " Doctor knows what he's like. 'Tis cancer sure enough, but master has been mad for years and years." They were soon at Broom Hill, and the housekeeper met them at the back door to say, " Master is quieter now." Cyril went into the study. It was then about noon, and the raw light of the December morning struggled in together with some mist, for one of the windows had been broken during the late spiritual contest. The Squire was seated in his usual chair, perfectly calm, stroking a cat which purred upon his knee. The personality was still strong, the face as distinct as ever, but there was colour on the cheeks and the eyes were sunken. WHAT SEEMED NECESSARY 357 " I knew you would come. I am so glad," he said faintly. " You may all go," he added contemptuously, waving his arm. " They are a lot of rascals this morning thieves and murderers. That man who is buried in Wintering Hay must have brought them in." " How are you, Mr. Tucker ? " asked Cyril gently. " Very well indeed. But the trouble is almost more than I can bear." Then Cyril perceived there were tears upon the cheeks of the dying man. " What trouble ? " he asked. " They will have life for life. I hear them plotting over there by the bookshelves. The creatures have accomplices in this world, but I shall beat them. I will be there before them and bring her home. I am resting now. You must not come with me. You might side with them." He turned and rang the bell. " What can I do ? " asked Cyril, sure at last that the Squire's mind had passed beyond control. " You will get the cottage ready. Make it very comfort- able. She will require all the attentions you can offer." The housekeeper appeared, and her master said at once, " The carriage. Within ten minutes." " But, your reverence " began the woman. " Do you hear me ? Within ten minutes, or I shall lose the train." Cyril made her a sign, and the woman went. " Come near," said the Squire sharply. " Give me your arm. Help me to shake off this sluggishness of the body." Dazed and stupid, Cyril assisted him to rise. " Get my coat from the hall, the thick woollen comforter, and my hat." " What do you mean ? " cried Cyril. " What are you going to do ? " " I must go to London, to the slums, and save Eva. I shall go to the house in Thames Street and bring her back to the cottage you live in to her own home." " This is fancy," declared Cyril, not daring to restrain, 358 WINTERING HAY nor even to stand in the way of, the resolute man whose dreams had become fierce pictures of real life. " Eva is not in Thames Street. The houses have been destroyed by now, and even if they were standing, and she was there, you could not make the journey. I will go to satisfy you, Mr. Tucker." The Squire gave him no heed, but crawled out and searched for his overcoat ; while Cyril ran to the back, learnt that the man had started, and told the woman to go for more assistance. " We must have witnesses. The master is going out ; he may fall dead any moment. It might be supposed we had harmed him." " Oh, sir, there's no fear of that," she cried. " Here he comes. I can't bear to look at his poor face. Master dear, go back and rest, do'ye now. 'Twill be the death of ye to go abroad." The Squire went by, perceiving the dead but not the living, passed out, and made across the lawn towards the stables. Cyril hung back until the woman, forgetting her place, pushed him forward, crying, " Go after him and fetch 'en back. If we let him go they'll say we murdered him." " Come with me," said Cyril in great fear. " You shall. I cannot follow him alone. He may die with me beside him. They would find me with the body I will not go." This was his own work. He had summoned those visions about the path of the failing Squire ; his troubled mind had been read until every detail of the tragedy had been published ; and that tortured imagination had called up Gideon's ghost, extracted from it a threat to murder Eva ; and the kind heart drew him out to save the girl he loved and pitied. Now humanity at the lowest compelled Cyril to follow his friend and remain with him to the end and be found in some lonely place with a corpse he dared not look at near his feet. " Take hold of 'en, sir. Make 'en come back," the woman went on crying. " I cannot touch him. I might kill him." WHAT SEEMED NECESSARY 359 " Lead 'en round the lane, then home again. He'll be fair done by then there's the gate ! He has gone out. Run, sir ! I'll go for Farmer Dunn and his cart. He'll go down hill. They always go down hill." Cyril looked round and found himself alone. The woman had gone to the nearest farmhouse half a mile away, then half a world away, and he was left shivering at the door of that haunted house, receiving punishment. He dared not remain, dared not escape, dared not follow. Suppose the old man should fall and wound himself and be found with blood streaming from his head and Maria should come forward, saying, " The man the body was found with killed my master. I reckon he killed the old Squire as well." "Thank God," cried Cyril suddenly, "they do not know my name. The only wise thing I ever did was to drop my own when I came here." He hurried out and down the hill. Squire Tucker was going ahead, slowly, apparently without great effort, like a man walking in his sleep. He made no sign when Cyril came up, but when they reached the bottom of the hill he paused and asked, his voice extremely faint, " Which is the way ? " " Here," said Cyril, pointing back up the hill. " You would deceive me, I think. Are you not one of the lying spirits ? You have lost your own way, and now would lead me astray." He went on along a trackway which would bring out upon the cleave near Sweet Briar Lane. Cyril hoped to lead him towards Lavender Cottage and take him in if it was possible he could last the distance. Yet it seemed to him the Squire walked more strongly, as if the body had ceased to be a burden, and his voice when he spoke again was more deliberate. " Is your name Cyril Rossingall ? " he asked. " Yes, but I call myself Wilson here," Cyril answered, longing for any tramp or stranger to draw near them. " We are concerned with nothing but the truth. I have 360 WINTERING HAY this moment received a message for Cyril Rossingall : let him beware of matrimony." " I will remember/' said Cyril quietly, glad to think that Eva was forgotten. " May I take you home now ? " The Squire went on unheeding, while Cyril strained his ears to catch the sound of voices or the rattling of wheels. So they descended towards the cleave. At last the old man stopped and staggered ; then spoke again : " I have forgot your name. Is this the way to Lavender Cottage ? " " It is," said Cyril. " Eva Rossingall lives there ? " " She does," said Cyril, humouring him. " Why, that's a lie," said the Squire. " She is lost, poor child, but we will find her soon." He is getting clear again, thought Cyril. " It is her brother who torments me. I have been tortured by a grave. I could not rest because of it, and now they are speaking to me again, talking of duty, telling me of justice, stern and awful. They tell me I shall suffer if I keep it, die with it, and he he will be bound to earth for a thousand years of misery ; better the swift short stroke of punishment than that. Bring me to the people ; I must say the word Wintering Hay, where the fir-tree grows dig there. That spirit must have its rest." " It was an accident, Mr. Tucker," cried Cyril wildly. " Along here are there not cottages ? I think there is one where some old folk live." " They are deaf," cried Cyril. " This way, Mr. Tucker this is the way. You will not do it ; you will not tell them. I must hold you I cannot help it. You do not understand what happened " ; and while speaking he heard beyond the hedge the sure and certain rattling of a cart. "It is not the way " ; and now the spirit of Mutter seemed to be in the kind and gentle Squire. " I have to win my perfect freedom. I cannot leave him without hope. Wintering Hay, where the fir-tree grows dig there, and WHAT SEEMED NECESSARY 361 save the poor boy's spirit from the earth. Are there not witnesses yonder ? " " No," whispered Cyril, though he could hear voices calling. This old man, kept alive somehow by his in- domitable spirit, determined to live and move until he had discharged that duty suddenly forced upon him, was past all argument. Dreams had given him too much knowledge. Flashes from Cyril's mind had kindled his, sensitive with approaching death, into a belief that the boy had com- mitted some great crime which could only be expiated by punishment. No words could impress the truth upon him ; but the truth which mattered he would whisper earnestly with his last breath into the ears of those ap- proaching, charging them to see to it. Force the stronger hand only could prevail, and now it was justified, necessary even up to the point of murder ; for the cart was coming, and still the Squire could speak. Cyril said no more. Linking his arm within that of his friend he hastened forward, dragging the old man down- wards, "where the way was rough but lonely, and so towards the cold and kindly trees. There were no cottages in that direction ; no man would pass them. It was all free and natural, and already welcome mist had formed behind. Mad with terror, Cyril was yet stabbed with pity that kind old friend, ghastly and dying, dragged down hill, his white hair wet, the last sweat forming on him, that poor mouth moaning and the eyes staring at the rocks and Cyril's pointing hand. It was nearly over. He could do no mischief, for he was on the ground now, so white and gentle, murmuring a last word as Cyril stooped to raise him, " Was this necessary ? " ; but Cyril, desperate and beside himself, conscious only that he must finish the work, straining to the utmost, lifted the dead weight, staggering with it until the naked shelter of the trees was reached ; and here he set the man who had given him a home beside some rocks, knelt beside him, talking wildly, apologising, saying he was sorry, feeling his hands and heart. This was not 362 WINTERING HAY murder. The Squire would not have lived another day, he would not have returned alive to his own home, that strength of limb was lent him by the spirit. He lived, but he was speechless, panting, nearly gone. Violence had not killed him. Again Cyril was no murderer but the old man had been so kind. He struggled up the path, shouting more wildly than he knew, but was not heard at once ; and before reaching the summit reason had returned and with it a wave of strength enough to finish. Upon the road he saw the farmer's cart, ran at it, and when the housekeeper with two others made toward him, expecting with their morbid minds to hear the worst, he said quite easily, " I could not lead him. You will find him at the bottom of the cleave." " Dead, master ? " cried the farmer. " He was breathing when I left him, but not conscious." " He'll be dead by now," the farmer answered ; and it was so. Cyril did not go with them ; he could not. He went into Lavender Cottage, and there fainted. CHAPTER XXI THE RETURN TO WINTERING HAY THE inquest over, when strangers had buried the Squire's body and Broom Hill was being swept clear of dreams and visions, Cyril was able to think again. He had been compelled to face an ordeal which should have been his after the death of Gideon, with this difference : then he had to rely upon his relations, now he was free. His uncle was to blame for all. Without that tyrant how easy it would have been to face the jury, to tell the true story, how that he had done his best to help a woman and had unfortunately done too much. Then as now the evidence of doctors would have cleared him. Not that any suspicion moved in the air ; Cyril indeed was praised for the care he had bestowed upon his friend, who had died of exhaustion in an advanced state of cancer the doctor would have urged the impossibility of so long a walk had it not been done but what depressed Cyril far more than any sense of guiltiness for he had been dealing with a man already dead, ke told himself ; the Squire's body had been carried along, retaining its deadly faculty of speech, by those mysterious forces which surrounded him, and his struggle had been with a spirit which would not go what made him mad at his own defect of cowardice was the discovery of much sympathy in human nature, and the knowledge that the ordeal was nothing to fear, a matter of fair question and honest answer, followed by a verdict of murder against Nature. It would have been so in the case of Gideon, and Cyril would only have been punished by losing his home a few months earlier. 363 364 WINTERING HAY Still, the memory of that terrible downhill scramble was forced away, and Cyril returned, gasping with relief, to his old element, only troubled by the dread of seeing that white face in the house, or feeling the personality in the lanes, fear about nothing as usual, for the Squire was clean dead and out of his life. Solitude settled down, work was resumed, a solicitor's letter confirmed the Squire's bequest, asking for information as to the whereabouts of Eva, since a small sum of money, " to purchase liberty," had been left her ; the new owner of Broom Hill, suspecting that Cyril was as mad as his uncle had been, paid no compli- ments to the tenant of Lavender Cottage, and engaged himself by felling trees and otherwise modernising his new possession. Nobody mourned for the Squire. Even farmers and labourers were secretly glad at his departure, for it was notorious that the old man had made the place mephitic, and possibly had hindered agriculture, by dabbling in the arts of mysticism. A remark made by Adolph Carr during the evil days remained with Cyril, " If we go on like this we shall become regular drunkards," when they were such in fact ; and he found himself with the thought, If I go on like this I shall become a murderer, but did not carry the idea to its con- clusion. Cyril knew how impossible it would be for him deliberately to take the life of a fellow-creature ; he was no Tom Nero to revel in brutality ; he could not strike a dog nor kick a horse. Therefore the law of God had not by him been broken. Every act of moral, weakness had been forced by the necessity of self -protection, a deed most lawful. The lowest forms of life were allowed to protect themselves by poison or sting, by thorns or fetidness ; and many without these aids were permitted to mimic those which had them. Self-protection against possible in- justice was no sin. It was customary for Cyril to fall into a somewhat dreamy state near Christmas. He had always done so in the old days, and now, when his imagination was more morbid than ever in the past, and his thought was tainted by the THE RETURN TO WINTERING HAY 365 unhealthy atmosphere of Broom Hill for it was un- healthy he became lethargic as the earth itself while his physical powers were numbed. Some change was necessary. In a dull fashion he had decided to revisit Wintering Hay about that time, and he settled to return on the day of good- will itself, to greet his aunt, to see how the tree was growing, and to walk again through Thirty to the moor. Besides, he was curious to know whether the Squire had any power to guide, or any hatred for him now. Excitement at the prospect of this journey woke him up. He hired a horse less cumbersome than the beast which had carried him to Burntbeer, and made a start early through the moist mist sacred to the day. His old home was no great distance as a bird went, but between it and Blue Violet spread a sparsely populated country, neglected by railways on account of hills, cut off from the rest of the country so entirely that it was easy for any man who desired solitude to remain unknown in one of the silent villages ; he had only to get well clear of the railway and the rest was simple. From the hills of mid-Devon the life of an active world was suggested by the distant rumbling on clear days of trains or the booming of artillery on Dartmoor ; but to those who lived near the line mid-Devon was a name for hilly fields and coppices, stony lanes which broke up vehicles, and cleaves not easy to be crossed on foot. " Shall I eat my Christmas dinner at Wintering Hay ? " Cyril wondered as he proceeded towards the house, having left his horse at a wayside inn a short mile from his home. It had been easy to think about walking in boldly, and letting his uncle perceive he could do very well without assistance ; but now Cyril began to quake, the old terror returned as he saw the white walls rising beneath the lower wood of Thirty, and felt the old atmosphere like a blast upon him. Nobody was about. He passed the gate at a speed not far removed from running, shrinking up, fearing he might be recognised from the single window which faced the cleave, went along the trackway, climbed the stone 366 WINTERING HAY steps and stood again upon the Shelf. The Chapel was empty, most of the windows were broken, and a gaping hole gave light through the thatch. The centre cottage was more ruinous and had now passed beyond repair, " Jane's " looked somewhat more beaten by the weather, but not a soul came forth and Cyril did not go too near. He went to the wall, again well covered with moss and lichen, and looked down. Certainly the place was different because the growth of three summers had formed there, the brambles were higher and longer and had wiped out the grave ; and, as Cyril went on staring, he perceived in the midst of thick hooked ropes a strangled growth bearing a few rusty spines. "It is dead. My tree has been killed because I was not here to take care of it," he murmured sadly. " It was a foolish idea, but I had it I thought my happiness was bound up in the life of the tree and now it is dead. Those brambles are murderous things." Again he looked out. The garden of Wintering Hay was being extended towards the wall ; many boulders had already been removed, others were lying beside the holes from which they had been rolled, awaiting the iron bar and sledge ; the work was going on regularly, for heaps of fern- roots lay about. The part newly cleared was being trans- formed into a rockery. " Who can be doing it ? " whispered Cyril. " Who employs the labourers ? Uncle would never dream of clearing the land, and aunt could not have suggested it." He turned away, resolving still out of cowardice to walk up through Thirty, as it was not yet late, and to search once more for the Pixies' Pathway. It might be restored to him that day, and he desired it all the more because the tree was dead. Lilian in one of her letters had confessed to spending more than one day in search, but the Green Way evaded her as it had that day it seemed so necessary to both of them. It was not her path however ; it was his. She was not meant to find what was sent for him. THE RETURN TO WINTERING HAY 367 He went up by the way he had descended that night of darkness, proceeding very carefully, guarding against error, going through Middle Thirty and seeing the partly healed scars which his tools had made, hesitating there a moment without feeling the inspiration of past days, then striking the open moor and ascending in a southerly direction until he reached the Mary brook. Very steadily he advanced from the water-table, came into the rocky ground, entered the plateau of heather, and paused at last. " It is here," he said. " When I have climbed this rise I shall see it winding away in front of me." But there was nothing except the heather and gray rocks. None of the former sense of enchantment remained. There was no water-drip to lead him on, no bird calling, no blue flower whispering, " forget-me-not." All was hard and barren, and the fairy-life was dead. It was useless to search for the romance of childhood now that the newness of wonder had worn off ; it was vain to look for happiness when the temple of fortune had been denied. The moor was the same, and the day also, but the little stories were gone, the last happy couple had tripped along the pathway on their way to the ever-after land, and pages had rolled up the green carpet after them, and had followed into mist. Cyril descended, and as of old the spirit of the moor made him strong, and again he believed that on this day some wonder might be worked to save him. Without another pause he pressed on through the mist, descended the cleave, reached the gate of Wintering Hay, seeing no- body, hearing again the ringing of bells and water, fully persuaded that enchantment was at work, the mountain was still his friend, forgiveness was near, and the past had left no index. He reached the house, stopped near a well- remembered window where he saw the gleam of candlelight for the day had darkened while he walked upon the moor looked in, and knew that his aunt was reading aloud to a wrapped-up bundle which was his uncle huddled in a chair upon big wheels like a lifeless mummy on a shelf. " George spoke of a rumour which said he walked about, 368 WINTERING HAY smoking and laughing," murmured Cyril, disappointed somehow, for he had hoped to find some wonder in the house, some awakening of his relations, and they were the same except that Mutter's useless faculties had left him. " Who is working in the garden ? Who has taken my place here ? " He went into the porch, was about to knock, when he noticed with amazement the door was ajar as if they expected him. His hand dropped, he entered on tiptoe, stood with a stifled feeling in the hall where he had suffered, groaned, and cursed. Still not a sound. The sleepers had not been wakened he had seen them in their sleep and yet the atmosphere of wonder remained so that Cyril could not believe the house was alto- gether as he had left it, that his aunt and the bundle with flabby white extremities were the only beings there besides the servants. A longing possessed him to know the time, and having no watch he advanced to the dining-room, looked in, and saw that it was a few minutes after three. The room was empty, yet he stared and went on staring, for the world was in it and vanities were scattered : Christmas numbers of illustrated periodicals, boxes of sweets and preserved fruits, gaudy crackers, paper-caps ; and abominations yet greater, cigars and pipes ; and above the pictures were holly and pagan mistletoe. And still not a sound reached Cyril's ears, and nobody discovered he had entered. " Those things are real," he whispered. " They would not vanish if I touched them." Hardly knowing what he did he walked upstairs, as if going by force of habit to his bedroom until sent for. Half- way up he checked himself, but went on stealthily, reached a landing window which overlooked the garden, and there stood breathing quickly. How often he had looked out to see the moon coming over the trees of Thirty, or to watch the birds bringing straw and feathers for their nests. He could see the new rockery, the uprooted boulders, the jungle of brambles, and he could see what was that figure, THE RETURN TO WINTERING HAY 869 man or ghost, Squire Tucker, who ? A man, clothed in black, descending from the grave, a young man, God be thanked, solid enough, if slim and very pale. " This is enchantment. The place is haunted," Cyril gasped, leaning against the window-frame. " George here George Corindon in this garden, coming down from the grave." Why, there was another creature, another spectre of a ghostly pageant now Cyril could hear voices coming forward with a laugh, blowing clouds of smoke into the mist, not looking towards George, but behind at some one out of sight, speaking to him, beckoning him forward. On he came with slouching gait, broad-backed, indifferent ; and then looked up to make the unseen watcher gasp with wonder. " Captain Elias, the owner of half my furniture spend- ing Christmas here ! " The third figure came in sight and Cyril did not need to see this one's face. Nobody else walked in quite the same way as the master of Burntbeer. The two went on towards the rocks, taking no heed of George, who had vanished from Cyril's sight ; and they stood while Elias pointed, as it seemed, at Gideon's grave as though he said, " That is the place where the young fool buried him." " I shall lose all control over myself if I stay here longer," Cyril muttered ; and that instant heard a shuffling footstep on the stairs, and a figure came up, bent and ghostly, quavering, " I must get to bed. 'Tis getting late, and I can't find my room." " Are they all coming ? Shall I see in Wintering Hay everybody, dead and living, I have ever known ? " gasped Cyril, perceiving it was Joll, the immortal Joll, looking for his bedroom there. He hurried with no great steadiness up the passage, determined to reach the end of it and glance into the room which had once been his. Assuredly the whole house was under some spell of witchcraft. " Lilian now I shall find Lilian next. Why should she be absent from the party ? " 2 B 870 WINTERING HAY said Cyril as he reached the door which was half -open, almost afraid to lift his eyes, knowing he had no right to play the spy, conscious that alterations had been made, and the bed was opposite ; and somebody was lying on it fast asleep, a maidservant, perhaps, or some princess of fairy-tale nothing could be too wonderful a well-dressed, well-shaped young woman with fair hair loosed about her, and the dim light from the window on her face, which was that he had seen with a mask upon it, marred by dirt and illness, on a heap of rags for pillow in foul Thames Street, within the reeling house where she and he were born. Cyril cried out he could not help it and ran by old Joll who cried out too, declaring he was tired and mazed and asking to be shown his room, out of the house still unperceived, though he was conscious of other sounds and motions, up the trackway, and so among the firs where the mist cooled his face and his mind became more steady. Eva and Captain Elias at Wintering Hay, Joll apparently a lodger, George and his father surveying the garden. What could be the meaning of this Christmas party assembled without the knowledge of host and hostess ? What power of good or evil had brought Burntbeer, Blue Violet, and Thames Street Stepney to meet at Wintering Hay, with Andrew Mutter in the chair and Caroline in ignorance ? " I must go back and face them all," said Cyril, waking up gradually. " But shall I see them again ? It was George, it was Eva, though she was transfigured, it was Uncle Elias. Ghosts they say look just like living persons. Perhaps the Squire is keeping his promise, and showing me spirits of the dead. He was not there. If I had seen that white face in the passage I should have gone off my head." Slowly he returned to the moor gate, hearing laughter which was very human, then the sound of the Captain's voice, " You have got into the wrong house. Yonder 's your way " ; and again Cyril hid himself, rubbing his eyes and throwing off the sense of mysticism. Captain Mutter was indeed master of Wintering Hay, and it was Eva who had decorated the rooms with holly and mistletoe. The THE RETURN TO WINTERING HAY 371 Captain was the uncle who went about smoking and laugh- ing ; he was breaking into the wilderness to make a rockery but the mystery would not go, for Andrew and Caroline had not changed, they lived and sat in the room of the lighted candle though their reign seemed over, and they were ruled in their own house by a pagan tyrant even as they had ruled himself with theocratic sternness. Evening was coming on and clouds of deeper mist rolled softly down the cleave. Cyril, hidden behind the hedge a dozen paces from the gate, was conscious of Joll shuffling slowly up the trackway searching for his lawful bed, com- plaining bitterly of witchcraft ; and as he looked out from the shelter he saw dim figures in the mist, ghost-like indeed, four figures which influenced his life : the Captain and Corindon departing from Wintering Hay, and in front of them, more spectral, George, gliding, as it seemed, toward the road with a young woman, not Lilian, but Eva Rossingall, keeping close to her side as if he needed her. " Older than he is," the watcher was murmuring. " Two years older. George does not know. If this goes on my head will split." He could only hear the Captain's voice, which was always loud. George and Eva were the silent ones ; and while he looked they all vanished into mist. " The ghostly play is over. They are gone, and perhaps I shall not see two of them again. If I had not taken that walk upon the moor I might not have seen them at all," said Cyril ; and with a strange mind in him still unsettled, he crossed the stream, reached the house for the second time, knocked loudly, but received no answer, for the servants were out, and those others, he knew, had vanished. So he walked in, reached the door of the dreariest room, knocked there, and boldly cried, " Aunt, it is Cyril. I have come back to wish you a happy Christmas." Books fell, a chair was pushed back, the house seemed to shake Caroline was a heavy woman the door opened fully, and Cyril saw his aunt's weak face, quivering, not with anger, but in fear ; and he felt her arms about hi 372 WINTERING HAY neck, and heard her broken welcome, " My prayers are answered. God has brought you back." " You are glad to see me," he stammered. " Had I known I would have come before. How is uncle ? " " Don't go in. He may know you, and another stroke would kill him. He is alive, but that is all paralysed and speechless, but he knows what is going on, he knows somehow. Come into the dining-room. Where have you been all this time ? What have you been doing ? Why did you never write to me ? " " I never intended to come back," said Cyril frankly. " The difficulties here were too great for me. I could not get on with uncle you know that. He is a better man than I shall ever be, but his nature is very different from mine." Caroline locked the door. Her eyes appeared to be dry, yet she wiped them continually. " We brought you up wrongly," she said. " I know that now." " Why have you locked the door ? " " We are prisoners in our own house. You will help me, Cyril ; stay with me and protect me ? " " Is Uncle Elias really here ? " " He and your sister are both here. Your uncle is master and does what he likes. I cannot get him out." " I will take Eva " began Cyril ; but another wonder was piled upon the others when she cried, " I could not lose her. I do not know what I should have done without her. She has kept me from despairing utterly ; she helps to nurse your uncle. She is so bright, so good." " Eva, good ! " Cyril exclaimed. Had this woman no memory ? " She is the best girl in the world. Your wretched uncle brought her here ; it is the only good thing he has ever done. He thought she would be a companion, but she has devoted herself to me. I declared I would not have her. I told her to go. ' You must take me in, aunt,' she said. ' This is my last chance, now Cyril has gone. I will be good ; I promise to be good.' She has more than kept her THE RETURN TO WINTERING HAY 373 word. You will stay, Cyril ? You and Eva will make this your home ? You will tell the Captain he must go ? " " This is Uncle Andrew's house. He must give the orders," said Cyril weakly. " He cannot. He is more helpless than a child. Your Uncle Elias has made himself master of the place. I am forced to give him money. He is brutal in his ways ; he smokes all over the house, he gives orders to the ser- vants, he swears at his poor brother, sits by him and tells him he has ruined everybody who has lived here ; and he tries to make a heathen of me before my husband's eyes." " He has no right to be here. If you tell him to go, he must obey." " I have told him to go a hundred times, but he laughs at me. How can I get rid of him alone ? " " I will do it," said Cyril, mindful of the rockery. " And I will return here if you wish it," he added, thinking of the grave and seeing his difficulties depart one by one. " I am living only twenty miles away, in the cottage which Uncle Elias occupied. It is still furnished with his things. The cottage belongs to Eva now. I will tell you that story later on." " Here she is," said Caroline in her old sharp way/ as footsteps hurried across the hall and a clear voice called her. She went, and a moment later Cyril heard her angry voice : " What do you mean by going out with next to nothing on ? Do you suppose I have any money to waste on doctors' bills for you ? I do everything I can to make you happy, and you repay me, like your brother, with ingratitude." That is exactly the way she used to speak to me, reflected Cyril. I thought she hated me. Now she speaks as if she hated Eva. And I know she loves us both. " All right, auntie. If I make myself ill I'll cure myself. Will you go and lie down for a bit, while I sit with uncle ? " " You would only worry him with your chatter. Go and change your shoes and stockings, and when you have done that you will find an old friend waiting in the dining- 374 WINTERING HAY room " ; and Caroline went off, apparently in a rage, although actually overflowing with new-found happiness. "If I had answered her as Eva does, all might have been well," was Cyril's thought as his sister, disregarding her aunt's commandment, went first to the dining-room, where the light was dim so that at first she saw a stranger ; while the vision to him was that of another sister, some years younger than the one of Highgate, a beautiful fairy-like sister full of life the body of Eva with a Christ- mas soul of magic in it. " You have found the way," he cried, because he could not keep the words back. " You have been taking lonely walks upon the moor." " Cyril," she cried. " Cyril, darling, what a beast you were " ; and she ran at him, gasping love and kisses. " Uncle Elias said you were dead or gone to the devil ; but I knew you were alive and no worse than most of us. Dear Christmas thing, you saved my life. I am here because of you, but why did you keep away so long, why did you leave me at Blue Violet, why did you never write ? " " I did write, Eva, but I used the wrong name. Leave .that for a moment. Tell me about yourself. You love the moor and Middle Thirty ; you love the plateau in the mist, and the trackway " " Everything," she concluded. " I came here and found salvation';; \ I|f ound health and strength and good eyes," she whispered. " The old wickedness has worn out. Let me tell you. I have learnt the secret of old Dartmoor. Like yourself, I have spent half my time lost in delicious rambles upon it, and it has been as good as God to me. It has given me health and strength, perhaps some beauty. It has wiped the old world out and made me glad. One day, or evening rather, I was lost in the mist and I rambled on, not caring a bit, and presently came upon a part where heather grew high, and I saw right in front of me such a marvellous green winding pathway " " Oh, Eva ! " cried Cyril with a pang of jealousy. " A little clear path of the brightest green between the THE RETURN TO WINTERING HAY S75 heather," she went on, " and I walked along it until I came to a wall of rock, and water like so many diamond drops streamed down it. I put my hands together, caught some of the water, and drank it ; then I came home feeling so happy, just as if I had discovered the most beautiful thing in life, and I have never lost that glorious feeling, and I know whatever happens I shall suffer no more in this world. I told old Joll all about it, and he said, 1 So they showed ye the Green Way. They don't show it to many, but them what finds it can't end badly, and if they don't live happy ever after 'tis their own fault.' " '* Why do you remember this Green Way so well ? " ' Because my life seems to have changed since I walked along it. I have no troubles, no illness, no bad thoughts. I live again ; I have been shown my own self. But what have you been doing all this time ? " " You know George Corindon. Has he not mentioned me?" " I only met him for the first time to-day." " What were the Corindons doing here ? " " They are going to make a rockery, so they came to ask if they might take a load or two of stone. It is the first time they have been near the place. Do talk about yourself, dear boy. Where have you come from ? " " Lavender Cottage is my home." " Blue Violet ! Of all the places I never thought of ! " she murmured. " It is quite simple really. I came from London to find you and uncle, heard you had both disappeared, and Squire Tucker allowed me to use the cottage." " He is dead uncle told me there had been an inquest. He read about it. The old man was very kind, and fond of me, but dreadfully mad." " At present I live rent free, but I have a landlady. Lavender Cottage has been left to a young woman who, I suspect, may praise the rent." " But you will leave it now and come to live with us." " Have^you no curiosity to know the owner's name ? " 376 WINTERING HAY " Dear boy ! Why should I ? Mr. Tucker's relations are nothing to me." " He has left it to you, darling," said Cyril, feeling a great tenderness for his enchanted sister. " And a little money besides. We are a long way from Thames Street now." " Don't drag that up. Dartmoor has wiped it out," she said, frowning a little. " I know he liked me very well ; he thought I had been hardly used, but I did not think he would leave me the cottage. What am I to do with it, Cyril ? " " Let Uncle Elias have it." " What do you mean ? " " The greater part of the furniture belongs to him. I have promised aunt to get him away from here." Eva looked at her brother, came nearer, and said in a low voice : " He is not always responsible for his actions. He has delusions. He would not stay at Blue Violet because he imagined Squire Tucker was ' pumping electricity into him.' I could not stay because he frightened me some- times. He was just a farm labourer, and the knowledge that he would never be anything better got on his mind he had turned sixty, and that would change him. The first time I noticed anything different was one Sunday evening. He met a tramp " " Kit Coke ? " cried Cyril. " Yes, that was the name. Don't speak too loudly ; he may be in the house and hear you. Uncle wore his working-clothes, having no others, and as he can talk pretty roughly when he likes this tramp mistook him for one of his own class. He told uncle he was looking for a woman who murdered a friend of his some years ago, here not in this house, but just above it. He was sure she had murdered him, for he had left them quarrelling and had never seen the man since, nor had anybody else." " The fellow is a liar and a scoundrel." " Very likely. I am telling you this because of the effect it had tipo'n uncle. The tramp Went on to say he had heard THE RETURN TO WINTERING HAY 377 something about the woman ; she came sometimes into lodgings at Barnstaple ; she was well dressed, and apparently well off but this part doesn't matter." " Yes, tell me all," said Cyril with painful eagerness. " I heard about the man's disappearance, and I know the tramp." " Well, he meant to find out the truth. The woman would never tell him, but he knew somebody else who could ; and if he found the woman he would probably get hold of the other person." " What does he mean ? " Cyril was murmuring to himself. " He cannot suspect me after what has happened he would never dare come near me and there is certainly no other person." " What are you talking about, Cyril ? " " Never mind, dear. Tell me more about uncle." " That night something happened to him ; I thought it was a bad dream, but perhaps it was a stroke of some kind ; and I heard him shouting about the cottage. He made me get up, as he was afraid to be alone, and then declared he saw through the whole business, he had always suspected Uncle Andrew was a villain you can guess the rest, but you can't imagine what a business it was to quiet him. He went on repeating every day, ' My brother killed that man because he wouldn't have a poacher near his door ; I'll go over there and take possession of the house, I'll punish him every day of his life, I'll sweep out all the false religion, and make a woman of his wife.' I can't tell you all he said, but he went on with it until he could think of nothing else." "He hates his brother," said Cyril. "Not without reason, for Uncle Andrew refused to start him in life with a single penny, and treated him like an outcast. That is the root of his bitterness. He is a simple fellow, and getting the tramp's story in his mind he thought about it, until it took the place of his genuine grievance " ; but to himself he thought, " Corindon cannot send a cart for those stones too soon," 378 WINTERING HAY " I had to leave him," Eva continued. " I had saved a little every week from the housekeeping money, so I went up to London, and lived like a good girl as a waitress, all the time looking about for a man like you ; but I could not keep on with it, I knew that if I stayed in London I should fall about and hurt myself, so I wrote to uncle at Wintering Hay " " Why not Blue Violet ? " " I knew he wouldn't be there. I never even thought of writing there, because every day I had as much as I could manage to prevent him from going off. He wasn't going on working as a labourer while the villain rolled in money. You will never persuade Uncle Elias to return to Lavender Cottage." " He can be made to go. Do you like him, darling ? " " I am sorry for the poor old man. He made my life wretched, but it was not his fault altogether. Still he ought to go. He is brutal to Uncle Andrew ; but that cannot last much longer, as the end is very near ; and he does all he can to persuade aunt that her religion is false. Some- times when she is praying he kicks the door and shouts." " Did he ever see this tramp again ? " " Not to my knowledge." " You are sure he did not mention the name of the other person the one he could find by discovering the woman ? I am most interested in this affair." " I don't think so. If he had I should have heard it, I fancy, as uncle repeated the story so often. You must not ask him, dear. If you do we may have a restless night." A few more words, and Cyril left his sister to search for Elias. The horrible shadow was creeping over him again. Kit Coke was a new enemy, and a highly intelligent one, but with a record too bad to appear as a witness against any man. He might blackmail Maria, he might even force the story from her ; but would he dare make use of a weapon which might be turned against himself had he been seen coming to or departing from the Chapel that Christmas night ? The disquieting feature was the other THE RETURN TO WINTERING HAY 379 person. It could not be George, nor either of the Jolls ; there was no one else. The miserable business seemed to ruin everybody who came into contact with Cyril : Squire Tucker's death had been hastened by it, the Captain's mind was being broken by it, Burntbeer was to be lost by it, George's whole life might be spoilt by it, Lilian might have her heart wounded by it. Eva so far had not suffered. Maria, at the outset the principal loser, was the only one who had gained. " I will contrive to see George to-morrow. He must be warned against Kit Coke," Cyril murmured as he went out. It was almost dark. Captain Elias was working with a crowbar on the side of the bank, digging a boulder out. When his nephew called, somewhat shakily, glad to think this would be the last revelation required of him, Elias looked down, put a hand above his eyes, whistled, then approached with a vacant, " Well, young man ; what do you want here ? " " How are you, uncle ? " Cyril asked, putting out his hand. " I said what do you want here ? " " I have a right to come home." " You didn't write to me," said Elias sullenly. " I am master here, and I tell you straight there is no room for you." " I am sorry you are offended with me," Cyril began, but the other went on with a growl, " You let me rot in Blue Violet, where I had to work like any old engine, and the parson got at me with the electrical currents and turned me; into a regular dynamo. If I had stopped on there the first thunderstorm would have killed me." "(He cannot harm you now. He is dead." "I know ; I read all about it. There was an inquest, and a crazy fellow called Wilson swore the old man walked about after he was dead, which was just the sort of silly thing he would do. He was charged with electricity too ; I could tell that by the way he gave his evidence." 380 WINTERING HAY " He did not say that. I ought to know, as this Mr. Wilson lives in your old cottage, and has the use of your furniture and he is myself, uncle." " Say that again," growled the Captain, rubbing his simple head. " I am Mr. Wilson, and I live at Lavender Cottage. I have made the place very comfortable, and I am going to leave it now so that you can go back." Only a portion of this information reached the brain of Elias, that part which dealt with his furniture ; and he went on, "I thought the old man had taken the stuff and sold it. I never went over there again. I was afraid he would get hold of me and make the sparks fly. I could manage the work, I could put up with the loneliness, but I couldn't stand the electricity. It was all right in the days of the sail. We got along well enough then between wind and water. But they brought in the steam-kettle, and that drove me off the sea, for I couldn't understand the thing, and 'twas always spitting and boiling over. And when I did get a quiet home in the country and thought myself safe, this blessed electricity came along and I found myself a dynamo." " You used not to talk like this. What is wrong with you, uncle ? " " I'm all right ; I can walk twenty miles in a day, and smoke as much as ever. Look here, Cyril, I'll tell ye what's wrong : Andrew is a damned scoundrel. He's got the worst soul of any man with or without a dynamo you will find from east to west. This religion is all humbug. He has deceived everybody with it except me. I have found him out. He's a murderer," whispered the Captain fiercely. " There was a chap living up yonder, a poor fellow driven to trap a rabbit sometimes, and Andrew killed him, and to the best of my belief buried the body somewhere in this garden, and now I'm looking for it ; and I'm not going to stop until I have turned up every foot of ground between here and the wall." " This is a wild idea. You forget I was living here at THE RETURN TO WINTERING HAY 381 the time ; I remember that night when the man disappeared I heard him myself quarrelling with his wife and I know Uncle Andrew never left the house." " You were only a boy. He could fool you easy. He has got the blackest soul of any man living." "He is dying now. Leave him alone," said Cyril, hardly conscious that he was standing up for the uncle who had harmed his life. " This is not your garden " " By heaven, it is," broke in Elias. " Nor is this your house." " I have made it mine. I came over from Blue Violet and sailed in like a pirate, hoisted my flag, and I'll keep it flying. I'll open Caroline's eyes to the wickedness of that man he can't speak to me now, he can't order me out. I am converting his wife, and spending his money before his eyes. He wouldn't give me a penny when I was near starvation, but now he's helpless I am taking all he has ; and if he could stand up against me I would go to the police and set 'em to dig in this wilderness for the body of that man." " Let me say a word to you quietly," said Cyril, per- ceiving that strong action would be necessary. '< You hate your brother because he was hard on you ; therefore you are ready to believe anything bad about him. I have much less reason for loving him, as he has done more harm to me than you can guess ; but I know him well, I know he never was a hypocrite, but always a stern, hard-hearted man, utterly without feeling for those who could not agree with him. He is no more guilty of murder- ing the man Fley than I am. I know what happened that night, for I was about : the man had a row with his wife went off possibly emigrated. There was never the slightest suspicion that he met with foul play. If so, his wife would have been a witness." " Andrew shut her mouth. He gave her money." ' ' That is nonsense," said Cyril, somewhat hotly. " Aunt would know all about it " " He may have told her he had done a Christian deed," 382 WINTERING HAY broke in Elias. " Whatever he does is holy in her sight." " You have got to listen to reason, uncle," said Cyril, beginning to lose his temper, feeling it intolerable that this man should be adding to his difficulties, " and if you will not we must make you." " How will you make me ? " mumbled the Captain, losing his fierceness and getting cunning. " You have no legal right to be living at Wintering Hay." " Neither have you. Neither has Eva. That girl is against me too." " Eva and I have a right to live here because aunt has invited us. She wishes you to go, and she has asked me to tell you so." " Who do you suppose is the master of Wintering Hay now ? " " I am," said Cyril sternly, wondering that he should have lived to say so ; and the strong mind prevailed over the weaker one, so that Elias looked down and began to fidget. " I have no sort of ill-feeling against you," Cyril went on, " but your conduct makes aunt miserable ; you must admit you have used her badly. We ask you to return to Lavender Cottage. It belongs to Eva now, and she is not likely to ask you for rent, while aunt, I am sure, will allow you enough to live on." " Do you mean to stay here ? " muttered Elias. " I do for the present." " I have said already there is no room for you." " Your departure will make room for me." /'I won't go. The electricity would come back at Blue Violet ; I know it would. I keep all right here except when I get a buzzing in my head. Why couldn't you stop in London, and go to the devil ? " " I had my life to make. That is why I came to Blue Violet. You must go, uncle. You will find Lavender Cottage a snug little home, and there you can do as you please." THE RETURN TO WINTERING HAY 383 Cyril turned towards the house, for it was dark and getting cold. Elias did not follow. He picked up the iron bar, rang it noisily upon a boulder, producing a shower of sparks which made him howl ; then muttering breathlessly, " This is a conspiracy to get rid of me. They are all guilty, so they are afraid of me. I will not go. I'll stay here to the end.' 1 The atmosphere had changed. At last some powerful influence for peace touched Cyril's life. That Christmas night Andrew Mutter became immortal hi his sleep, having recognised, it was supposed, that his nephew had returned. The light of the morning found the blinds of Wintering Hay drawn closely, and behind them Cyril was saying to his aunt, " I think Uncle Elias will leave the house now. You and Eva must go away for a thorough change, while I will remain alone here to work." CHAPTER XXII THE TRANSLATION r I A HE life of Andrew Mutter had brought up shadows JL which his death seemed to sweep away. Elias flung aside' his tools and left the wilderness, declaring he had neither black coat to wear nor sorrow to assume ; while recognising that his reign was over, and Cyril was master of his future life ; and the nephew, who had now heard of the letter which had been withheld from him the morning of his flight, was not likely to show much mercy. But the Captain still persisted in his intention of remaining until some suitable provision should be made. " Promise me two pounds a week, and I'll go," he said. " But not to Blue Violet. I want a town near salt water, where I can see the ships and chat with old skippers who know the sails." The wind went on blowing in the right way for Cyril, who had no idea of pressing the Captain to go to Blue Violet, where he would be within striking distance of him- self and might meet Kit Coke. That cunning manner, and the fierce glances from those small tormented eyes, assured him the Captain was no longer friendly. Had he remained in seclusion Elias would have lived on at Winter- ing Hay as master, having the use of Caroline's purse, and possibly forcing her to leave the place to him at her death. In these negotiations Cyril had been given a free hand, so he replied that the money would be paid, and Elias might go to any place that suited him with the ex- ception of Barnstaple. " Why shouldn't I go there ? " growled the Captain. 384 THE TRANSLATION 385 " Because aunt is fond of the place," said Cyril evasively. " She will not want to be running up against you. If you insist- on going there the money will not be paid." " Then I should steer in this direction." " In that case we should have to eject you by force." " You mean to spoil me. We were good friends once, and I liked you well, but since this blessed electricity has come along everybody seems to hate me," said Elias violently. " The change is in yourself," he was reminded. " I was a skipper once. Now I'm kicked about like a cabin-boy. I won't go. to Barnstaple ; but I'll keep my weather eye upon the place," he muttered. " Perhaps you had better go to Blue Violet first and sell your furniture. Eva is going to let the cottage for the present." " Settle the business by giving me ten pounds, then you can let the cottage furnished," growled the Captain, and Cyril agreed ; and two days later, during the time of his brother's funeral, Elias, the derelict, left the house with the same old bag, and set his face towards the north. Before that ceremony which finished the reign of dark- ness, Cyril sent back the horse which had carried him upon a fortunate expedition, and charged its rider with a message for his housekeeper, stating that he would not be returning for a few days, then only to pack up necessary things, and after that he would not require her services. That duty accomplished, he made once more the journey by winding lanes to Burntbeer, having previously written to George, somewhat bitterly, " As I may not come to the house, will you meet me upon the road outside ? My uncle is dead. Tell your father that during the next month I shall be here alone." Of the four members of the Corindon family its head was the only one who had so far met him. George had come near by letters, and unconsciously in the vision of the garden ; while Cyril had also been near Lilian in her garden, but she, like her brother, had not known of his 2 c 386 WINTERING HAY nearness. No more of this hiding now that the sun of liberty had risen ; one more deed and the past would be conquered ; and Cyril might go with Eva upon the moor, and let her point out to him the old Green Way ; with Eva, the girl of evil life, he must go, because Lilian the pure had missed the path. Eva's eyes had been struck with magic ointment because she needed help the most. There was a farmhouse about a mile from Burntbeer, a solid building of red stone in better condition than most, covered with Virginian creeper, which every autumn tried to give the impression that the house was on fire. Beside the road rose a wall crested with cotoneaster, then bright with berries, and near the entrance to the court was a triangular patch of turf cropped close by geese. Upon that grass a young woman stood, as if waiting for somebody to come out, taking no interest in the road and what it might bring, but admiring the berries on the wall ; and Cyril did not need to look twice to know that this young woman was waiting there for him. He could not go by and pretend he had not seen her. Nor did she intend to start round at the sound of footsteps and recognise him. She was going to make it as hard as possible, wondering whether he would obey his own heart, or what he believed was her father's wish. Lilian seemed to be breaking from restraint ; but surely she had every right to work as she pleased in her own garden. Had Cyril hesitated at all cowardice might have asserted itself, disabling his vision and adding impetus to his feet ; but he did not linger, he went upon the grass, came between Lilian and the wall, offering both hands. She spared him one, but neither glance nor smile, and if anything else was given it might have been called a shiver. " I am not breaking any promises," he said gladly. " Your father told me not to come to Burntbeer." " How tall you are, Cyril," was all she could think of just then. " No taller than when last you saw me ; when we THE TRANSLATION 387 searched for the green path and found the white stone. We could not find the path nor bring away the stone." " I have found it since," she said. " Lying where you dropped it. You remember it would not roll. I suppose it will lie there for thousands of years. It will lie there without changing, but only heaven knows what will become of us." " We cannot afford to wait. We must take all that we can get, for we are changing every day. If I see your father I shall tell him how I met you. I will be honest with him." " It was not your fault. How was I to know I should find you walking in the old way from Wintering Hay to Burnt beer ? " demanded Lilian, sweetly deceitful, for she had seen Cyril's letter to George, and was deter- mined to assert herself. " One never comes across a soul in these lanes ; and as for this farmhouse, it has seemed absolutely deserted since the dancing hen died." " What hen ? " " That is my story," said Lilian, beginning to laugh and to look mischievous. " I used to call this the farm of the dancing hen. Once upon a time a poor frivolous mad hen lived here. She was always alone, because the others pecked at her and would not let her feed with them ; and as the only thing she could do was to waltz round and round, she would do so by herself all day on this piece of grass. I suppose she was killed at last and sent to market with the sane ones. I don't think I should care to eat a crazy hen. So your uncle is dead," she went on, looking up. " And you have returned to Wintering Hay." " For a time. I mean to fill the next seven years with the work of my life." " George told me," she said gravely as they went on. The road from the farm swerved down hill, beneath trees ; it was darker there, and damp all the year. " So you have two uncles," she murmured. " And a sister ; a beautiful girl." " Did George say that ? " 388 WINTERING HAY " He did." " Her existence was not made known to me till after that day on Whistly Down. Have you forgotten the game of hide-and-seek, Lilian ? " Of course she had not, but had played it in her memory often ; answering now with a certain shy movement and a blush. " Eva, my sister, has been through great unhappiness ; but that is all over now. She has found the Green Way." " She is a lucky girl. I want to see her," said Lilian. " Now that your lord of the castle is dead, perhaps the brambles will be cut down so that it may be possible to find the door of Wintering Hay. Who is keeper of the great key now the other uncle, or yourself ? " " I am with my aunt's consent. We are going towards Burntbeer," said Cyril warningly. " George did say something," she murmured teasingly. " I asked him to meet me." " I fear you may walk through him ; he is such a thin, dark shadow. His latest idea is to be chaplain in some prison. Poor George ! " " Why are you sorry for him ? " " Because he is melancholy. He declares the ambition of his life is to help others, but he does not seem able to help himself. He has some trouble in his life which I can- not get hold of and he will not speak about." " I do not know what it is," said Cyril instantly, looking at her eyes and seeing the little pathway in each. " Mother is in despair. ' He ceased to be George quite suddenly/ she says. But I do not answer that it was the night he went out with you." "We stood upon the bridge. I was miserable then, and told him I could almost have thrown myself into the river. He heard his call that night. Now we are beginning a new life, and everything is fresh and jolly," said Cyril. " My troubles are over ; I am reconciled to my aunt, I have found my sister, the great obstacle of my uncle's THE TRANSLATION 389 authority has been removed. I will tell George a happy story and make him smile again." " But what makes the difference between you and father ? " she asked impatiently ; for Lilian was now a woman and a hater of mysteries. " He does not want me to to lay claim to you. The only one to love you must be himself. He thinks he has lost George, and feels he cannot lose you as well. I came back to Burntbeer too soon for one thing ; I have not done my work yet. By keeping away I pleased him and made you angry." " By keeping silent," she corrected. " You could have written. It was the silence which disturbed me, made me think you did not want me, that you could get on without me. I know you could do without me," she said. " But it is horrid when you tell me so." " I have always wanted you, Lilian. In my darkest days of London I longed for you." " I was waiting to write and to send you flowers from my garden." " It came into my heart that I was unworthy of you ; I felt I could not hold you bound ; I thought I was going down, for the prospect is very gloomy when one is starting, it seems impossible to do the right thing, and the sense of inevitable failure becomes like a wound which will not heal. I always loved you, Lilian, and I love you now. Be my sweetheart again, take my love and share my life. You are always the first on earth." " You do not love me yet, Cyril. When I am with you, then you feel sure you love me ; but when I am away from you any girl will do. Don't think I am hard. There must be no flattery between you and me. If you loved me nothing would have kept you silent. My father would have liked you better had you declared you were willing but unable t obey. If you had been strong with him, he would have known you would be stronger still in protecting me. He knows I shall need somebody when he is gone, but the man who marries me with his consent must know how 390 WINTERING HAY to stand up straight. If you had loved me your sense of failure would have drawn you closer ; you would have felt I was the only thing left. Love is entirely selfish, Cyril. It does not consider poverty, it cannot admit the idea of failure but it is also very strong, and knows it will succeed because it must. I came out to-day to tell you something like this." " You expected to meet me ! " cried Cyril. " I knew I should. George told me the time you were coming. I obtained permission from father. You see I am not ashamed to walk back with you to Burnt- beer." " I wish I could be as straightforward as you," said Cyril earnestly. " But if you have not got it in you, can you force it ? " " It does not hurt to make an effort," she murmured. " Lilian truthful Lilian do you still care for me ? " " I want you. That is my natural wish. I want to be with you when you are strong and famous, and I want to think that I have helped tremendously, and you could not stand so well without me. When I was a foolish little girl," she went on, "I planted you in my garden such a weakly, drooping seedling it was at first and you have grown and grown. I cannot say I have not tried to root you up, because you were getting a danger, you were rambling so and strangling all the other plants ; but it was no use, you grew so strongly, so I had to let you go on root- making. It has meant death to everything else," she murmured. " You have either made my garden, or have marred it " ; and then she cried, " Oh, Cyril, you would not spoil my garden ! " " Let me show you something," he said gladly ; and thrusting a hand into his coat-pocket drew out her letter which had brought him to the Gray Cross on the wonder- ful day of the same year he had been called to the Black Cross of the moorland town. " Look at this, Lilian. It has been my companion, my charm. If I have you now, it has done its work and may fall to pieces." THE TRANSLATION 391 " You kept it all through your London life ! It was not left at Wintering Hay ? " " See how frayed and dirty and torn it is." " You could not have expected to see me to-day. This is something real and great. I know now you did not forget. You wanted me ; you kept this little bit of me. I shall have it yet." " Have what, Lilian ? " " I will not tell you yet. I thought it was winter ; I thought that whiteness over there was caused by dead grass ; when it is summer really, and the whiteness is glorious sunshine." " Then, Lilian " " A girl of radiant beauty can be sure of her lover. She has only to smile and he is held. We plain brown people have to fight in self-defence ; we must frown and appear ungracious until we are certain that what is offered is part of the true god. You have made me happy. Now be satisfied." " Not yet. Not until you say I am forgiven. Not until you put your hand in mine." " That is done. I am not ashamed because it is large and the fingers are thick a big stone broke that nail." " And look me in the eyes." " Why, that's not so easy, but I can do it there ! " " Not long enough, not nearly. And say, I will be true to you." " Until death," she added ; and then he too was happy, though it was her eyes that he loved, or rather the reflec- tion of that something not defined he saw in them. " Tell me now what it is that you will have ? " he asked ; and she told him, having no secret to hold back, " The perfect garden where nothing ever dies except to live again." They parted at the turning where a private lane led upward to the larch-copse, where Cyril and George had sat one summer's evening. There Lilian could reach the path across the fields, the same red ribbon of a short-cut where Cyril in all his glory had raced George and been 392 WINTERING HAY beaten by the stamina he lacked. It was high enough to overlook the road, so that Lilian was able to observe her brother walking to meet his friend. She would have called, and signalled, "All's well," had she not also per- ceived her father more than a hundred yards behind his son, but following him, a thing so foreign to his usual custom that she had to stop and play the onlooker ; and at last she left the path, went higher, and stood upon a rock. The three men were beside an oak ; George leaning against the trunk with his arms folded, Cyril seated upon one of its arched roots, her father somewhat apart, kicking at the turf, which was a way of his of showing feeling. They were only little figures at that distance, without definite faces or voices, yet somewhat grim little figures, and Lilian knew her heart was not so easy as it had been. " Father never interferes unless he has to," she mur- mured, " and when he does it is usually on my account. Cyril has come to see George ; that is natural. Father leaves his work to join them ; that is not natural. I don't want to be unhappy ; I refuse to be," she said with mighty resolution. " I will just go and dig like a hired man and forget all about it." She did so, as far as the digging was concerned, but not the forgetting. She had known always some secret lived between George and Cyril, and she had tried not to be vexed with them for refusing her a share in it ; but she had supposed it had long ceased to be an influence on their lives. Apparently it was not so ; they had met to talk about it ; and now her father knew. " But that is reassuring," she said to the clods and earthworms. "If it could concern me he would let me know." Whereupon the clods and earthworms told her straight, as this was a subject they at least were well acquainted with, since the secret was one of a foolish burial : "He would not spoil your happiness entirely. As a matter of fact, he has forbidden the young fool to come near you." THE TRANSLATION 59B Lilian murmured, " The time is not up. We are still children in his sight, not man and woman " ; but for all her sureness she threw down the spade and went away to worry because the years dragged by so slowly and men could be so shuffling in their speech. Yet the conference beneath the oak tree, grim as was its subject, had some gleams on it. The fortunate period, allowed to all, was beginning to shed light on Cyril's life ; and his manner was cheerful enough as he spoke of the propitious planets which had so arranged matters that his uncle should be taken and he himself left in sole charge of Wintering Hay. Corindon listened with a fierce ex- pression which denoted close attention, angry to think that a trifling scuffle between a reprobate and his mistress should have led up to matters of such terrific consequence, not only to Cyril but to the fortunes of Burntbeer and himself. " I hardly know which is the worst, you or George," giving each a glance which looked unfriendly. " There are some secrets you cannot keep to yourself you can't afford to, for in time they eat your soul out and leave your body like a snail when a thrush has done with it. Your duty, George, was to have told me at once ; Cyril might have hated you at the time, but he would have loved you for it afterwards. I cannot think of any possible way of ending this business except by the removal of those bones, the earth around them, and every scrap of clothing. I have sworn an oath to Cyril not to make the affair known, and I'll be hanged if I can see how a confession at this time of day would help him. It cannot be shown now that the man died of heart disease, and even if it could you would be punished for hiding the body, and you, George, would be sentenced for conspiracy. It would prevent you from taking orders, anyhow. If I could see a clear way out of the confusion I could almost break my oath to Cyril." " And let Lilian know." " Leave her out of this beastly business," said the master fiercely. " It's no good. Confession ruins us all. 394 WINTERING HAY How about the woman you are keeping ; what would she say ? " " There is not the slightest danger from her," said George. " She has no feeling against Cyril now, and she is as anxious as he can be that nothing shall be found out. She at least has gained by the man's death." " I believe you. Going about in silk and fine linen, living like a lady, while I am paying for all. I can hardly keep the place up, and yet I have to maintain this woman and buy her dresses." " I have never asked you for more than my allowance, and in that sense it has cost you nothing. A few more months and I hope to be maintaining myself," said George quietly. " On a curate's pittance." " I shall soon be taking the responsibility upon myself. I am making money now," said Cyril proudly. " A poet's pittance." " Not poetry, but prose now, Mr. Corindon." " Let us suppose we wipe out evidence, then tell this woman she must make her own living ; defy her we are all above scandal, I think." " I cannot break my promise," George reminded him. " We seem to be men of honour," said Corindon re- signedly. " Very well then. Being bound by our oaths we are forced to be body-snatchers. The first wet day, Cyril, expect the cart." "There is one other thing"; and Cyril mentioned the meeting of Elias with Kit Coke and its consequences, adding, " The tramp robbed me twice. I could put him in prison if I liked." " Somebody else will do that for you," said Corindon sharply. " A man with a past to hide cannot afford to enter any law-court. While trying to blacken his opponent he spoils himself. Have you seen this tramp, George ? " " Never to my knowledge." " Get the woman right away from Barnstaple. The man THE TRANSLATION 395 might frighten her into saying too much. If the story should come out, and it is known I sent to Wintering Hay for a load of stone when there is plenty nearer to hand and it is seen that the ground under the wall has been dis- turbed without any good reason " " There will be no evidence," Cyril muttered when he paused. " The fact will remain that the man disappeared and has never since been heard of. The woman's story would be accepted as the only explanation. We must take all risks and clean our hands as best we can. When you struck at that rascal as he deserved you knocked a splinter or two off the world we move in. Keep the tramp and the woman apart, George ; these rascals who live by their wits know how to bluff. It appears to me the uncle is the greatest danger ; he is a man with a wild tongue, he has a fancy in his head, and wherever he goes he will talk." " Not now," said Cyril. " His brother is dead. The Captain never suspected me." " You will never be safe until he leaves the earth, the tramp gets penal servitude, and the woman dies. Before any of these things happen you will probably be dead yourself," said Corindon, with his fierce smile. " Now that we have decided on this little carrying job we will at least do it thoroughly. I will dispose of the remains myself and say nothing to either of you about the pro- cess ; a single secret is safer than a threefold one. You, Cyril, will turn a few men into the garden and have the bank cut out to the wall. The only way to remove all evidence of guilt is to change the landscape. There is the curiosity of the old folk on the Shelf to be thought of. At the critical moment we must keep our eyes skinned. One more thing : I ask you, Cyril, to promise me that if any- thing happens in the future concerning this business, if any other difficulty should arise, you will not mention it to George, but will come at once to me. Promise me that, or I'll be hanged if I move a foot to help you." The young men looked at each other. George nodded, 396 WINTERING HAY and Cyril answered, " I promise, Mr. Corindon. I know of nothing that can happen now." " Your knowledge is very wonderful," said the master scornfully. " Perhaps you will learn later on it is generally the unforeseen which happens. We are sure to have over- looked something, a very simple thing no doubt, but we should not get at it if we puzzled our brains for a month." " George," cried Cyril immediately they were left alone together. " Where is Maria ? " " In Barnstaple at the present time." " Has she married again ? " " She has, but my father does not know that." " Is she happy and satisfied ? Does her husband main- tain her ? Does he know of your interest in her ? " " Her husband is not much good to her, I am afraid, but I believe she is fairly well satisfied. Certainly he knows of my interest. He would not have married her without the knowledge." " You mean she has married another good-for-nothing scoundrel ? " " He is in some respects a weak-minded man." " When I undertake responsibility I shall have to send the money through you." , " As you like, Cyril." " George, old man, you have been good to me. I wish I could do something to help you." " We both went wrong three years ago. Father is quite right. By keeping the thing a secret we have harmed our- selves. What would my college companions, and superior, say of me, I wonder, if they knew what I proposed next week. It seems a queer start for a clerical career." '' You have a lot of trouble, dear old man. Cannot I take back some of it ? " " I have lost the faculty of being bright lately. My mind has reached the disorderly condition which is to be expected at this time of life ; and my views are changing. For instance, I think no longer it is necessary that Lilian should know." THE TRANSLATION 397 " I am so glad to hear you say that," said Cyril warmly. " When one loses the joy of life, happiness appears so great, so very much the only thing which matters," George went on. "I would not see the shadow fall on Lilian, more especially now father knows he will arrange." " What makes him so anxious to help me ? " " Because of his kindly nature ; he is really fond of his fellow-creatures, though he cannot tolerate any form of weakness. He sees, I fancy, that his policy of non-inter- ference has been a fatal one ; and when he discovers a fault in himself you may be sure he will try his hardest to eradicate it, even if it means going to the very opposite extreme. There is also another motive which is, perhaps, strongest of all. Your confession was a call to me ; that he knows. When I saw you helpless, I saw others still more helpless, suffering under injustice, poverty, disease, oppression ; and I longed to help them. My spirit told me I could do it I must, I was meant for that. It was not a false call, Cyril. My only doubt was whether I could answer. Father believes that by helping you he is saving Burntbeer, that when every shred of evidence concerning Fley's death has been wiped out, I shall return, settle here, follow him " " Why not, George ? " " It is impossible now." " You have a secret." " I have two secrets ; both prevent me from returning here. I cannot tell you either. The first might make you flush with horror, the second might make me flush with shame." " But you must tell me. I have kept nothing from you ; I wish now I had, for your sake. You have done no wrong." " Only to myself. I cannot tell you, Cyril not yet. Burntbeer is dangerous ground to me now. You remember what it is like in summer, when the scarlet poppies are flaming on the scarlet earth ; and how I used to complain of headache. If I went through the summer now in the 398 WINTERING HAY old home the sight would make me mad. You must not pry into my affairs, dear Cyril," he went on tenderly. " When the time comes you shall know everything. Tell me about yourself. You seem to be going on well, and Lilian is very proud of you. You two have helped each other so much, you are one in soul ; Lilian suspected that years ago when she whispered to you and lost her shyness when you loved her. She put off her silence to become your echo." " When she put her spirit to mine I discovered a new thing in me," added Cyril. " It was inspiration. It is all clear between us. Just now she gave me her hand with her heart in it, and looked you know the way." " You will be strong, Cyril, for her sake ? You will stand up to father, and shake your fist at him if necessary ; that would please him. He threatens to hold Lilian back from you, not on account of the tragedy, but because he thinks he cannot trust her to you. Show him you fear nobody. When this affair has passed entirely, and the house is open to you, take possession of Lilian, claim her, soul and body, and let father know that neither he nor any man shall come between you and her. Then he will fight you with the intention of letting you win. As for me I shall do my part ; I have set one thing before me, and it is greater than my profession, or my religion it is my religion or anything in earth or heaven. It is to secure for you and Lilian perfect happiness." " It is near ; we almost have it," said Cyril. " But we shall never be satisfied until you have it too." " I must wait. Mine is a long way off ; I believe it will never come, but I am not made like you and Lilian. I can live without happiness, I can be satisfied with giving it. My little sister and you are helpless without it." " Happiness is the only element I can breathe in," said Cyril. "It is the only thing which makes me strong ; and I have it, given by you in the past, and by Lilian now. I am happy, for the good time is coming; I can feel it in the air. I shall be happy when I stand by my uncle's THE TRANSLATION 399 grave, when I get back to work, when I start the new life with my aunt and Eva. You have seen Eva ? " " I think of her as your sister," the other answered, when Cyril hesitated ; and would say nothing more, although Cyril pressed him for an opinion concerning Eva's hair, eyes, nose, and mouth, all of which the spirit of the moorland had breathed upon, beauty which he was proud of, borrowed from wind and mist, form and colour made by Nature in her wildest laboratory and strongest mood ; lent lavishly, not to be repaid. " My sister is the most beautiful girl in this part of the country," declared Cyril, like a conceited schoolboy ; but George could only murmur in reply, " Beauty is nothing nothing much. Faces of beauty are only yearly tenants." " For all that," Cyril murmured to himself, annoyed by thinking Eva had been scoffed at, " who would not rather live with my sister's face than with my friend's shoulders?" although those shoulders had saved, and were still protecting him ; although the face was only good to look at, and the shoulders had borne the dead weight of Blackerton's stone cross. .Not yet had Cyril rid himself of blunders. Left to himself, in that last necessary work of trans- lating those remains to the secret place prepared for them at Burntbeer, he might have sent away the servants, arousing suspicion in their minds, and might have toiled among the rocks by moonlight, making matter for country- folk to wonder at. Corindon's cold mind knew that the surest way of averting tongue-talk was to do things openly. More than a week went by before the weather settled down to ditch-filling ; then, on a Friday morning, local market-day when the trackway was likely to be left unused, the cart drew up with its pair of horses driven by Corindon, attired more shabbily than most labourers, and accompanied by George, looking more like a farmer's boy than usual. The master was in a merry mood, for something in the business appealed to his spirit of adven- ture ; loudly he called the housemaid: "Tell Mr. Ross- 400 WINTERING HAY ingall we are here for the stones. Ask him to come out. 'Tis easier to handle the rocks when they are wet/' " So it is," said Cyril, overhearing this speech. " But I should never have thought of it." He was white enough and shivering, being horribly afraid of the unforeseen happening while the grave was open to the world. The sight of him, in contrast to calm George, brought up Corindon's anger and made him say, " Look here, my lad, if you are going to gibber and shake like a churchyard ghost, I shall be tempted to fetch you a back-hander in the face and make your nose red. The servants have only to glance at you to be sure we are up to no decent work. Drink a stiff glass of brandy, get yourself half-drunk we are not here to study morality, but to defy the law and do a bit of body-snatching. Give me a glass as well. I want to sing over the work." " There is nothing but port wine," stammered Cyril. They emptied a bottle between them, George declining to drink ; then went out, chose the tools they would re- quire, reached the spot where the dead fir tree was being shaken by the wind ; Cyril himself cut it down the tree which was to grow and prosper with him while the others attacked the brambles, uncovered the place, rolled off the topmost stones, disturbing only beetles and wire- worms. The work became easy as they wanned up. They could be overlooked from the one side where the only living creatures were the Jolls. " You take the pick, and I'll use the shovel. George can keep cave," said Corindon, in a boyish manner. " It won't be deep ? " " Not more than four feet." " This stuff is loose. I'd rather shift it than my clay. Steady, Cyril 1 We have the whole day before us." " I must get it over." " Last time you dug here I reckon you sweated," laughed Corindon, wiping the rain off his eyebrows. " You didn't think three years later you would be sweating here again," THE TRANSLATION 401 " Can I help ? " asked George, advancing, suddenly agitated. " You keep your eyes on the wall. I'll give you a turn with the spade presently. Cyril can fetch out the big stones. He put 'em there, and 'tis only right he should do the hardest jobs." " Can't you make a circular hole ? It looks like a grave." " Well, we all know it is not a cucumber-bed." " If anybody should come " George faltered. " I should draw the visitor's attention to the coinci- dence that the hole we are digging is exactly in the form of a grave. We must take risks. I am not going to break up the ground which has not been disturbed this side of creation. There are too many rocks for one thing. We are going for the loose stuff and what's below. Cyril could not choose the shape of his hole, neither can we. He would make a good sexton, eh George ? He could say he had some experience." They worked on, taking turns with the spade ; but Cyril with the pick never ceased. " We are close," he gasped at last. " I think I touched " " Steady, George," muttered Corindon, who was then on guard. " A man ! " Without the slightest warning the white head of old Joll started up immediately above, its face all red and smiling, its tongue calling, " Good morning, gentlemen. You ha' been a long time, Mr. Rossingall, dree years you ha' been, but I knew you would come back one day. Fond o' digging you wur always, day or night, rain or sunshine ; I fancied you would ha' come to dig avore. Happy New Year to you, gentlemen, happy New Year to all. Tis bravish wet and windy weather sure enough, but you'm like me, I reckon ; you takes no notice of it." " Happy New Year to you, old man," called Corindon lightly. " Like to come along down and give us a hand ? " " I'll come as fast as I can," said Joll, who was getting childish, but still retained a fantastic memory. "I'll show ye I can use the pick, masters, aw, and the spade as 402 WINTERING HAY well " ; and the strange old head vanished from the wall. " Now put your back into it. How long will it take him to get round ? " " Ten minutes at his ordinary speed," gasped Cyril. " See to the cart, George. Get plenty of fern and stuff ready." " He knows all about it. He heard me that night," Cyril almost shrieked. " We must play it out. Laugh when he comes. Here it is ! Gently with the pick. Where's the crowbar ? Pick up those buttons stick 'em in your pocket." " Joll knows everything," Cyril kept on groaning. " It may be fancy. Here, George ! Give a hand at the other end. Never mind looking out now." " Betty may come," Cyril panted. " We must leave that to chance. The rain ought to stop her. This old man has kept his tongue quiet for three years if he does know, but the sight of this might be too much for him. There's a lot of difference between dreams and realities. Now we have it. Hurry up with that fern. Put the sacks on first." Joll came shuffling along excitedly he frequently entered Wintering Hay, believing that the house, which fancy assured him he had built and once owned, was still his home and discovered George sitting at the tail of the cart, Corindon wiping his face, and Cyril panting upon a rock. " Here I be, masters," he called gleefully. " Give me a digging-pick, and I'll ha' mun out on't." " Best leave the rocks alone, old man," said Corindon. " Bless ye, I don't want to touch they old stones. 'Tis the bones I be after ; the bones what wur put away wi' a man on 'em dree years ago." " They have gone," said Corindon quietly. " Gone long ago, my friend." " Be that right, sir ? " said Joll, turning a puzzled face to Cyril THE TRANSLATION 403 " It is right, Joll." " Your fancy is playing games with you," said Corindon. " I hated that man," muttered Joll. " I would ha' paid money to get him took. Dree years ago it wur, I fancy, and I lay in my bed, and I heard the pick ; and in the morning I looked down and saw the grave had been dug and a bravish hole tored in the wall." He tapped his head and frowned when no more came. " I took no notice of it," he went on. " I takes no notice now, but I takes an interest. What be you a-digging here vor, then ? " " Getting the rocks out," said Corindon. Old Joll went forward, his white head shaking, looked at the hole, grinned, then turning to the others said, " Masters, they'll dig the like o' that vor we one day. If I had told of this," he went on, still more slowly, " volks would ha' said, ' he'm old and vulish.' I never did take notice of things, and I won't now ; but I ses to you, I ses, you ain't brought the cart vor stones, and I ses you ha' lifted what wur put in here, and I ses 'tis lying now behind the gentleman what be sitting in the cart." Cyril would have started up had not Corindon frowned at him. The master of Burntbeer was laughing merrily as he approached and took Joll's arm. " That's right," he said. " It was an accident. The man dropped dead. His body had to be disposed of." " I knows young Mr. Rossingall," said the old man sharply. " He paid me rent ; t'other didn't. He would tell wi' me ; t'other cursed me. Put a little earth in thikky cart," he said with a cunning look. " Put a few stones atop not too many, masters, about a dozen of the flat ones, and then I'd be pleased if you would come up over and drink tea wi' me and Betty ; and I'll show ye the view over what I made, and I'll tell ye a tale of pixies aw, and I'll spare ye a look at my old tombstone. And my last word to ye all will be, I'll take no notice of it and God speed ye, masters," CHAPTER XXIII SATURN OF THE SCYTHE RISING SEVEN years later, on a cold day in June, too bitterly like English summer, Kit Coke waited beside the Taw River, less than a mile from Barnstaple town. The careless creature without a home wore the same rags, stood coated with the same dirt, and kept the old hymn to liquor on his lips ; still made himself remarkable by pinning fresh flowers to his rotten coat ; as of old was well pleased with his own peculiar nature. A book protruded from his pocket, a shilling volume entitled " The Birds of Devon," which he had stolen, or applied to himself, from the box of some second-hand bookseller. He was watching the gulls hovering and screaming above the mud-flats, for the tide was low, and slimy fields extended far, while he kept an eye upon the path from the town on the look out for a very different kind of bird likely, he knew, to flit that way. Not a bad-looking young girl, showily dressed, came along, and Kit put up his he,ad whistling profanely, not to the white birds, but to the one of many colours, who flitted along as if anxious to throw herself into the arms of this most appalling sweetheart. Certainly it was an assigna- tion ; the place of meeting a lonely path, much frequented by lovers, beside the > muddy river of Taw ; the man a horrible kind of naturalist ; his lady very young and overdressed. It was a meeting between rags and fine raiment, dirt and cleanliness ; every story of human nature would have been turned upside down had these two come together in a passion. There would be money in it, there 404 SATURN OF THE SCYTHE RISING 405 would be business, perhaps a conspiracy, and a talk of setting man- traps in the open. " How long did it take you to get those clothes on, my pretty ? " called Kit with some contempt, having the horror of an artist for mixed colours. " I would walk five miles while you made your curls lie as you want 'em. Consider the birds of the air, my dear," he said mockingly. " They waste no time before a looking-glass." " I'm not going to waste any time with you either," declared the girl, with the snappish air which showed she had a temper. "If I am seen with you I shall be talked about." " I won't keep you long. I have my reputation to think of as well," said the tramp in his easy way. " Now I have found you I am bound to have a little talk. Shall we sit down ? " " Not me. It is much too cold." " You dress yourself for June and it ain't June. If you were as wise as me you would wear the same togs always. Shall we walk, then, while I whisper sweet somethings into your ear ? " " All right," said the young lady sullenly. They went on for a little before Kit asked, " Are you going to be an obliging maiden and tell me what j'ou know ? " " Not me," she said again. " I'm not going to spoil my own game." " You want to shut my mouth. That's what you met me for. Let's have the truth, my beauty. It saves a lot of talking." "You can shout as much as you like. You know nothing." " Why have you come out to meet me ? " " To prevent you from coming to my lodgings ; to tell you this is no affair of yours. We are not going to be bothered with you," she said smartly. " You have got to put up with me while you live on my round," said the tramp. " I may be useful, or I may be a 406 WINTERING HAY terror, according to the information you like to give me. You have no particular love for your folks, I fancy. You hate the man you call father because he won't have you to live with him and has farmed you out." " I suppose you know his name ? " "And more about him than you do. I have been the old Dartmoor round again. I have visited country houses, and walked through grounds which the owners have been kind enough to lay out for me, picked their flowers, knocked down their birds, caught their rabbits, and when they wouldn't give me the right hand of fellow- ship I burnt their cornstacks. We gentry of the road don't put up with insults," he laughed. " Did you go to Wintering Hay ? " she asked. " I put up there for a night, next door to Joll. A bit draughty, a few fleas, but otherwise comfortable. I took a look round on the quiet. That hill of rocks has been cut back to the wall, and the ground is planted with trees and shrubs ; I went in there after dark and pulled a few up as a sort of hint to them that I don't approve of altera- tions. Young Rossingall has improved the property a lot. Have ye any notion why ? " " Look here, Kit, just say what you want to, and don't poke about with questions," she said angrily. " All right, I'll be straight enough," said the tramp more seriously. " You tell me I know nothing, but I have some brain, and it's good enough to tell me this : old Gideon and me were friends ; he was the only good friend what ever stuck to me ; we suited each other, we were meant to be mates. Ten years ago he disappeared, and the neighbours say he cleared out because Maria's tongue was a bit too hot for him. I know that's a lie, and I'll tell ye why. If he had cleared out he would have come to me, for he knew where to find me ; he could read my signs along the road, and if he had meant to leave the country he would have told me, and he would have taken me along or he would never have gone. Gideon was put away that night, and Maria didn't do it alone ; there must have SATURN OF THE SCYTHE RISING 407 been a man helping her. I have been all these years trying to find her, and to get the truth out, but she was a bit too slippery for me and I could never get my finger on her. I had to lie low, for me and the police ain't exactly on speaking terms, but I have kept my ears open and have used my eyes. The man who put Gideon away was that hump-backed young devil, Corindon." " Really/' said the girl, with a smile. " The Reverend George Corindon," said Kit, spitting virtuously. " That's why he shoved himself into the Church. He thought nobody would suspect a parson, not even if he had a hump as big as Satan's." " What was he doing at Wintering Hay ? And what was his motive ? " asked the girl. " Never mind the motive. He was visiting young Rossingall, of course. Them two have always been like brothers. Rossingall knows I reckon he helped; must have done if they put away Gideon in that waste ground. My belief is the body is buried there, deep down under one of the trees, and they cleared the ground of rocks so that they could put it in deeper. Did young Corindon ever come to see Maria while she worked at Blackerton ? " " How should I know ? " snapped the girl. " Shan't telling means yes," said Kit. " Why don't you speak up and make a good mate of me, my dear ? You and me could do some good for ourselves, and roll in clover for the rest of our natural lives." " A lot of good," she said scornfully. " Suppose it was proved Mr. Corindon did it " "Wouldn't he pay, my pretty? Wouldn't he ladle out the yellow-boys, my love ? " cried Kit excitedly. " He would pay any money we like to ask. You don't want to live on a few shillings a week for ever, I fancy ? " " He wouldn't pay if he was sent to prison." " God bless your innocence ! Don't get the idea into your head that I want him put in prison. Kit Coke in the 408 WINTERING HAY witness-box would be a bit too near the dock. Likely enough they would put the job on me. Oh, dear ! " he muttered quaintly. " Some of the police would cut off their hands to get me sentenced. No, no, my dear ! The law and me won't ever work together in bringing criminals to justice." " Then what are you making all this bother about ? " she asked crossly. " Don't you ever think of yourself ? Don't you worry about your blessed little body every hour of the day ? I'm a free gentleman, and 'I mean to stay like that to the end of my life and take my title from the road ; but a wandering duke wants money, he likes to put up in an hotel when Mrs. Green has only a damp bed to offer him ; he craves for his bottle ; he don't always want to refuse a shirt. I've been looking for work all my life, but I have never found it, and I'll be damned before I do find it. I'm getting oldish, and rheumatism begins to pinch me. I'll never leave the road till I fall dead on it, but I want money to pay for my night's lodging and to get me plenty of strong ale ; and the Reverend Mr. Corindon has the money, and young Rossingall has money ; and between the two of them I'll support my title." " Oh, I see now what you are after. You don't care a hang about your friend. It's not revenge you want. You just mean to make yourself jolly comforta.ble," said the girl disdainfully. " Ain't I a human being ? " said Kit angrily. " Ain't it my duty to get all I can. You can't help a dead man ; but you can do a lot of good for your living body. You, my dear, can have your glass and fine clothes ; I'll have my glass and a free life, untroubled by financial difficulties," he added grandly. " If I had money in my trousers well, it would fall out. If I had it, and it wouldn't fall out, I'd get me to London church-town and pay a little call in Bethnal Green." " Why Bethnal Green ? " she asked quickly. " That's where Maria lives." SATURN OF THE SCYTHE RISING 409 " How do you know ? " " You have told me a lot, I reckon," said Kit derisively, and walked on as if he had nothing more to say. " You can't get to her anyhow," said the young lady in a satisfied manner. " You haven't got the pluck to inform the police. You can't do anything " ; and then seeing some fishermen approaching, she swung round and made her way back into the town. Kit also went in that direction, his student's mind perplexed by ways and means. His pockets were his bank, and they were broken in every sense. Life was getting on with him, sluggishness increased, and the con- tinual necessity for harvesting a small crop of coins grew irksome. He was a gentleman, no beggar ; the equal of those who idled with rod or gun, and slumbered studiously in libraries ; no partner of the wayside vagabond who chewed soap and feigned fits ; yet the gentleman tem- porarily embarrassed might with advantage study mimicry. Kit despised such simplicity with all his soul, but vulgar tricks seemed necessary; therefore, before entering the town he converted his neckerchief into an arm-sling and with the good right limb disabled limped through the quiet streets droning a hymn and sometimes calling, " Have pity on an old soldier abandoned by his country," gathering up the coppers which tumbled about his feet, muttering like Puck, " What fools these mortals be," until he had sufficient money for his purpose, and could stay no longer because he had a train to catch on business. He could very well have tramped to Ilfracombe, since he preferred that method and it was not his way to hurry, but his mind was troubled by the young lady's speech and manner. Kit had some skill in physiognomy, and his reading of her countenance suggested the girl was at work upon some plan of her own ; she was indeed intending to do herself some good, and might possibly anticipate him and reap the crop he had an eye to. Silence could not possibly benefit herself, and as she refused to work with 410 WINTERING HAY an honest man and share the profits, it followed that she meant to work deceitfully alone and share with nobody. Therefore Kit hastened to Ilfracombe, where the only other being likely to be of service dwelt and could be found like a mollusc on the rock. Every day, when fine enough, an old man seated himself on the promenade between cliff and sea, always dressed in the rusty black of respectability, often carrying a large volume of somebody's sermons, on the first day of the week invariably a Bible, displaying on that day much skill in unfurling an umbrella, and during the week clutching a somewhat secular walking-stick. It was not easy to tell whether this was a falling-off, a climbing-upward, or merely a molluscan clinging-on. Real Mutter nature was bound to come out during the idleness of old age, and Captain Elias was, after his own fashion, treading in his brother's footsteps. Having nothing to do with his life he decided to fasten it to one of the numerous rocks of religion scattered about him, and after much deliberation had attached it to the gray sandstone of Methodism, hovering still between the two extremes of that and the granite of Roman Catholicism, with a not unfriendly eye upon the rigid pebble known as Plymouth Brethren ; but Methodism could not minister to a mind diseased, and Elias was more than ever terrified by the phenomenon of electricity dis- charged against him liberally by men of any sect or none. " Another dynamo/' he growled as Kit came up, know- ing almost to an inch where to find his shell-fish. " And a dirty one ; but he don't buzz as bad as some." In these days Elias was a deacon, one to whom mysteries were entrusted, while many a man whose far superior cloth was dyed with a black much fresher felt no shame in saluting him with the title Brother. It was therefore hardly holy to be seen with a gentleman of the road who in other times, perhaps wiser, would have been turned off at Tyburn with a bouquet at his breast and a halter round his neck. If there was to be an interview it must be over SATURN OF THE SCYTHE RISING 411 quickly ; the fact that one was possible seemed to show that the Captain's hold upon his rock was none too clinging. The new habit suited Sundays, but made weekday even- ings duller ; it discouraged visits to the pier- side tavern ; it set a ban upon the talk of sea captains. It stitched up one rent and made the others wider. Elias comforted him- self with the belief that he would certainly drink again in public some day ; and it was precisely that thought which made the company of Kit endurable. " I have got hold of the other one I told you about/' said the tramp. " She won't speak, but I watched her while I was talking, and 'tis clear that Gideon was put away by young Corindon, who is a parson in London, and your nephew must have helped him, Captain, and they hid the body in the garden of Wintering Hay." " Bother 'em all," said Elias, since language more con- venient was at that stage of his career not lawful. " But that's a lie," he went on, rubbing his ears. " Young Corindon ! Pooh, pish, damn it ! A stupid idea that's what the last word meant. My brother did it, and now he's dead, and I'm praying for him." " This ain't guesswork. I know young Corindon did it, and young Rossingall helped him," said Kit. " What are you going to do, Captain ? You are a religious man, and you can't sit still and do nothing. It's your duty to bring the wicked man to justice." " I'm afraid of 'em," muttered Elias. " When I go near them they begin to buzz, and if I touch 'em sparks fly out. Cyril is the worst of the lot now, and when I saw him last year he put the electricity on me and sent it right down into my boots. He keeps a big electric battery, and it stuns anybody who goes near him." " 'Tis just a fancy you have got," said Kit, confident that Elias knew almost as much as the young woman he had lately been with. " Do your duty, Captain. Get rid of your nephew, and you can go back to Wintering Hay and be master again. Your nephew is the accomplice of a murderer," he said impressively. 412 WINTERING HAY " Andrew did it," repeated the distressed Captain. " The boy may have helped him, may have dug the hole. Yes, that's it that's inspiration, revelation, what I preach about. Andrew could never have done the digging, and that's the reason why he wanted to get rid of the boy, why he tried to send him to the Arctic Ocean. I remember, but I couldn't do anything because he blinded me with the electricity. I can't be seen talking with you ; I'm a deacon. I don't swear much now, and I drink water at my meals, except Saturdays. I drink whisky on Saturdays. It's a good old custom." " I want you to do something for me. My hand is stiff and I can't squeeze it round a pen. Will you write some letters for me ? " asked Kit in a bullying fashion, knowing that before the Captain would serve he must be made to fear him. " That would be forgery, and I'm a pillar of the Church. I lead in praying, I save people." " Honest letters with my name to them," said Kit. " I should get among a fresh lot of dynamos. They would strike me blind." " Go back to your lodgings and I'll follow you," the tramp ordered. " Tell your landlady I'm a poor old soldier looking for religion, and you're going to save me " ; and he put out his hand to move the mollusc in his eagerness to get the work accomplished. " Don't touch me," cried Elias. " You would burn me to a cinder. I feel it now right down to the bottom of my boots." " I'll keep fifty yards behind you," Kit promised. " I won't speak till we get under cover. You have got to help me, Captain. If you refuse I'll go off to Wintering Hay and raise the devil," he declared with Pistol-like bullying which meant nothing, though it succeeded in frightening the Captain, who made off with extraordinary speed, shout- ing that all the dynamos in creation were in full working order and there would certainly be a fearful thunder- storm before night. His eccentricity was well known. SATURN OF THE SCYTHE RISING 413 Folk merely smiled as he hastened towards his lodging with Kit panting in his rear. The tramp showed no mercy. Having a weak mind in his power he made full use of it, compelled Elias to write for him three letters, one to Maria and another to George, stating that the truth concerning the disappearance of Gideon Fley was out, and the writer was prepared in return for financial assistance to keep his mouth shut ; and upon refusal or inability to come to terms, it would be necessary, for the sake of public morality, to supply information to the police. No mask was held over the ugly face of black- mail. Kit was out for what he could get, and had no deli- cacy in stating that a post office annuity would be the only gag to silence him. The third, and anonymous, letter was to be held in reserve until George answered ; if satisfactory it would not be posted, but if impertinent the Inspector of Police would presently be placed in possession of the story. " Lend me a shilling for postage-stamps," Kit demanded ; but at the mention of money, which was none too plentiful, Elias turned and asserted what was left to him of man- hood. " Go and work for it. I'll do no more. Religion and a sense of duty have to end somewhere. There will be a buzzing in my ears whenever I think of these letters," and he grabbed at them, but Kit pushed his hand aside, went out to the post office, and Elias saw him no more ; for the tramp made it his object to approach the scene of action. The answers to those letters were to be directed to a certain village within a dozen miles of Wintering Hay, and the day when they would be called for was clearly mentioned. When Kit had departed from his presence Elias swore an oath that he would have no more to do with ungodly persons, declared he would resign Methodism were it not for steam and electricity, almost decided to call upon the Roman Catholic priest and express a fervent desire for one more baptism it seemed either that or the tavern finally took up the first book handy and squatted down, hoping 414 WINTERING HAY a little secular instruction might bring him peace. The book was his nephew's latest production, entitled, " Studies of Nature in Green and Red," and had been sent as a little token of remembrance more than a week ago, but had not been opened by the Captain because its contents were sure to be conductors of electricity which would con- vert his brain, mind, soul, and body into a group of in- candescent lamps. However, that evening Elias was reckless, and with a shout of " Let the sparks fly," he opened the book, and straightway had his wish ; for lying upon the title page was a letter the sight of which made him jump, and the reading of which did indeed cause a current to pass through him, provoked neither by the steam-power which he hated nor by the dynamos of his disordered fancy, but by a good healthy thrill of human nature. Elias ran about the room like a mad rabbit, danced like a partridge, hopped like a frog ; squeaked, cried, croaked and cackled, having become in those days an irresponsible individual ; at last sitting tailor-fashion upon the hearthrug and speaking aloud : " I'll stop this buzzing ; I will put an end to it to- morrow. The old madman at Blue Violet brought it on, Andrew made it worse, Cyril fetched the sparks out. Re- ligion don't cure it, drinking don't cure it, writing letters won't cure it ; going home will. I won't write ; I'll go as I did before and surprise 'em. I must go home and stop the man from making trouble. I wish I hadn't written those letters, but the only way to get rid of a man is to do what he wants. They do what they like with me, all of 'em. They treat me as if I was an india-rubber doll, and they stick pins into my stomach, and the electric currents come fizzing out and the fumes rise up all round me. I've got a choking sensation now. I'll go home, and if anybody after this smacks me on the eyes with a dynamo, I'll hit back with a sledge-hammer." All this outburst was caused by the week-old letter, in which Cyril stated his marriage had been fixed for next month ; it was then his intention to leave Wintering Hay, SATURN OF THE SCYTHE RISING 415 and his aunt desired her brother-in-law, whose character had altered so much for the better, to return under certain conditions and to take the writer's place. One may suppose that a limpet, if suddenly provided with those appendages or organs which make for motion, would atone for its life's inaction by a swift migration. Elias certainly made up for his seven years' clinging to a rock by detaching himself violently, shouting a farewell to the religion which had helped to fill his time, stuffing with perishable goods the carpet-bag which seemed made for eternity there was either no room for the volumes of sermons, or they were forgotten proceeding at the first light towards the station, and entrusting his body to the steam-engine which he dreaded. Without any phenomenal display of sparks he landed in the country of his boyhood, passed the window where Sharley sat no longer regardant, for the lady of ever-widening circumference was a widow, reached the roadway made in dreamland by old Joll, and entered Wintering Hay, which was still silent but other- wise all changed, for the garden then deserved that name, the house was fresh with flowers and dainty curtains, and all the brambles had been cleared away. At the same time, Kit, tramping in a southerly direction, was revelling in the flora of Exmoor, making notes upon the flight of birds, and thoroughly enjoying the tenancy of earth which Nature gave him without rent, and tingling with honest joy at the prospect of an annuity sufficient to remove all those petty vexations which inevitably surround the life of poet and artist and hinder the develop- ment of talent. The rascal was mean in his ambitions, asking for three things only : shelter in foul weather, enough tobacco, and rather more than one man's share of ale. With an unfailing supply of money, he would yet continue poaching, because he loved the fife and had the sporting instinct. At that time also the young lady of Barnstaple, attracted by a notice in the local paper, was planning an existence altogether different ; an idle life of dressing, light reading, 416 WINTERING HAY being amused and made love to. Her ambitions were no higher than Kit's, but then, unlike him, she had no mind, and Flora with her was merely a girl's name. All that she desired seemed well within her grasp, only it would be necessary to act at once. That announcement in the paper, sandwiched between her discovery by Kit and that same rogue's threat of immediate action now that he had dis- covered, as he thought, the truth, told the young woman she must play her game at once. She was seventeen ; quite old enough to take her part in life. " Cyril is out with George Corindon and Eva," said Caroline. " We were afraid something had happened, Elias, as you did not write. Cyril is to be married next month, but he does not seem so happy as he ought to be. He has got on so well, writes such clever books ; but there is no religion in them none whatever." " I am religious now. I have taken it up quite seriously, ' ' blurted out the Captain, his head a trifle unsteady with the change of scene. " I judged that by your letters. It gives me great happi- ness," said Caroline, who had become far more broad- minded since her husband's death. She was surrounded with the same books and some of the sermons bequeathed to her soul ; but there were other volumes with worldly titles, and pieces of music not used in churches, and there was much more light in the room than formerly. " I treated you badly," went on the Captain, not without dismay at the prospect of changing his religion again and consigning to memory the clauses of another creed. " When I came first time I was a rough fellow, out of sorts because I couldn't find anchorage ; and the second time, when I drifted over from Blue Violet, I had trouble with my head. I used you badly, Caroline, and I'm sorry for it now." " I knew you were not altogether to blame for all your wickedness," she answered. " How are you now, Elias ? " " I am strong/ 1 said the Captain doubtfully. " But I SATURN OF THE SCYTHE RISING 417 get worried terribly by the electricity. I don't feel it with you, Caroline ; you haven't got a dynamo in your pocket like most of 'em. I get along all right except when some- body makes the sparks fly, or I have the bad luck to see a boiling kettle. I can't stand kettles. I'm a reformed character, I've been saved several times, and I don't drink whisky except on Saturdays. I always drink it on Saturdays. I shall keep up that custom." " I hope we shall get on. We can at least try," said Caroline. " I feel I cannot remain here without a man in the house. Cyril will not be far away. He is building a house upon Middle Thirty." " That's where he had a garden," exclaimed Elias. " Now he is going to live there. Both he and Lilian were very anxious to build a house upon the mountain- side, and they induced Mrs. Sharley to sell them the land. I cannot think why they should want to go out of the world, but they talk about green paths, and atmosphere, and goodness knows what else. I fear Lilian is almost as much a heathen as he is, and they are trying to make Eva as bad as themselves." " I want to see Eva she was gentle with me," said Elias, enjoying peace at last. " She is getting on. She will be thirty now." " A year older than Cyril and George Corindon," mur- mured Caroline. " I may lose her too. She says not, but I feel sure it will come. George Corindon is certainly in love with her, but she declares she will not marry, and perhaps she is right. I cannot understand how she could have been so wicked, and I try to believe her nature was always just as it is now." It was so, Caroline, whose hands were resting on the faded folios of her husband's sermons. Eva's nature had not altered, but kindness and mercy had been given to her, love had been offered, together with a good home and the assurance that she was needed. Eva had accepted these gifts gratefully, but they had not changed her nature. They had drawn her to the life which she would 2 418 WINTERING HAY have chosen had the dead Andrew in his lifetime not with- held it from her. " There was another girl," said Elias, after labouring with his memory. " What news do you hear of her ? " " Cyril and Eva have done all they can to trace her, but have failed. Alice never writes." It was the best, and perhaps the kindest, epitaph upon Cyril's elder sister : Alice never wrote. " Until Cyril goes you will have to occupy the small room at the top of the house," Caroline went on. " You will not mind that. I am sure this will be a good plan, Elias. Your living away from here in lodgings is a needless expense, and if we can get along together " " I won't read Andrew's sermons," broke in the Cap- tain. " I will pray with you I shall enjoy it but you must keep him out. He was my brother, and he hated me." " He had good reason," she said sharply. * " We mustn't have words. If we begin to quarrel I shall see the sparks None of Andrew's sermons, Caroline. Nothing of him. It makes me hot to think of him. I must go and bathe my head " ; and the Captain went off wfch his bag to the top of the house, looked over the new garden, and cursed the memory of his brother who " ruined everybody who came into contact with him " ; while Caroline wept a little by herself, wondered why hers was the only devotion given to the departed samt, but had to perceive that if the new alliance was to succeed his name must not be mentioned. Unfortunately Elias was aroused again, and the sight of Cyril made his humour worse. Caroline did not upset him, so long as she avoided reference to Andrew ; Eva always soothed, but his nephew was one of those unpleasant persons " with a dynamo." His handshake caused the fumes to rise, provoked the idea that he was able to exer- cise an unnatural influence by means of some mysterious instrument, and flashed before the Captain's eyes a full- length portrait of Kit Coke. The malady which Elias SATURN OF THE SCYTHE RISING 419 suffered from made him inconsistent in all his dealings ; a mind stronger than his own took possession of him entirely. It was his plan to warn Cyril, but had the tramp appeared suddenly he would have been forced to aid the man whom he feared the most. Still silence was with him impossible. Although various electrical and musical instruments were buzzing and thrumming about his ears, he had to take the first opportunity of drawing Cyril's attention to an impending tempest ; and this was given him by an invitation to climb upon Thirty and view the little house of red stone which was then being roofed. It was on the way, in the very trackway where Fley had fallen, beside the brambles which his body had crashed into, that Elias, thrilled to the soles of his boots, made a full confession of the letters, of Kit's story, of the tramp's nearness on his journey of self-help ; and having done so he suddenly took fright having seen the expression in Cyril's eyes and scampered downhill in the most cowardly fashion, declaring that another confounded kettle was about to boil over. Cyril did not follow. He went upon the Shelf, stood beside the wall, and looked down upon the peaceful garden he had made. There was nothing to suggest the ugly face of tragedy. That ground could be dug and dug again, and not yield up the slightest scrap of evidence. He looked round and beheld his own small house smiling from the middle heights of Thirty, the place where he was to learn of love, where he was to find the perfect life, and reach at last the beauty of full happiness ; and in his ears were the Captain's words, " Kit Coke says he knows Gideon was killed ; he knows the body was buried in Wintering Hay ; he knows George Corindon did it and you helped him." " I have always thought that these last seven years have been too prosperous," he said at last. " There is a danger is too much good fortune. Nature strokes before she strikes. I have not been able to do anything wrong ; I seem to have made no mistake at all ; the 420 WINTERING HAY seven years have gone by like seven months, and have not brought up the smallest dark cloud of trouble. I thought it might be Lilian's influence. It might have been my share of life, my portion of happiness now CHAPTER XXIV CREATURES OF REVOLT GEORGE was at home three weeks before Lilian's wedding, to take care of his sister, and to ward disasters from his friend, having previously resigned the London curacy he had held during the past five years. He was tired of it ; he could not see with his vicar and brother clergy ; his earlier efforts to secure the chaplaincy of some prison met with no success ; recently the offer of a small country living had been declined ; and now he was idle, praying to remain so until his brother and sister were safely on their path, secure from evil fortune. Corindon, shrewd as ever, bending somewhat now and losing strength, watched his son, noticed his disinclination to apply for another curacy, but never referred to the subject, and did all he could to interest George in Burnt- beer and the red acres which could be his for the word. " Put off that coat and collar for to-day, and help me with some fencing," he said ; and on another occasion, " The work is getting too much for me, George ; I have to go indoors early and leave the day's task unfinished. I must go on, for there is no one to manage in my absence." Then George awoke and helped his father, finding the work by no means uncongenial when rewarded by the touch of a kindly hand, which was beginning to tremble, and such simple words as " Thank you, my boy. I wish I had another son as good as you." True to his promise, claimed by Corindon on the eve of the great event which preceded the fortunate period, Cyril went to make known the Captain's story. He would 421 422 WINTERING HAY have gone in any case to visit Lilian, and George had come over in the morning in order that he might walk back with his friend after spending at Wintering Hay a few hours which human weakness made enjoyable. They started when it was still early in the evening, and during the first mile had little to say if much to think on. They waited until the bridge of confessions was reached ; and here George stopped, leaned against the parapet, looked down upon the river, now a trickling stream, and said, " This is our place of memories. I will speak to you here." Cyril came up and stood beside him. During the past seven years he and George had seen little of each other ; they had not even corresponded with any regularity, and had exchanged no confidence ; but George had become mysterious to Cyril. Two very different moulds had turned out these young men : one fair, with figure and com- plexion almost feminine ; the other dark, deformed, and saturnine, nearly a foot shorter than his friend ; but had any leader passed, seeking a disciple, one who could hold a standard, fight against odds, remaining faithful to the end, his " Follow me " would not have been addressed to the one who was fair. " Let me have it," said George, in the rough manner which showed that he was moved. " Do you intend to break your silence ? " asked Cyril, in a low voice. "Are you going to tell me what is in your mind ? Our friendship must be weakening when you hide things from me." " I told you of two matters which I must keep to myself." " One I have guessed. The other " " Waits until you marry Lilian. I have sworn an oath not to speak until the knowledge cannot harm either you or her. We are the same friends, but I am not the same man. I resolved to speak out to-day, to make my con- fession upon this bridge where I heard yours. I came to Wintering Hay for the purpose, knowing you would walk back with me. Now your uncle has come and brought this cursed tempest up again. You went out with him CREATURES OF REVOLT 423 the new Cyril, my brother, Lilian's hushand as you shall be. You came back the old Cyril, haunted and frightened." " Remember my promise to tell your father first." " He must be second to-day. Tell me." Cyril did so, and when he had finished George looked up with a smile unlike him. " Once this tramp mentioned to your uncle a certain other person. Did he refer to that person now ? " " I am not sure. I will ask him presently. I cannot think of any other person. If you know " " Then to-morrow I may receive a blackmailing letter in your uncle's handwriting," George broke in, using the same rough voice. 11 Be easy with the poor old fellow. He cannot help being ridden on." " There is nothing to forgive. So the tramp believes I killed Fley without a motive and with your assistance. The clearing and levelling of that bank seems to have given him a hint of the truth ; but it was wise to remove all evidence, for there is a danger behind, there is a great danger. I shall see the man and get from him what I want to know. Alone he can make things uncomfortable, but not dangerous." " I can put him in prison for robbing me, and I will. He shall not blackmail any of us," said Cyril hotly. " Leave him alone. The police, I fancy, take little notice of anonymous letters, knowing only blackguards are ashamed to sign their names ; but if they should make an inquiry it can easily be shown I did not leave Burntbeer that Christmas night, while Maria would repeat the lie, now justifiable, I think, and best for all, namely, that Fley departed that night and never reappeared. There it would end, so far as Coke is concerned. He, of course, thinks only of himself and how he can extort money for his drunken sprees. He expects to receive a letter from a frightened man ; instead of that he will listen to threats of penal servitude from an innocent man in person. You need not fear this barking dog who dares not bite." 424 WINTERING HAY " Why has he waited so long ? Why did he not black- mail us years ago ? " " You will discover the reason soon when you and Lilian are married." " I wish you would be more straightforward," said Cyril irritably. " I know your nature too well. What others might call a petty vexation is with you a crushing calamity. All your molehills are mountains. I have held my tongue these years, watching you, working towards the one end of happiness for yourself and Lilian, and I will not be beaten at the end because of hasty speech. You give way too easily ; you are too fearful, too superstitious. You will not act if the wind blows in the wrong direction. You laugh if you break a mirror, yet you will not walk through a fairy circle lest you may offend some power of Nature. You see I am preaching again my last sermon, perhaps. Wait until the cart passes." Weeds in flower along the road told of little traffic, but then a waggon loaded with faggots came down the hill, rumbled across the bridge, its driver saluting the gentlemen with a bright good day, and crawled out of sight between the hedges. " Go on," said Cyril. " Or shall I speak ? " " About Eva ? " " You cannot close yourself up altogether. You may be dark and mysterious, but in the story of love all faces are open books. Well, George ? " " This is the first part of my confession, and the hardest somehow, although you know. Eva is the sister of my dear friend and brother. She is also herself." " You made up your mind to love, before you saw her." " I told myself I must not love her ; and that weak creatures as we are helped me to love her more." " We stand here to speak the truth. For the sake of our happiness, let us scatter every doubt and leave no question unanswered. Let us expose' ourselves entirely," CREATURES OF REVOLT 425 said Cyril with great earnestness. " I do not know why, loving Eva, you have kept until lately from Wintering Hay ; I do not know why you come so often now ; but I do know this, old George, you cannot hope to marry her.'* " Who told you ? " cried George, with his face trans- formed. " Do you intend to speak to Eva ? " " I do not." " Then I need not explain." " You think there is an impediment. Is it on my side or hers ? " " On hers. She would be compelled to refuse you." George became calm again ; and, turning from his friend, rested his eyes upon the rushes and green pools, asking presently, " Has she a husband living ? " " She has not been married. Why doj you ask if you do not mean to tell her what she knows already? And if you do love her, what is your object hi remaining silent ? " " You will know on the day of great confession, three weeks hence God grant it is not forced out sooner. What is the impediment ? No do not tell me. I have no right to ask. Ah, Cyril, what fools we are in our first flush of youth. How easily we make a small slip which breaks the whole life in us ! We have been friends through all, nothing will ever break our friendship ; but I know and I feel its nearness now I know there is a peril, a great peril, of you and I giving way utterly, being broken, and going headlong together to the devil." I have heard nothing like this before, thought Cyril, unable to banish the picture, which seemed grotesque rather than terrible, of himself playing the part of Adolph Carr and George following on the twift descent. " Since you will not speak plainly, we will have no more of it until the time comes when you feel free," he went on. " Lilian shall be happy," said George savagely. " God dares not throw great sacrifices on the rubbish-heap of 426 WINTERING HAY failure. Out of my own soul and body I will make happi- ness for you and for my sister ; and then when you have it you blessed two I can take the way I choose." " Have you anything more to say, George ? " " Why, I have not begun. Now you shall hear my confession as I heard yours, standing here in the dark, surrounded by a world of mud and water. The call which came to me here ten years ago was false. It proceeded not from my soul, but from my sympathy. I longed to go out as a helper of others, but I took the wrong way; selfishness has since then entered, and the call has changed. Once I thought it the voice of God, but I was wrong. Now I hear without any doubt the clear call of my father. Corindon blood has conquered me, Corindon red earth is too strong for me ; I am held by the traditions of my family. A boy may jeer at heredity, but when he grows into a man the force of it rises up around him making a fog he cannot see through. I am, like my father, and like his soil, an agnostic." So the master of Burntbeer has won that battle. His policy of non-interference has at least saved his home, thought Cyril, to whom this was no bad news, for he knew how Lilian shivered at the idea of her garden going from the family. To his friend he said, " Are we not all agnos- tics, even those who are most faithful and jealous of their creed ? It is certain that causes are beyond our knowledge. We cannot see the distant horizon when it is dark, but religion declares the darkness is not there. " I have done my lying duty as well as I could, and through it all I heard the call of Burntbeer. It seemed to be saying, ' You are not Parson Corindon ; you are Farmer Corindon ; your place is with the wheat.' I returned home and saw my father, breaking up gradually, working single-handed, oppressed by the knowledge that when he died the place would pass to strangers, yet always kind, never looking at me reproachfully. Only this morning he said, ' Can you stay with me for the hay ? I can get up as early as L ever,^but I can't last through the day.' I told CREATURES OF REVOLT 427 him I would stay, with tears in my eyes, for the old man has been so good, as fierce as a lion in protecting us, while giving all he had to make us happy." " Have you told him ? " asked Cyril. " Not yet. The new life begins three weeks hence. I am determined to finish the work of my life by reading the service at your wedding, and then I take the legal steps necessary to make me once more a layman ; and I put on the truthful clothes of a farmer, and come back to the Corindons whose destiny is bound up with earth and harvest." " Nature is the only true call," declared Cyril. " If you resist it you become artificial. It is only by giving way that you find happiness." " Do you mean that ? " said George, listening as of old for the superior wisdom of his friend. " When you love it is folly to fight, since you are de- feated already. By giving way you make yourself happy." " If you have no right to give way ? We gave way in our boyhood, but it has not led towards happiness." " I am winning ; I have Lilian ; I have kept my good character. Resistance would have meant far greater misery. If you have no right to love, I still say love. So does the Nature hi you and outside. Our selfish happiness is after all the only thing which matters. Love may be only an incident hi life, but it is so much the greatest incident, and its influence upon ourselves is so enormous, that I would tell myself, or say to anyone, ' Take it. Give way to the best.' Is it because you propose to leave the Church that you will not speak to Eva ? " " That is not my reason," said George in a low voice ; and clasping Cyril's arm with both his hands went on, " Can you, out of the Nature which you have studied closely and so well, take upon yourself the responsibility of declaring that a man may without sin take what his whole soul desires, take what is clearly best for him, even if there seems a law forbidding him, and by the act he may bring injustice to another ? Think before you answer, 428 WINTERING HAY for this is a matter which for all we know may reach far in eternity." " Shall I answer the question three weeks hence ? " said Cyril weakly. " Answer now." " I cannot change my views. It is no sin to take what is best, even if by so doing you deprive another. That is Nature's teaching. We must be selfish, and the man who is not so suffers most." "That is true. If I accept a part, I must take the whole. I will follow you." They went on to Burntbeer. Now it was clear that George had reached the point of recklessness, and would advance in future like an elephant crashing its way through undergrowth. He had lost the rudder of religion, was adrift on a stormy sea, and there might be many a buffet before he could reach the haven where he and all the world would be that gentle harbour where the storm could not reach, with its little temple of love among the trees. When Corindon received the information he treated it lightly, but frowned, although like Cyril he knew only a part of the story, and the real danger was written before the eyes of George alone. He frowned because of his connection with the earth, having long ago been forced to recognise periods of good or evil fortune, a succession of fine or stormy seasons, a run of Nature for the wheat- field and a run against. Cyril's seven years' prosperity made the master fearful. Fortune had been too kind, and even the young man's errors had, by the conjuring of the goddess, been turned to good account, so that had he thrown his ring into the river it might have been re- stored to him during a meal of trout. It appeared as if these golden days were running out, and the tramp in activity might be a herald of the darkest period of them all. "Be very careful in your dealings with this man," he said. " Refuse his terms, and threaten him sufficiently. Show him that you propose to act in self-defence without vindictive feeling. He loves his liberty more than most, CREATURES OF REVOLT 429 and will do nothing to jeopardise that. For my part, if I caught him setting a lighted match to one of my barns, I should let him go. As long as he is free he cannot hurt you ; but deprive him of liberty, and he will use his tongue, knowing he has then nothing to lose. Many a man has put himself in prison by trying to get another sent there." The next morning George received the expected letter, forwarded from his London lodging, and as this was the day when Kit would be calling for the answer, he set out on horseback, having first written to Maria, bidding her take no notice of the threat, reached the village before noon, put up his animal at the inn, then made to the post office to inquire if any man had called that day for letters. The business of the mails was transacted in the usual general-shop, into which the postmistress was summoned from back premises by a bell- jangling provoked by the opening of the door. She answered in the negative, and George went on : " A tramp is likely to call presently. I will ask you not to mention I have been." The woman promised, greatly excited, much impressed also by the fact that the visitor was a clergyman ; and regardless of business rushed out by the back way to in- form the village that at last a matter of mystery had been sent them. Heads soon appeared at the windows, bodies at doors, all presenting eyes at George, who, more amused than angry at the stir he made, crossed the road, and, with the permission of the tenant of a cottage opposite, secreted himself behind a cob wall, where, through a convenient hole, he could watch the door of the general store. Kit was certain to arrive in his own good time, while the fact that doors and windows were occupied with bodies and heads would not make him take to his heels, because his presence as a stranger in the village street would by itself justify all who were not bedridden in turning out to stare. George had a long wait, but the tenant of the cottage proved most hospitable, bringing out cider which was accepted* and asking many crafty questions which re- 430 WINTERING HAY ceived no answer. She herself hated all tramps, and would be glad to see the country cleared of such vermin. The man was wanted for theft probably ; he had broken into some church and cleared the poor-box of its halfpence. Possibly, and better still, for murder (she herself had known tramps who and here followed many anecdotes), and the gentleman was not a clergyman at all, but a police- officer in ecclesiastical disguise. The woman in her own way realised that such a lonely village was only to be dis- covered by some crime. Hard upon, three o'clock came Kit, swinging alone in tune with the universe, wearing a magpie's feather in his cap, and garnished with the usual assortment of wild flowers from the waist upward ; and being in the sprightliest mood he hailed the heads, asked after the health of every- body, and gave good weather to them all. To the landlord of the inn he called, " A drink will do me good. I'll be with you presently, mate." Outside one cottage garden he stopped to beg a rose. Nobody knew him, as that place was well away from his usual round. He reached the little general-shop, squared his shoulders, and set the bell jangling by walking in. " Nice day, my dear. Good for gardens and gentle walking exercise," he cried to the nervous postmistress. " There should be a letter or two waiting here for Chris- topher Coke, Esquire." " There ain't anything," she gasped at once. " How do you know without looking ? In these demo- cratic days it is possible the letters might be addressed to Mr. K. Coke," said the tramp, still hilariously but with some misgiving. " There ain't nothing for nobody," the woman replied, and Kit was silenced by her wealth of negative. Her manner also seemed ominous, and outside people were gathering, darkening the window, closing round the door, as if preparing to give him an unkind reception. " What is the name of this place ? " he asked. " Chillingford," came the answer. CREATURES OF REVOLT 431 " My mistake. Sorry to have troubled you, my dear. I have come to the wrong village," said the ready rogue ; then went, blowing out his cheeks, staring about defiantly, and wondering which of his little accidents had been dis- covered. A wonderful silence had settled upon the place. All the old men and women were beside the shop, filling the street, dumb and staring, waiting for the dramatic moment which, when it did arrive, quite failed to thrill them. George, while proceeding from his place of shelter, thought less of the matter which had brought him there than of the penalty of living in a place where no act passed unnoticed and a deed most commonplace would be invested at once with the dignity of tragic drama. Kit, who had never seen George, hoping him to be the incumbent, hastened on, but a hand touched him, some women in front prevented him from running, and a voice suggested, " Your name is Kit Coke." r " An old soldier, sir," said the tramp at once. " De- serted by the country and looking for work. Can you tell me, sir, if there is any work about here ? " " Come with me," said George quietly ; and they went on, while the disappointed people, realising that the dramatic moment was already over, fell back and grumbled, although the wisest were satisfied they had with their own eyes witnessed the arrest of a dangerous criminal, and the newspapers would surely tell them more. " You know who I am ? " said George when they were out of hearing. " I reckon you are Mr. Corindon. I did not expect you, sir." " Who suggested the idea of writing to me ? Somebody at Barnstaple ? " " No, sir. I am not acquainted with anyone at Barn- staple." " You seem to forget she also can write," said George. " You have been with her this week. It is no use deny- ing it." 432 WINTERING HAY " Well, sir, suppose I have ? " " She declined to give you any information. You need not answer." Kit merely growled, while George began to breathe more freely now that he knew the tramp was harmless. " Therefore you decided to do a little black- mailing on your own account," he went on. " This letter, written to a guilty man, might possibly have secured some advantage for you. Written to an innocent man, who neither knows nor cares where your old partner may be at the present time, it becomes a weapon of destruction so far as your liberty is concerned. The penalty against blackmail is severe. I warn you that if you send any other letter, over your own signature or anonymously, either to myself or to anybody connected with me, I shall set the law in motion. If you are placed in the dock, one thing may lead to another. Twice you have robbed Mr. Rossingall." " Pardon me, sir." " Once when he was living at the Chapel ; again at Blue Violet." " Was he that gentleman ! " exclaimed Kit. " I did play a little joke upon him, sir. It was only my fun. I enjoy life. I like a hearty laugh." " No doubt there are many you have joked with ; but as a man of intelligence you must know that what you call fun the law rewards with penal servitude. I regard you, not as a dangerous, but as an unprincipled man. I merely remind you that if this writing of letters demanding money is repeated, a court of law must deal with you ; and you will find no flowers to wear in prison." George went back to the village for his horse wearing a satisfied expression, while Kit went on in the opposite direction scowling ; and into the care of the next post office entrusted the anonymous letter to the police. In the first round he was beaten, but he looked for satisfaction in the next. Not without astonishment he reflected upon George's words and manner. Kit was no mean judge of men and matters, and it was impossible to persuade him- CREATURES OF REVOLT 433 self that the parson looked like a guilty man, nor could he hit upon any motive for the act, or guess what chance could have brought George to the Chapel after he himself had left it. " Tis certain Gideon and Maria had a set to. I could see the fighting in their eyes," he muttered. " Gideon was sick that night. Maria got the better of him, ended his life whether she meant to or not, and young Corindon has been sheltering her ever since. He would never have been in love with the likes of her. He knows, and perhaps next week he'll pay." A few days later the local constable came with great respect to Burntbeer, and asked if the Reverend George Corindon would step outside and speak to him. " Just a matter of form, sir," he said, producing a letter. " We get these sort of things nearly every day, and we don't pay any attention to most of them; but this is written by somebody of education, and I am instructed to make inquiries. Will you look at it, sir, and then perhaps you will tell me you were not out of this house on the Christmas night in question." " I will call my father and mother, both of whom have always kept diaries, my sister, and all the servants to prove it." " Your word is quite enough, sir. I had to come and ask you." " Is it seriously supposed the man came to an untimely end ? I believe he was a very bad character." " This is the first I have heard, sir, but I have only been about here during the last four years. In that time more than one man has disappeared in just the same way. They get into debt, or some other trouble, and slip off to Canada without saying a word. One of the farmers told me this morning he had threatened to summons Fley for poaching, so it's no wonder the chap cleaisid out ; but in every village there is sure to be some crack-brained individual who tries to make trouble." " Stay a moment," said George, who had prepared him- self for this. " I know the handwriting. Unless I am 2 F 434 WINTERING HAY very much mistaken this letter was written by Captain Mutter of Wintering Hay ; and he, as you may perhaps have heard, is not always responsible for his actions." " I thought it was something like that, sir. I will go over there and make sure." " You may tell him I do not propose bringing an action," said George, getting a laugh out of the incident which that day ended, for Elias confessed he had written the letter during one of those periods when he had been particularly troubled by electrical discharges ; and with Cyril at his side it was not possible to add that another man of sounder mind had dictated the matter to him. Kit Coke was beaten, chiefly by his own bad character. He could not remain in the neighbourhood of Wintering Hay because of certain small jokes perpetrated by him in the past against people who had no sense of humour ; besides, the eternal gadfly pricked him on, so that he could not stay more than a few hours in one place. He lived by walking, by accosting strangers and discovering new fools, by poaching in fresh pastures. Therefore the needs of his profession also drove him on, and accepting defeat with a fine philosophy he set his face eastward, singing, "I'm getting too famous in my own homeland, so I'll get me over for a year of Somerset, to study the flowers and birds they have there, to drink their ale and to taste their charity. The story of the old soldier looking for work will last as long as the world does. I was born to the road and bred to the road, and I'll stay on the road all the days of my life." To Cyril there came a restoration of youthful spirits. The last effort of ill weather seemed to have spent itself against him, the agitation of the storm had subsided ; no longer would his life be haunted by dreadful faces. Lilian, George, and Eva had between them found the way, had forced his feet upon it, and now, like Kit, he had only to stay on it all the days of his life, tramping, not the hard highway, but the soft turf of the perfect life. " That's right, young master," said Joll, sempervirent CREATURES OF REVOLT 435 for Cyril went often upon the rocky terrace to muse beside the crumbling cottage once his home, and to look down upon the garden without brambles, without the magic fir tree, without bones, garden of more memories than flowers " Witches bring us into the world, and witches fetch us out. We'm never free from 'em, and most be maliceful. When I lays me down in bed one lot of witches come, and when I washes the tombstone another lot comes, and so 'tis all the day ; a different lot vor everything us turns to. But when they show ye the green path you'm safe enough. They mean to tease ye a bit, they'm sure to worry ye, they'll stick prickles into ye, but if you takes it rightly they'll give mostly all ye ask vor. They like you, master, they like you well enough, but when you takes notice of their malice they tease ye all the more." He was looking at the tombstone, which was uncovered for purification ; and Cyril, laughing again, began to point out the errors usual in lapidary inscriptions, and suggested that the stone was worthless. " I'll keep 'en," said Jell. " I'll ha' no other over me. I told ye the old stone wur danced on by the pixies from the beginning of the world to now, and they little toads ha' made rare sport of me. I wur under orders to die about the time you wur born. Doctors told me that they'm vules ! I had the stone got ready : J. Joll didn't dare put James, and couldn't put Jane died one, eight, seven, blank. Until the shadows flee away. Well, you see, 'em didn't flee away. They ain't fled yet. I'd fancy a new text now, something about Methusalum and vull o' days, but 'twould cost a lot to put that on, so I'll keep the old shadows. Then I got the mason to fetch up the tail of the seven to the nose of 'en and make him an eight a squiggly one he wur too. But bless my days and nights, the years went on and the last eight went out, and I got him filled in and a nine made instead, so that it read : died one, eight, nine, blank, wi' the shadows as avore. I saw one doctor and he hit me here, and I saw another and he hit me there, and 'em both said, ' You won't live another 436 WINTERING HAY ten years, and if you do 'tis true about miracles ' they'm vules ! I wur getting anxious, vor the century wur pretty near out, and after that mebbe there wouldn't be no more use vor eights while the world lasted. Well, master " The worst happened," added Cyril. " Sure enough. I came out here New Year's Day, one, nine, and two noughts, and heard they toads of pixies laughing under the stone, and I thought to myself, I'll have the old thing cracked to pieces avore I gets the date right. Betty tells me to leave 'en bide, ses she will ha' the right date cut when there won't be any doubt about it ; but I answers and tells she I'll be building houses and cutting roads and making views when she ha' gone, and then us comes to words. What be I to do now, master ? Do you hear they pixies laughing ? I be a bit deaf, but I hears 'em well." " There is nothing for it but to change the date again." " Eights be terrible awkward things to meddle with. You can change any figure into an eight, but you can't change an eight into anything else, 'cept it be another eight," said Joll profoundly. " Have the old date covered over, and a new one cut beneath it. One and a nine will last until the end of the present century." " Suppose I be alive then ? " "You would be nearly two hundred years old." " It ain't impossible in my family. You don't know what 'tis to be a Joll ; and I be the wonderfullest of the Jolls, vor I b'ain't neither man nor woman." " Have the date altered, and let me pay for it. I am going to be your neighbour still, and I shall look down upon the old Chapel from my house on Middle Thirty. I should like to be the keeper of your tombstone." " You will come to the funeral, master ? " cried Joll excitedly. " Certainly I will." " 'Tis a bargain," said the feeble old man, laughing so much that he had to support himself against his own tomb- CREATURES OF REVOLT 437 stone. " They pixies be so full o' mischief 'tis likely they may make me bide another hundred years, so as to get the date wrong again, and to keep the stone from being put into the churchyard. If you promise to come to my funeral, master, I'll promise to come to yours. I'll take no notice of what 'em calls old age, and I'll get me to bed, and drink my medicine, and grow young again, vor I be a Joll, and Joll blood be a miracle, and doctors be fair mazed to think on't they'm vules ! " CHAPTER XXV THE LAST PRINCIPAL CHARACTER THE spirit of early summer had entered into an alliance with the god of winter, giving him the morning and evening to make hoary with frost. Something was wrong with the year. Nature seemed angry, in one of her sporting moods, going out with wild weather to kill, not caring what was hit so long as she made a bag. The return of Elias marked a black-letter day of change. It appeared as though he might have stirred up tumult in the elements with his presence of ill-omen, his irresponsible dread of thunder and lightning, his shrinking from Cyril as one who carried an instrument which harmed others. He had broken his nephew's peace as he had once smashed his brother's china. Elias had never brought good luck to Wintering Hay ; and Caroline was wondering already how long she would be able to endure his wildness. Cyril, more than most, was under the influence of weather, not actually believing that a storm heralded disaster, yet behaving as though he did. This was inevitable to one who clung to the idea of a personal Nature. The perfect day was a blessing, an expression of divine love and goodwill ; the storm, divine anger and a curse. As Squire Tucker had drawn inspiration from spirit-forms, so Cyril learnt from the winds ; both were deceived by air currents, while each gained knowledge by communion ^with them. Both in a sense were able to forecast the future. They could not tell what actually would happen,|but|without any dabbling in witchcraft, aided only by the pure magic of the human soul, they knew whether the event which must 438 THE LAST PRINCIPAL CHARACTER 439 happen would be charged with love or anger. Atmosphere showed the way to both ; one found in it spirits of the dead ; the other fate. Sun and wind played a cynical tragedy with earth as victim. So cold were the nights that tender things could not hold on ; and the early sun, glancing across fields dry with frost, gave little heat until midday, then blazed up to shrivel the buds which the frost had spared, before sinking into the coldest blue horizon of fierce wind. " There will be no fruit," said the farmers, praying, though not literally, for cloudy weather and warm rain. Cyril, without hearing them, was their echo. " Where is George ? " asked Lilian ; and Mrs. Corindon, awaking from her dream of music to notice an unexpected gap, demanded lightly, " What business has he gone on now ? " ; while the master made that motion of his head which could never be ignored, and said when alone with Cyril, " What have you been telling him now ? Is this wretched business going to live again ? " "J Cyril had come in innocence for a long day of Burntbeer, to arrange many things with Lilian, but not this, not the disappearance of George. " He went last night without saying a word," Corindon said. " He did not appear at dinner ; later we heard he had been seen walking towards the station. There would be then only one train he could catch ; and that goes to the north." " I know nothing. George is not communicative ; he acts, but does not speak," said Cyril. " He cannot have gone for long." " He will be back to-day. What will he bring with him ? " " The tramp came from North Devon," Cyril whispered. " You have told me everything. George has not. He may keep secrets from me, but he cannot hide the fact that they are there. He has never satisfied me about the woman ; he sees too much of her, keeps too close to her. It is not necessary now, and she must go. Has she been writing to you ? " 440 WINTERING HAY " I have never heard from Maria since she left Blackerton." " Is there any other person who can possibly be dan- gerous ? I told you once it is always the unforeseen which happens. Strain memory over your past life, think of all the people you have known, of any incautious word you may have uttered. If there is any hostile witness over- looked your marriage must be postponed, and Lilian will know the reason. It cannot be kept from her, and there it will end." " I will tell you, Mr. Corindon," said Cyril, unable to restrain himself, hating again his cowardice, although George was now to blame. " There is another person, and we did not tell you. George did not want you to know." " This ends it," said Corindon quietly. " These fools of parsons ! they hide their minds from their own fathers. Methodists or Catholics, they are all Jesuits. You promised me " " I have kept my promise," Cyril broke in. " I know nothing. The tramp mentioned another person to my uncle ; George admitted there was another person ; and he spoke of danger great danger." " Man or woman ? " asked Corindon. " I do not even know that. George refuses to tell me until I am married to Lilian." " Can you make no guess ? An old servant of your uncle's ? " " I can give no name. All that I can think of is that Maria may have mentioned the matter after she left." Corindon sat down, stroked his thin forehead, silent for some moments, then looked up and said, " I flattered myself this business was disposed of. Had I felt any doubt I should never have consented to your marriage with my daughter. I have enquired in the most careful manner throughout the neighbourhood, and I cannot find the least suspicion that Fley met with foul play. No grounds exist. I was completely satisfied that the affair had ended when THE LAST PRINCIPAL CHARACTER 441 the tramp came along. He knows Fley did not leave the Chapel that night, for if he had done so they would have met immediately. The friend of a murdered man is a ghastly person," he said grimly. " He has ceased to be a danger," Cyril reminded him. " Suppose we wipe Kit Coke off the record, what have we left this other person unknown to both of us, but known to George and Maria ? What you suggested just now must be, I think, the truth. The woman told the story to somebody, after she left Blackerton ; not before certainly, or it would have been known locally." " Her own husband," suggested Cyril ; and Corindon glared at him, then muttered, " Married ! So here is another piece of Jesuitical silence. George kept that from me as well. First he, and now you, support a woman married to some idle tattling rogue of a husband. The murder's out. Of course she told him ; and now he is bleeding George." " I think you have it, Mr. Corindon. Maria might have confessed without mentioning my name. She does not know that I support her, because the money goes through George." " I see it. They suspect George. The tramp was sure of it, and he had come from Barnstaple, and now we know he had been with this other person who is no other than Maria's husband waiting to swoop down if we refuse his terms ; and I know George went last night to settle with him. One more minute before you join Lilian," the master went on, adding quietly, " You need not tell her the marriage is postponed until George returns and I drag the whole truth out of him. I may as well tell you all that is in my mind. This discovery makes a background to the whole. Ever since boyhood George has devoted his life and soul to you and Lilian he would have been happier had he spared more to me and I believe his single ambition is to see you two made happy. For that he would sacrifice his life, his parents, and his home. So strangely is he constituted, that I believe he set his mind upon ordination 442 WINTERING HAY for no other purpose than to marry you, intending then to resign his Orders, and return to me." " Has he told you he means to resign his Orders ? " " Not with his tongue he has given me small benefit of that but by his manner. I perceive that the traditions of the Corindons have overwhelmed him ; I notice the lack of interest in the profession he has chosen, his hesitation in accepting any new charge, and his increasing attention to Burntbeer and the fields. George is returning to me, and with that knowledge I welcome your marriage with Lilian, since when he has performed that service he will exchange the prayer-book for the hay-fork, and preserve my old home from the sale-room. Lilian, I tell you plainly, is everything to me, and I would lose every acre rather than see her stricken. I know she wants you, she cannot be happy without you. I don't know why. Do you ? " " Do not torment me, Mr. Corindon," cried Cyril wretchedly. The master smiled and went on : " There is only one other matter. The latest development of my son's soul provokes him to love your sister. It is natural, I suppose, that having settled you with Lilian, and helped you to win a devotion which even he cannot equal (Corindon's voice was husky at this point), he should transfer his affections to the next in order of your family." " He does not mean to propose to her. He told me so." " Then what in the name of wonder is wrong with the lad ? We Corindons may be strange folk, but at least we are straightforward. What is this Jesuitical game he is playing at ? What is he aiming at by deceiving me ? I understand him when he is straining every nerve to ensure happiness for you and his sister ; I understand him when he unfrocks himself ; but when he plays about in the dark with this woman's husband, and when he loves your sister and is resolved to have nothing whatever to do with her, why then he is a Jesuit of Jesuits, a Jesuit of the inner circle of the Vatican. Don't mind what I say to THE LAST PRINCIPAL CHARACTER 443 you," he went on roughly. " I am your friend ; I am one of the villains of your story, for I was high priest of Fley's translation, and am at present keeper of his shrine. Go to Lilian and treat her well. Make the poor child as happy as you can. These troubles always come with hay and harvest." Cyril went to Lilian, who was pitying her garden to the point of tears, and scolding the spirit of the weather. The frost was upon her too, but she would not look at it. Ever since the seventeen-year-old opening of herself upon Whistly Down she had known of a secret's life in Cyril, of its propagation in the soul of George, its passage into her father's mind, where it would at least be wisely treated, and had watched its result upon all of them. She trusted Cyril, more so because her father did ; she acknowledged certain matters might be better left untold the history of a boy's foolish passion, the consequence of desire for some rustic type of beauty her father had forgiven, so could she, but the failing cast a shadow, and the silence made a sting. Forgiveness would always have been easy, but forgetfulness was hard. " Shall we walk a long way ? It is too cold for idling," she said. " Yes, let us get away into the green lanes and be lost among the trees," he replied ; and they started briskly, for the wind was shrewd. " We will not talk about George," said Lilian bravely, " except for just this minute. Once I made a mistake ; I thought he was stronger than you." " So he is, darling ; stronger in soul and body ; perhaps not in mind." " Not now ; he has been losing strength gradually. Something has entered into his life to weaken it. George is giving way. That is not the old George who used to frown and look stubborn when you opposed him. He is shaking, he is wobbling, he is turning back. He has helped us ; now we shall have to stand up for him." " Lily, sweetheart, let me tell you this," said Cyril 444 WINTERING HAY earnestly. " I have not an inkling as to what business he has gone on." " Neither has father ? " " He is in the same position." ' ' George must really shake himself together. It is not like my brother to turn from his profession, but I am sure the old strength will come back when the change is over and he works with father here. Well, you see, the good fairies have given us our wishes. My first was for you, my second was not unconnected with the first, and my third was interwoven with the second. You have won success, your home on Middle Thirty, and some one to look after the garden " " Not last, darling." " Third in the matter of absolute necessity. First, I hope, some day. Father has won George back and saved Burntbeer." " What about George's wishes ? " " Dear old George has never made a wish in his life. He would think it a waste of time. He would say if you want anything in particular, you must work and not wish for it. Things are all right, Cyril, so far as you know ? " she whispered suddenly. " Nothing heart-breaking can happen ? Heaven is not jealous of our garden and home, and (in the same low voice) this weather is not sent to plague us ? " " Remember your own words, darling we shall end happily because we must. If there should be a storm, Nature will lead us by the hand." " Then let us enjoy ourselves for fifty years," she cried quaintly. They went on to prove how much ground could be covered in a little while by two good walkers, passing through three parishes, like careless tramps, and halted in the fourth, where they spied out a thatched inn which remained as a survival of the days when gentlemen were argumentative yet could settle differences with the a,id of no better lawyer than a battle-axe. THE LAST PRINCIPAL CHARACTER 445 " It smells," cried Lilian ; and she was right, for the place was sheltered so that the frost had found no way in, and the inn had a garden as old as its walls yielding " a most excellent cordial smell." They entered, ordered fragrant tea to be prepared, discovered at the back another garden much more excellent, and wandered out, leaving the life they knew and entering some lost country of romance, with the dream-like thrill which comes beside a relic of old days. The pleasant restfulness of things antique quite mastered them, for this garden was not cared for, weeds and flowers grew thickly side by side in beautiful untidiness of Nature ; but it was an acre of sweet perfume, there was no harsh hybrid growth, and the very weeds were early English. " This is the sort of garden I have tried to get, but could only see in my dreams," sighed Lilian. " This one seems to have made itself." " It has existed for centuries. That is its secret," said Cyril. " These flowers would answer, I am sure, to their names of long ago. The tulippa and lelacke would not like to be called tulip and li'ac. Here are dazies, piony, honnysuckle, pinckes, and clove-gilly-flowers." " And the sweetest smell in the air of them all the violet. And my namesake how could you overlook it ? the white lilium warmly set.'' " I will steal a sprig of Rose-Mary, and strike it in our garden," said Cyril. " If we could only take the whole acre in one lump and lay it down upon our grass ! To think that nearly half all English history has been needed to make one garden sweet and perfect ! What have you there, dear thing a sprig of rosemary? I'll be a robber too, and snatch some lavender." This was the first sheltered spot they had found together, and they longed to stay, for in this old garden they were lost. Dark weather could not find them there ; they were invisible to Fate while walking between the rosemary and lavender ; but they could not linger. Evening was coming 446 WINTERING HAY on, the small stage of their drama was being prepared for the final struggle, the entry of the last principal character, and the final dirge sung between themselves and a chorus of mountain spirits ; followed by the solemn walking off. They had come too far on this search after blue flowers, and Lilian grew weary as they crossed the fields homewards ; but the influence of the Green Way still prevailed, and led them to another sheltered spot where the wind was cut off and frost not allowed to enter. It was nearly dark as they descended a hill of grass, spotted with white stones, towards a wood which seemed to stand on the borderland ; on this side present life, on the other part of the unknown ; and going on they perceived the place was haunted, for the spirit of a child was flitting two feet from the ground, glittering with heavenly whiteness, vanishing, rising again at their feet, shining onwards and disappearing in mid-air. " It is a ghost-moth," murmured Cyril. Outside the wood were sentinel-like rows of foxgloves, and the ghost-moth passed down the lines, gleaming by one tall spike, vanishing at another by the simple act of settling upon it. " We are safe. Nature is very kind/' Lilian whispered. " She is giving us the best, and now we shall live with it. I knew we should find the way and come safely out. First the old garden of flowers ; now the garden of enchantment. Look, Cyril ! This is the wood of good fairies, and the little ones are put to bed. The tall stems are bending to tell us every little sheath of bloom is occupied, and the ghost- moth is the guardian-angel passing over the children to give them happy dreams. Folks' love, not foxglove. Some of the little folks are love-making, some sipping a supper of honey, others, I declare, are yawning sweetly, tired out with doing good. There are no bad fairies here." " When you talk of flowers, Lilian, you make me feel you are one yourself." They entered the wood, and Lilian cried, " It is snowing ! The flakes are falling fast." Nature was lavish with her magic. The dark wood was THE LAST PRINCIPAL CHARACTER 447 certainly filled with white atoms, feather-like, drifting and fluttering as if borne by the wind, when no breath stirred, carried along over the flower-heads of the grass, falling between cloudy branches in a shower of wonder. " More moths," murmured Cyril, sleepy at the sight. " They call them the phantoms." " Take me home," she said. " You are not frightened, sweetheart ? " " I am bewildered. Nature is revealing herself. We may find on the other side of the wood, not a field of grass, but I cannot tell what a place prepared for us the end of our journey." " All these moths are ghosts, for they are spirits of the dead. They do not grow, they appear in the perfect state, they burst from the graves of crawling caterpillars like spirits out of tombs of dead men's bones. This must be for some purpose, Lilian ; to tell us the grave is not the end. We are caterpillars now, but when we are buried like a chrysalis there will rise from us ghosts and phantoms to fly about like these. The insect is the most advanced of things with life ; the ant and the bee have taught men the arts of civilisation. We may take our religion from the moth." A light came between the trees, and soon the white walls of Burntbeer glimmered. They went on more slowly, hesitated, since Cyril was about to make for home, fearing to enter somehow ; and now they would have to say good night, touch each other again, and then once more part, and be sundered by the atmosphere. Still a few more steps, and they stopped, while something was saying to each, "It is dangerous to part," yet only a confused murmur, a fancy, not a fixed idea, a shadow and a fear too indefinite to hang a phrase on. Yet they stayed together and were clinging until near the house, and Lilian could see the mountain-ash, once the supporting stick of her birth tree which had not lived, and Cyril felt her shiver, and could stay no longer lest the weakness of his nature should come out ; and presently Lilian groped her way towards the 448 WINTERING HAY door, wondering how the night could be so calm when hearts were wild. Cyril, dazed by the feeling in him, left the drive, passed along the lane trying to collect his thoughts and understand, hearing for some time the Corindon owls, until another, and a hostile, sound made him start and hesitate. He was being pursued. All the terror of dis- covery which had ever haunted his life became concentrated by the sound and echo of that terrific beat of footsteps along the road between himself and Burntbeer. The runner went as George had done that evening long ago across the fields when Cyril thought him beaten and behind, running in the dogged fashion which made escape im- possible ; for it must be George, not the boy who refused to be beaten even by the friend of his soul, but the man who had given way, and had listened to the voice of evil counsel, the man who was now beside himself and saw the sacrifice of his life made useless. Watching the last bend, Cyril stood, stupid and struggling, but whispering, " Who will live in my house on Middle Thirty ? Who will take my land ? " " So you have come home," he said as quietly as he could, almost smiling at the thin and haggard hunchbacked being who leapt towards him. " Don't go. For the sake of your life and fortune keep away from home," George shouted. " Steady, old man. Where is your coat ? " cried Cyril. " I have thrown it off, with the collar that was strangling me. God knows why I ran after you when Lilian came in. This is what I have come to tell you we are going to the devil, the whole lot of us. You and I may as well go together." Suddenly he became quiet, folded his arms, and looked at Cyril, who was abject and shivering. " Ah, well," he went on sneeringly, " it was bound to happen. I could not save you by committing a murder ; one must draw the line somewhere. At least you shall not hear the sen- tence from my lips. You cannot come back to Burntbeer ; THE LAST PRINCIPAL CHARACTER 449 father and I have been fighting. You cannot hide. You must go to the mountain and set your face towards the storm." " Speak plainly." " I have tried to save you and Lilian. I have now ruined you. It cannot be said that I have done nothing," said George bitterly. " What have you found out ? " " You will know by to-morrow at latest. I will not tell you. There is still a chance ; something may happen at the last moment an accident on the railway, a lucky flash of lightning." " It is the other person ? " " It is." " The one who knows everything ; Maria's husband ? Money will shut his mouth." " To-morrow," said George, speaking with difficulty, " father will meet you upon Middle Thirty, some time during the morning. You will see us pass, for I shall come too. If you take his advice " " Well ? " muttered Cyril when George stopped. " Then I shall take yours ; and you and I will go far down together." He turned to go, but Cyril cried, " Where is the man ? " and without looking back George sent the answer, " What man ? " " Maria's husband." " Nearer than you think " ; and with that George began to run again. Cyril went his way, more perturbed by his friend's manner than by his own fears, for now he was certain he had entered the last phase ; the " other person " was the only enemy to be conquered, and he could not believe that money would fail. This witness would not be actuated by any motive of revenge, all that he desired exactly as Cyril had long ago foreseen would happen was to better the condition of Maria and himself. He had only to state his financial circumstances to the blackmailer, point out 2 G 450 WINTERING HAY that he could not afford a large sum, and the man, if gifted with any human reason at all, would perceive the uselessness of demanding more than could be given, when by making the story known he would gain nothing at all. George no doubt was furious to think that his own efforts had failed, that his money had gone to maintain a wretch in idleness, and after all he was right in telling Cyril this was a matter he must see to himself. George had done enough. Wintering Hay drew near. The air was clear and cold, not dangerous ; the road looked very white ; there was abundance of raw light. A man came along, and Cyril trembled, for he looked like a stranger, and he seemed to hesitate as if working himself up to speak. But he was only a carpenter engaged upon Cyril's house, and he wished to speak to the master concerning some detail of the roof. Presently he went on, with a " Good night, sir," which sounded musical, and Cyril advanced towards the turning which led to Wintering Hay, a dark piece of roadway because sycamores grew upon either side, casting deep shadows damp and cold. Here Cyril as a boy had lingered often, afraid to face his uncle, rarely after dark seeing anybody go by, since the way led only to his home, and Zigzag Cleave, and the trackway between the rocky Shelf and Thirty. The roadway was then cut up by the wheels of carts which had carried the fittings of his stone-built house to the foot of the steep ascent ; and, wobbling in an effort to maintain a balance upon one of the sun-baked ridges, appeared the slight and childish figure of some maiden, a girl who looked as if she had run away from home and had no place to go to, but did not care since she was amusing the dull life in her by trying to balance her small body upon the narrow ridge, with her back towards Cyril, who, supposing her to be some precocious child waiting for an immature lover from the village, was going on without a second glance, when she heard his steps, jumped down, ran up with both hands out, and called in the happiest manner, " Hello, Cyril ! " THE LAST PRINCIPAL CHARACTER 451 There was light enough for his eyes to see her bright and showy garments, her impudent and somewhat vulgar features, her gloved hands desiring to take his, although encumbered by umbrella, penny novelette, and a bag upon one wrist where gaudy bangles glittered. But there was not a ray of light to help his mind. A young girl waiting there for him, a girl he was certain his eyes had never seen before, one who seemed to regard herself as a relation, who called him Cyril, who looked very much as if she expected him to clutch at her endearingly. " Aren't you surprised ! " she laughed. " It's a funny time to meet you, but they told me at the house that you were sure to come back this way. I've been up and down half a dozen times, and I'm so tired. You may kiss me if you like," she said, putting her face up. Cyril did so he was hardly responsible for his actions during those amazing moments straining at his memory to give this unknown wench a name and niche in his past life. She was no enemy, not the other person, not the great peril feared by George. That idea never entered Cyril's head, because he was looking for a man, no woman, least of all a child of doubtful breeding, overflowing with affec- tion for him. Ah, a name $ame back, the name of Alice, and the fog began to roll away. This impulsive young cockney was one of his sister's daughters, and because he was young and good-looking, she preferred to call him Cyril rather than uncle. It was the sort of impudence such breeding would suggest. " You didn't expect me, of course. But I saw in the paper you were going to marry my aunt ..." The voice was chattering on, but the words were horrid noises in his ears. " What is your name ? " he cried. " Miss Corindon, of course. Cyril, you are silly not to know who I am. I believe you've been on the booze." " God help me," muttered Cyril, still in the same dark- ness. " Does George know this why, she must be his daughter, his child of shame, and this is the secret, the 452 WINTERING HAY reason why he will not speak to Eva. But why does she come to me and call me Cyril ? " " What are you talking to yourself about ? " she laughed. " You are only pretending all this time to have forgotten me." " Your father has not mentioned you. I have never heard of your existence." " Oh, Cyril, what an awful story ! You have seen me dozens of times, and once you almost kicked me out of your way. Don't you remember that night ? ' Out of the way, kid/ you said. I can see it all now," she shivered. " What is your Christian name ? " "As if you didn't know it ! Rhoda. And my real father's name was Gideon Fley, the man you murdered." Now at last Cyril had come to the heart of the whole matter. One of the cells in his memory, that one which contained the frightened little bastard nursing her dead father's head, had been somehow crushed and the germ in it killed, by the swift and fearful action of that night. All his memory had been concentrated upon the dead man and the living woman ; the scene had risen up before his eyes a thousand times ; everything, he had thought, was there, all the articles of furniture, the dog, even the smoking turves, but never the child whom he had not seen again ; she had been wiped out. " I had forgotten," he said quietly, although he perceived that his life, his soul, his mind, and everything he possessed from Lilian to his house on Thirty, were at the mercy of the maiden, who might yet be merciful, and was certainly not vindictive, for she had brought the most terrible of charges against him in a careless manner. " It is a long time ago. I have been punished bitterly." " It was rather a silly thing to do," she said in her mindless fashion. " It's jolly to read about murders, but it's beastly to see one. Of course, I know you didn't mean it. Mother told me that, and said I wasn't to talk about it." " You call yourself Miss Corindon." " It's the best name of the lot, I reckon. I have such a THE LAST PRINCIPAL CHARACTER 453 number to choose from Athberry, Fley, and Corindon, though my mother was never married to Fley, and when she married old George I know you two are pals, but I can't stand old George why then, you see, I took his name." " Don't go on. I cannot talk now," faltered Cyril. " George and Maria man and wife during all these years." " Didn't you know that ? My eye, old George is a dark 'un," said the astonished girl. " He never told his folks, and he never told you. He wouldn't have me to live with him, thought I was too free and easy for a parson's daughter, and that's why I'm down on him." " Do you know why he married her ? " " He must have been stuck on her, and she wanted him because he's a gentleman, I suppose. My mother is a fine, handsome woman if she was born in a cottage, and I'm sure he's ugly enough." She does not know, thought Cyril. It was the price George had to pay for me and Lilian. " You are not going ? " cried the girl rather crossly. " Don't be so rude and nasty, Cyril, when I have come all this way to see you. I have lots to say. I went over your house before it got dark, and some beastly workmen cheeked me. Then I went down to the Chapel and saw old Joll ; he didn't recognise me, and, of course, I wasn't going to tell him I had been born in that hole of a place. I remember it all so well," she said, getting nervous and twisting her fingers together. " Where are you going to-night ? " asked Cyril in a hollow voice. " I have got a lodging down in the village." " Why have you come ? " he faltered. " I wanted to see you badly, and and to talk. I'm having a rotten time of it, put away with stiff people up to Barnstaple, and old George is awful stingy about money, and mother says be a good maid and do as you're told. I hardly know how to kill the time. I get so sick of reading, and father swears he'll cut off my allowance if I'm seen 454 WINTERING HAY out with fellows. You know, Cyril, I mean are you really going to marry my old aunt ? " " In two weeks 1 time," said Cyril shakily, beginning to understand most clearly all George's words and moods. This passion was the only fire he could not quench. " You mean it ? You really think you must ? " " Nothing can prevent it," said Cyril firmly. " Oh, if you speak like that I shall get angry. I'm not going to be horrid, Cyril, I won't be if I can possibly help it, only you mustn't answer me like that. I have a temper, and I can't possibly forget what you did to my father. It has been a secret between my mother and me, but it's a much bigger secret between you and me. I shall keep it I must, or father would throw me over ; but you must help me, Cyril. I have made up my mind on that." " I will do what I can," said Cyril hoarsely, looking at her gay clothes, thinking of mon'ey. " That's jolly. I thought you would be nice. You don't look very much older than me, and I think you are awfully nice-looking, and and I have a very good opinion of you already. You may kiss me lots, Cyril," she cried in full joy of life. " Rhoda ! " he gasped. " We must not ; I cannot." " It's all right, old silly. Nobody is looking. I am quite old enough to be married seventeen last month. Darling, I shall just love you." CHAPTER XXVI THE DOCTRINE OF GIVING WAY " T T has been a struggle between plus and minus," L commented the master of Burntbeer, while ridding himself of anger in the solitude of his office. " In this one matter I have let my mind sway to and fro ; giving Lilian for her sake, holding her back for my own. I have balanced her happiness against my selfishness, her duty as a woman against my love as a lonely father. I let her go ; I drew her back ; again I let her go ; and now she is thrown back to Burntbeer on this great tide-wave which settles the boy's lot for ever. So she must suffer at last. There will be a week of tears for Lilian." He went out, found his wife and daughter bathing their hands in dainty articles of millinery, and talking a language he could hardly understand. Mrs. Corindon, clever at her own arts, saw little outside them ; she had no nose to smell out trouble ; she would not be worried to think for herself, but left all management to the mind which would not fail. " Put that stuff aWay," said Corindon in the surly fashion which meant business. " Lilian, go and wait for me in the office and get ready." He watched her leave the room with the obedience she had always shown him, then said indifferently to his wife : " Pack enough things to last yourself and Lilian for a month at least. Choose what place you would like to stay at, but not within a hundred miles of home. You must get off to-morrow by the first train." " For heaven's sake, father " she began. " Don't choke and cackle," he broke in. " There will be 455 456 WINTERING HAY no wedding. I am about to tell Lilian it is postponed, and will let the whole truth reach her gradually." " The whole truth ! I must know, father." " Keep quiet, my child. Cyril has gone wrong, I saw it long ago, thought the mischief was over, forgot it, pardoned him for her sake. Now some wench is at him don't talk ; I'm in no mood for listening," he said angrily, putting his head up. " He cannot see Lilian again, and she must not see him. Go and pack ; the train leaves early. It cannot go too soon." He left the room, banging the door to show he was master still, entered the office, and found Lilian standing beside the window looking upon the ghostly flowers of her mountain-ash. She did not look at him because she understood her father and George had returned and she remembered how she had felt when Cyril said good night. " You need not lock the door, father. If I have to run I may not be able to find the key," she said softly. " It is easy to talk with you, little one. You see what is in my mind, and you answer before I speak." " What have you been saying to mother ? " " Telling her to pack in readiness for the first train to-morrow." Lilian was leaning her forehead against the window-glass, thinking of romantic garden and enchanted wood, per- ceiving Nature had shown these pictures to herself and Cyril that they might know she herself was the best thing in life, her wonder and beauty were the gifts worth having, and human love was but an incident since it could not endure in a body which was mortal. Yet this love, this desire to regard beauty side by side and share the gifts, was strong enough to look like immortality. Could she behold garden and wood alone and feel the same ? " It has come gradually ; I am as well prepared as I can be. I am to keep the dream, but lose the reality. I shall have the fragrance of the garden, but not the place itself." " The marriage must be postponed, darling." " Oh, don't speak to me like that, father dear. I am so THE DOCTRINE OF GIVING WAY 457 tired. I understand your moods, I can read your face in the dark by the sound of your voice, I know your mind quite as well as you know it yourself. Cyril has kept himself from me somehow, but you could not, and I know the reason. You love me ; with all your pretended harshness you love me ; and Cyril does not, never has, never will. I am his partner in the sight of Nature, but not before heaven, for he has gone wrong somehow, or there is some- thing he lacks. He wants me, he is fond of me, he can see what was meant to happen, but he can do without me ; my love is pleasant to him, but not necessary. He could be happy hi Paradise without me." " It was my belief that he loved you." " Not with the love I want, I know is possible, the sort of love which ought to exist between him and me. I meant to make it, force it out, create it." " My desire was to keep you, but I had to consider your happiness. It is the duty of a woman to marry, and some do find happiness that way. It is only now, by putting George upon the rack, that I know all, and must forbid the marriage. Need I tell you, darling, that you and Cyril may not meet again ? " " Tell me all reasons, and let me go and lay my head down. I knew long ago Cyril was under the shadow of some secret, and it was that, in the first instance, which drew me to him. He looked so troubled, and I was sorry and wanted to help him, but he would not tell me, and as time passed I supposed it was nothing very bad, though he had told George, who changed entirely; but still I would not be troubled, knowing how serious he is ; and when at last you knew I felt safe, being always certain of your protection. George's absence last night made me fear again, but Cyril did not know what business he had gone on." " He told you the truth. Had George not sacrificed himself for Cyril this would not have happened." " What has Cyril done ? " she whispered. " I am not at liberty to tell you. An act of folly in boy- hood has ruined his life and George's too. Your brother 458 WINTERING HAY married when he was twenty-one, my dear," said Corindon coldly. " If only he would have let me help him," she murmured. " He married a worthless woman to save Cyril. That is the reason why he would not go to Cambridge ; he had this creature to support." " Is Cyril in danger now ? " " He is at the mercy of a young girl who is George's step- daughter. She has made up her mind that Cyril shall marry her, and he must. It was owing to a letter from her that George went to Barnstaple. He found she had already gone to Wintering Hay." " Why did she wait so long ? " " The announcement of your wedding forced her to act. Besides she is only just seventeen." " What sort of a girl is it ? " " George describes her as disobedient, unscrupulous, and passionate. He would not have her in his home." " Cyril must pass through life with her," moaned Lilian. " With the younger Miss Corindon," said the master, becoming harsh again. Still Lilian was thinking of others more than of herself ; her time of breaking down would come. " Is there no way out for him ? " " None whatever. This is the punishment of weakness." " But it will kill him ; if he does not lose his reason and kill her. It would be better for him to suffer for his sin." " He has chosen his own way, and must follow it to the end. I have done what I can ; but Cyril's weakness and George's silence have beaten me." " And George ? " " He will return and follow me. He and his wife are not so devotedly attached to each other that they must live together. We shall settle down as we were before, and Cyril will be the only sufferer ; which is just." " You forget me, father." " I am speaking of the future, little one, when your eyes THE DOCTRINE OF GIVING WAY 459 will be bright and your garden will bloom again. You shall do what you like. You shall rule Burnt beer." He unlocked the door, as she was sobbing, and led her out tenderly, yet his voice was still harsh as he said : " This rain will do good. Let it fall, and thank heaven you have a father able to look after you, who would not allow a boy- and-girl marriage, and thank heaven you have saved your- self and Burntbeer ; for this matter went deeper than you dream of." Lilian tottered up the stairs, her mother followed, and they were not seen again that night. Corindon went out and found his son pacing the yew walk, clad in the clerical garments he had lately discarded. " George, my boy, I lost my temper ; I believe I hit you. I am ashamed of myself." " I deserved it. I have deceived you for the last ten years," George answered. " I have told Lilian as much as I may. She has a strong mind, luckily." " And a strong heart, father." " One will heal the other. Common sense makes a good plaster. She and the mother will go early to-morrow ; then you and I will settle with Cyril." " Understand me, father. If I can help him I will." " He must marry this Rhoda. Don't cross me again, George. I'm in no mood for it. I thought you had dis- carded these clothes for ever." " I am still a clergyman," said George, with the old doggedness. " When do you get clear ? " " I expect the papers any day. When I have signed I will put on corduroy, but while I am reverend to the outside world I'll dress that way." " He has his mind from me, but he keeps it shut," Corindon muttered as he went towards the house. There was a mist in the morning as white as Lilian's face while she and her mother drove towards the station, leaving the rooms of Burntbeer very empty. The master 460 WINTERING HAY had much to see to. George was roaming the passages, carrying a long envelope just delivered containing a legal document commencing with the words, "I, George Corindon. ..." There was nothing to hinder him from signing now that the marriage would not take place, and putting an end to his career in the Church, except a wish to serve Cyril to the end, a quaint desire to officiate at the other wedding, if it must be so, to join his friend with his stepdaughter. Cyril would want it done most privately. 1 George looked out. The sun was getting strong ; poppies were beginning to flame on the scarlet earth, and the sight as of old brought headache. " Is there no way out for him ? " he cried aloud. " Must Lilian live in misery, and he in exile ? Are my sacrifice and his inspiration to be thrown away ? Having done so much, I would now not shrink from anything. I would commit a crime I could silence the girl for ever I would give myself to prison or to death. There is no way none at all ? One moment, if my head will let me think. What is this coming ? Give Cyril time, let him have another opportunity, make the chains hang lightly. Give him time ; that is the word, and I can do it I am the only one. What is prison if I save them both ? " He waited for his father to appear, then said, " You will ride over, I suppose ? I shall walk ; my head is bad." " You have been planning again. I tel) you, George, it is impossible to get Cyril out of this. You have your mother, sister, and myself to think of." " We will not quarrel, father. You are against Cyril, and I am for him. I agree with you that he must marry Rhoda, but I warn you I shall do all I can to help him still. All that I can," George repeated and walked away. "The skin of the Jesuit clings to him," said Corindon, watching the dark and sullen figure striding on. " George, more than Cyril, has brought all this upon me. I must keep my tongue for Wintering Hay and my eyes for Burnt- beer." The man who had been tenant and was now owner of THE DOCTRINE OF GIVING WAY 461 Middle Thirty met Corindon upon the fatal trackway. They greeted each other with commonplaces, went a little higher, and reached a spot where a chasm of great depth had been worn by the gentle rubbing of a silver stream between two banks of oak trees. The master slipped from his horse, and let the animal feed while he and Cyril passed into the shade. " It is easy to see how the night has passed with you," Corindon began. " You are again the white-faced, shiver- ing youth I had hoped not to see again. Have you any- thing to tell me ? "he asked casually. " George has told you everything ? " asked the wretched Cyril. "He is pumped dry at last. No secrets are hidden now." " And Lilian ? " " What have you to do with Lilian ? " " Had she no message to send ; no sympathy ? " " Stand up for your life's sake, my boy. Look me in the face and don't whimper. Take your beating like a man. I have told Lilian enough and sent her away this morning. You and she can never meet again. Blame the fool George, if you cannot blame yourself. This young girl has you in a vice, and you must marry her." . " If I refuse ? " "First of all tell me what has passed between you and my son's stepdaughter." " Last night I met her in the lane when I came home," Cyril mumbled. " She declared that years ago she made up her mind to make me marry her when she was old enough. She even swore she made the resolve that night when she saw me with her father's body ; but I don't believe her, as she was then hardly seven years old. It is her chance to become a lady and she means to take it. She promises to love me and be a good wife, but she says plainly that if I refuse to marry her she will do her worst." " She will do it." 462 WINTERING HAY " Will she ? What would she gain ? George would throw her over entirely. She would be left penniless." " Do you suppose a young hysterical girl counts the cost ? She would ruin herself without a thought. She has been saving herself for this, preparing to devote her whole life to this one effort. If I had known of her existence I would have cut my hand off rather than remove that load of stone. Why did you not mention her ? " " I forgot her. That is the truth, Mr. Corindon. She had gone out of my memory absolutely. When I had got rid of the mother I had no thought for the daughter. She never disturbed my memory in the first instance. She was only a small child. I did not think she would realise what had happened." " If you will not marry this child, no power on earth, except a dose of the treatment you gave her father, can prevent her from giving information. All the money you or I could give would not stop her mouth. She is being driven by her passions. Her mother upon oath would be forced to confess the story is true. At least you would be punished for concealment of the body, and I should be sentenced for removing the remains that would come out. The tramp would be dragged off the road to tell what he knows. Even old Joll would be compelled to speak of what he heard and saw. I, the master of Burntbeer, would be disgraced for ever, and Lilian for the rest of her life would look on me with horror. You must do your duty and take the punishment." " I would as soon be dead. It is death in a sense. I must sell the house Lilian's house which she planned before it is finished ; I must make myself a stranger to my aunt and Eva ; I must leave the neighbourhood for ever. It is too much, too hard a punishment, Mr. Corindon." "It is too hard," the master answered gruffly. "It is hard upon a young man to be struck by lightning, or smashed in a railway accident. Yet these things happen every day. Some commit crimes every week of their lives, and prosper through it all. Others make one small mis- THE DOCTRINE OF GIVING WAY 463 take, and are damned for it. This is a trite saying, but it appeals to us now. I and my whole family are in this, and you have to think of us besides yourself. By marrying this girl you make your own life wretched for a time at least ; she may die or leave you but you save your friends at Burntbeer, you save Lilian from the worst. By refusing to marry her you ruin the lot of us and yourself as well. Better a hateful marriage than penal servitude." He is against me, thought Cyril. He has always been against me, and now he is making the picture as dark as he can. " There is in your mind an idea of flight," Corindon con- tinued. " Dismiss that at once. You have your living to make, and your occupation, which is the only one you can follow with success, makes you a public character. I do not say you could not escape, but in some distant land you would sink rapidly ; friendless and lonely you would make a wreck of your life more quickly and surely than by bind- ing yourself to a girl you hate. There are possibilities left. You are still young. Rhoda's death would free you. Her mother's death frees you in a different sense ; for nobody would accept the girl's unsupported story." While he spoke George came up the trackway and, lingering a few yards away, gazed at them. His face could not look white, because of the darkness of his skin, but it was ghastly, more out of physical pain than the thought of any deed. His father looked up and called ; George approached them slowly. " She is waiting for you, Cyril," he said in a dull voice. " She means to haunt me until I say the word. George, old man, cannot you save me from her ? " " Stop that," said Corindon, stepping between them. ;< You shall put no more on George. Is it not enough to have ruined his happiness ? " " I wish to speak with Cyril alone," said George quietly. ' You will speak to him in my presence. I'll have no more of these secret conferences." 464 WINTERING HAY " You cannot prevent them. Cyril and I are men and free agents. When you had a right to check me, you did not ; and now you have none." " True enough," his father answered. " I am playing for myself now, and I am afraid of your mind. It is too much like my own, but there is an individuality about it which deceives me. I cannot prevent you from meeting. Only remember, George, remember your mother and sister, and old Burntbeer." Then he went for his horse, looking old and crushed. " Stay one moment, father," George called. " I have a thing to say to Cyril in your presence. It is this," he went on, turning to his friend : " I have spoken to Rhoda, who is now waiting for you in the cleave. I knew it was useless, still I spoke. Realise how hopeless it is when I tell you she declared herself to be passionately in love with you, and even if she had not a hold upon you she would never leave you alone. You can do nothing with a girl who has no mind except yield to her. She has kept this idea before her since that fatal night, and what we call a determination to marry you for the sake of a home and position, she calls being in love. My father says you must marry her, and I agree. There is no way out." " Thank you, George," said Corindon quietly. " You will not alter that opinion when my back is turned ? " " I cannot. Cyril must marry my stepdaughter." " He will come into the Corindon family anyhow," said the master none too kindly, and rode away without a word of farewell, for at the moment the worst side of his nature cropped out, and he did not stay to ask himself how soon he would be speaking to Cyril again. " Now we are alone," said George, calmly leading Cyril to the edge of the chasm where they could rest their eyes upon cool ferns and rushing water. " Don't think badly of the old father, but blame me, for I have played the fool. I had to marry the woman ; she would take nothing less. I promised at Blackerton. I made her my wife when I became twenty-one. I could not have foreseen this. I THE DOCTRINE OF GIVING WAY 465 gave up everything to ensure happiness for you and Lilian and I have helped to ruin you both." " We have been fighting against destiny," said Cyril brokenly. " George, dear old chap, you have done too much for me, far too much." " She is a good woman, and I suppose many would call her a handsome woman. She is true and honest ; she has tried her hardest to make me a good wife. You remember what she was at Blackerton, crazed with the idea of winning respectability somehow. First it was you, then myself. After all it was a laudable ambition, and I was sorry for her and she has kept her promise ; and if I have not been happy, it was because happiness could not be brought by such an union." " You are ill, poor old chap." "My head is bad. The poppies are blooming on the red earth of Burntbeer. Don't waste your sorrow on me. Pity yourself." " If you had only reminded me of Rhoda." " That was my mistake. I was always wondering if you would remember. Now you know what I have gone through : I was fighting to get you and Lilian safely married, and shuddering latterly at the prospect of the girl descending upon you. Once married I believed she would not interfere, knowing you were lost to her." " Why did you let her remain at Barnstaple ? " " It was only recently I knew of her intention. She told Maria in a burst of ill-temper, and it was then too late to remove her. Still, that would not have helped you much, as she might have been equally dangerous had I placed her at the other end of the country. I wanted to send her to one of the colonies, but she refused to go. Had I known even last year, that she meant to claim you, I should have told you for Lilian's sake, but I did not know until the date of your wedding had been fixed. I was not even aware that she remembered her father's death." " She wishes to be married at once. You could refuse consent until she is twenty-one." 2 H 466 WINTERING HAY " My refusal would act in the same way as yours. Let the marriage take place as soon as possible, for, as you know, I am about to leave the Church, and I am determined to marry you." " Rhoda for Lilian," murmured Cyril. " Keep going," said George sullenly. " We may end well yet. Rhoda can go to Bethnal Green and stay with her mother for the time necessary. Then you will go up and get the licence. I will accompany you, and in the church of a friend of mine in the East End, at eight o'clock some morning, I will marry you. Then you will take her some- where in the country where it is very quiet." " There is something in your mind, George," Cyril whispered. " We are fighting for ourselves, and so we must remove all obstacles. She is a girl who loves pleasure and hates dullness. She imagines that by marrying you she will enter the social life which she reads of in her novelettes. After a few months stormy ones for you she will want a separation. You will grant it. She will leave you," said George slowly, " and go to London. You will supply her with money, she will lead her own life, begin to frequent places of amusement," he went on, his hands moving as if he would have torn his clerical garments off. " She may soon forget, and I think you will not hear of her again." " George ! " muttered Cyril. " Are you George ? " " I care not which way I go now. We have tried to stand together, we have fallen together, and now we have to fight our way through life to happiness. We are not here to submit for ever. My life has been a sacrifice, with nothing gained by it ; now let me sacrifice another. You have done no great sin, and you shall not be sentenced to perpetual misery. This girl has no mercy we cannot consider her youth and folly she would ruin you. We will have no mercy, and ruin her. The doctrine of retaliation, of eye for eye, is the teaching of the old dispensation, the teaching of Nature, and the law we live under." THE DOCTRINE OF GIVING WAY 467 " A girl of seventeen, idle, passionate, with money, un- protected in London." " There must be motion. It cannot be upward." " Then I get a divorce.'' " No, no, you fool," said George wildly. " Do nothing. Stand aside. Enjoy your liberty, and let time pass ; let another ten years go, then come to Lilian, show her the grave of your dead past, and ask her to stand beside it with you." " Rhoda will be still my wife." " Am I a lump of stone to be cracked and hammered ? I am a man, stronger than you, though I listen to your counsel. Never mind who are injured if we can take the best." " I did say so." " And you shall not take it back." " One moment," said Cyril, doubting whether his friend could hear him. " If even now I should defy the girl, what would Maria say ; what evidence would she give against me?" " She is prepared to commit perjury. She would swear the girl's story was pure fancy." " Your father overlooked that. He said nobody would believe the girl's unsupported story." " He spoke without thought, as he does now sometimes. He is getting old, and his mind is not so clear as it was. What should I say in a court of criminal justice when asked why I married Maria ? What would my father say when asked why he removed that cartload of stone from Wintering Hay ? What might not old Joll confess if forced into the witness-box ? The evidence of Kit Coke might not count for much, but his confession that the two were fighting when he left them, and his statement that Fley would certainly have joined him had he lived, would not tend to clear you. Remember also Maria is an ignorant woman, and a skilful cross-examiner would turn her inside- out. You will marry Rhoda next month. It cannot be too soon. Go to her now, swear you love her, smother her with 468 WINTERING HAY kisses, assure her she has made you the happiest of men, with other like matters which she can comprehend. My head is bursting. Leave me to myself, Cyril, or I may curse you." What could Cyril say to his aunt, who was still angry with him sometimes, if usually kind and gentle ; and what could he say to the sister of good fortune ? Caroline did not know of Rhoda's coming, while Eva merely wondered and asked no question. Cyril dared not tell the truth to either ; better, he thought, to play the old game of cowardice, and to disappear as he had done before, this time for ever. Later on in the day Rhoda departed after playing a single-handed game and winning easily, the happiest young woman in the country then, without one idea as to what constituted the duties of a wife, her foolish body pleasantly thrilled with passion, the only touch of Nature which could reach her, her head occupied by dreams of a lady's life. George, having discovered what was in her, by a process of elimination, could soon reduce her into simple fractions ; and he was right when he said pleasure was all she looked for the life she had read of in her penny fiction which carefully concealed all points of danger and that pleasure she would have. Cyril now realised that he could not occupy his time, since the house on Thirty was an interest no longer, and it was grief to go near the upland where inspiration had once reached him. No more visits to scarlet Burntbeer, no green walks with Lilian, no golden plans to make. Life and work seemed over ; and yet there was none of that despair which had seized him after the day at Blackerton, when he had been forced to give Maria the promise he had now repeated to her daughter ; this, if the worst calamity, was the last, the silencing of Rhoda meant the laying of Fley's ghost, ingenious fate could bring no other enemy against him ; and still Cyril trusted in George who had always saved him, remembering his wild words, careless how the end might be accomplished, or what suffering would be THE DOCTRINE OF GIVING WAY 469 inflicted, before liberty was gained, and Rhoda, abandoned, was torn into pieces by her own passions. It was her natural duty to protect herself. If he, Cyril, had been condemned to lose his life merely for hiding the body of the father who had died in the course of Nature, what mercy should be extended to the daughter who with malice and thoughts of vengeance, synonyms in her strange vocabu- lary of love and tenderness, forced her whole life upon him ? " Where is Eva ? " asked Caroline, looking up from the tea-table as Cyril entered. He was about to answer when Elias, who was seated in his own corner colouring a child's picture-book he was growing very simple, but more subdued in manner replied gently, " She went up on the moor with his reverence. That was two hours ago, when you were lying down Caroline." " It is tiresome of her. She should not go out with him if it is really true he has a wife. I am dreadfully disap- pointed in George Corindon." " Who told you ? " asked Cyril quickly. " I did," said Elias. " The little girl told me. I saw his reverence talking to her, and I saw him put his hands on her shoulders and shake her like a bottle of medicine. When he had cleared off I went over to her and said, ' What did he shake you for, maid ? Didn't you know the catechism ? ' And she said, ' He's my stepfather, and he's cross with me.' She said something else, what I used to say when I was cross " " Did she tell you anything more ? " interrupted Cyril. " Nothing worth remembering." " Who is this girl ? Did Mr. Corindon marry a widow ? Eva must not go out with him if he is a horrid man," said Caroline. " George made an unfortunate marriage. He is not the only one," Cyril answered. " It is wicked to marry without love, and if husband and wife cannot get on together it is because they have been 470 WINTERING HAY wicked. I wish Eva would come home. I don't like hei being alone with that man." " He is a clergyman," reminded Cyril. " All the more reason why he should be ashamed of himself," said Caroline smartly. Tea was over, but still Eva did not appear. Cyril, almost glad to have some other matter to give his mind to, wandered out to look for her, but did not go far and soon returned. George's conduct began to look unpleasant. Instead of returning to Burntbeer, he had waited upon the moor, going without food, then had called for Eva and taken her out with him. They had now been absent nearly three hours, and Cyril could guess that another little drama was being played by human nature upon those heights. He went indoors and joined his aunt, who was sitting in the placid fashion of old age reading one of Andrew's sermons. Outside Elias was hoeing weeds with violent arm-jerks. Never had it seemed so pleasant in that silent room which had been to his boyhood a place of horror. He looked at the stiff furniture and ugly pictures, longing to stay with them. He smelt the roses which Eva's purified hands had placed into china dishes. He found himself standing beside Caroline, holding her hand, looking down lovingly on the head which was growing gray. " Aimt," he said hoarsely, " we did not understand each other once. I called you my enemy ; I wculd not speak ; I often left you here lonely when you wanted me to cheer you up. If I could have the last ten years of my life over again, with my present knowledge, I would behave very differently. I know you have always been fond of me, and lately you have been more and more generous. I had only to wish, and you would give. You gave me two hundred pounds for the house. If I needed any other wedding- present, you told me to ask for it. And I cannot repay you. I can do nothing." Simple old Caroline began to cry at once. " We can be happy now," she stammered. " But I wish you would be THE DOCTRINE OF GIVING WAY 471 more religious, Cyril, and go to church, and speak reverently about the Bible. I wish you could be more like Eva." My sister goes up as steadily as I descend, thought Cyril. " Eva will always be safe. You will take care of her ? " " I could not do without her. If she married I should have to leave Wintering Hay. This arrangement with your uncle will not answer. He grows more childish. I fear we shall have to send him to some home. Cyril, I am worried about Eva now I know Mr. Corindon is a married man." " Eva will make no mistake. She loves you and is perfectly happy. She has come through deep water, and now that she has found a rock to cling to she will not leave it." " You look tired," said Caroline, while she dried her old eyes. " You do too much. All this writing wears you out. I shall tell Lilian but I need not. She will keep her eye on you. Lie down on the sofa and rest yourself. Would you like me to play to you ? " " I should, very much." Caroline rose, put on her spectacles, went towards the piano, assisting herself by leaning on the furniture, for she was getting rheumatic, while Cyril watched until the kind old figure became blurred. He was leaving her for ever, he was about to darken the end of her life with still more suffering, and there was no way out ; she could not know the reason, and would die believing him heartless and un- grateful to the end. Carefully Caroline rejected the books of sacred music, sweet to her own ears, but unwelcome, she felt sure, to her nephew's, and after much groping and painful stooping dragged to light one or two old marches which Cyril had been fond of as a child. She seated herself and began to play, while Cyril watched the weak, rheumatic hands moving slowly across the keys, and the simple face straining towards the printed sheet of music, until the mist rose again. It was in truth a poor performance, for Caroline could not easily read the music, and her fingers could not 472 AVINTERING HAY find the right keys, and she could only strum very slowly, breathing hard and often muttering, " I can't see," or, " That's wrong." While Cyril could not see either except the pathos in this quaint performance. His aunt was devoting the whole of her failing powers to give him pleasure and he was about to make her miserable. " She shall know," he said to himself. " I cannot speak, but when I have gone I will write, and tell her I am in the hands of others and cannot get free. She shall not go down to the grave believing I am heartless. I will tell her as much of the truth as I may, and let her know that the desire of my heart is still at Wintering Hay." " I am afraid I know no other pieces, and my eyes are getting bad," said Caroline. " Will you play some hymns ? " asked Cyril. Caroline was greatly pleased. She needed neither spec- tacles nor printed music now ; slowly but accurately she played the haunting tunes of old evening melodies which never fail to bring back childhood, such innocence as is possible, and all the enchanted dream-days of the sweet of life. So Lilian might have played when the day's work was done, and the plants in their garden had been tended. So she might have soothed his troubles away. The house she had planned out with such loving thought for his own comfort must be sold for what it would fetch, and care- less strangers would live on Middle Thirty, and the voice of inspiration would be stilled. And he was no villain ; merely cowardly. And because of moral weakness he was to be punished ten times more harshly than the guilty man who had struck his neighbour out of malice and hatred. George Corindon was right : such a punishment was not to be endured, if by any method, however base, it could be fought against. With the religious music in his ears, and deep affection for his aunt springing from his soul, and with tears of sentiment in his eyes, Cyril took the oath of liberty which concerned himself alone. Young Rhoda must go to that life which Eva had risen from by the THE DOCTRINE OF GIVING WAY 473 strength of her father's spirit, and die the death Eva had escaped from owing to her own goodness of soul. " The real criminal is not here, but she loves him still," said Cyril. " And his name is Andrew Mutter." Caroline ceased to play, because she too was troubled by memories ; and Cyril went out again into the track- way, forced from the garden by the Captain's childish chatter. The sight of workmen scrambling downhill from Middle Thirty made him wild again, turned him back into the cleave where nothing but rushing water disturbed the silence. The cold weather had gone, and real summer was upon him, the sweet of the year he had longed for, but bringing no gifts to his body nor good dream to his mind. Yet the wind was at rest, and the bad period, which had brought this crisis at him, had gone by, leaving the atmo- sphere untroubled. There was still hope while life re- mained. His father had not recovered from " the dolorous blow " dealt him by the elemental forces ; but then he had stood up against them, shaking his fist and swearing never to give way nor to yield an inch of his land which was yet snatched from him, and he had not been shown the mystic pathway, nor had he gone to Nature as a lover, but had taken off his coat and wrestled for her secrets, shouting, " I will not let you go unless you bless me." Nature was only kind to the humble suppliant ; to the daughter who said, " Show me the way, and I will follow it " ; to the son who promised, " If you will teach me, I will try to learn." Something calm and good was coming down the moun- tain towards Cyril, the old invisible force which had shaped his mind, but could not control his body, which could give him the poet's gift without removing any taint of sin, a force which had no suggestion of religion, but spoke only of eternal life such as the water and the rocks rejoiced in. This struggle against the human factor was unworthy, for what were other human lives except companions, not chosen, but forced upon him as surroundings of a pilgrim- age ? And even the best and dearest, such as he might 474 WINTERING HAY have chosen, were no more to his personal existence than stones with tongues ; and the worst merely brambles to be avoided or cut down if they annoyed him. Nobody could use his eyes, or lie in his grave ; if his body was wounded, what other could bleed and suffer for him ? Lilian was dear, but not necessary, since she was not with him then, and yet he could exist. It was the light in her eyes that he wanted, and the light was there ; shining on the mountain, gleaming from the height, and it was the light of Nature upon a solitude, not so much the eyes of a woman for her husband as the love of Nature for one who realised that he had been born alone, must die alone, and could find the happiness best suited to his soul by hiding from his fellow-creatures lost in self. There was Eva walking across the silent peat, hurrying beside furze in bloom which caught at the hat she carried ; and Cyril, going up to meet her, perceived at once that she was settled, her mind at least was safe, and her last enemy conquered. " Where have you been, little girl ? " he asked tenderly, troubled again by the sight of a human being, his opposite in sex, bringing beauty and the fatal fascination. " Cyril ! " she cried, stopping and turning back. " Now I have found you I am in no hurry to go home. Let us sit upon this rock. Now look at me. Would you recognise in me the girl you found and saved in Thames Street ? " " A different face. A different figure. There is nothing left of Thames Street ; it has been demolished in more senses than one." " Am I the girl who lived with you at Highgate ? " " Hardly a relation." " Thames Street, Highgate, and Wintering Hay are somehow the same, but the disease of the first and the evil thoughts of the second have been conquered by the third. Now I have a new face and figure, even a new soul, for the old one was cleared away with the ruins of Thames Street, and Dartmoor has built up another life in me. Is Eva Rossingall, after all, to be a great success ? " THE DOCTRINE OF GIVING WAY 475 " She is a success. Aunt, who once looked upon her as a wretched outcast, now could not live without her." " Thank you for making things easy for me," she said quickly. " George Corindon believes he cannot live with- out me." " You knew that long ago." ' ' What is the matter with him ? " she whispered. " I thought he was strong and determined, when he seems to me now the weakest man alive. I thought he was losing his senses ; he lay on the peat and sobbed. I had to hold my hand upon his forehead." " He is passing through a period of weakness. He loves strongly, and perhaps that is a form of weakness. I do not understand this sort of love. I know he is not his normal self to-day, and I ought not to have left him, but I had to. I did not dream he was likely to insult you." " By following the advice you gave him. He quoted you, Cyril : ' Take the best, whatever the consequences, and do not think of the injury you may cause another.' ' " Eva, I did not mean him to apply that doctrine to you. George is a married man. If his wife seriously inter- feres with his happiness, he has, according to my interpre- tation of Nature, a right to leave her. But he must make you happy, and not miserable." " He spoke of his own wretchedness," she went on. " He implored me to give him the share of happiness to which he is entitled. He gave way completely. I re- minded him of his wife and father, and his duty at Burnt- beer ; but to everything he answered, ' My life comes first.' So I told him at last I did not love him, and even had he been free I could not marry him ; for my desire now is to be a woman devoting myself to a woman, away from the wild moods of a man, and to enjoy this peace and perfect saneness all my life." " You did not mention the. past ? " " Why should I touch dead stuff ? It was not necessary, 476 WINTERING HAY for what right had he to know ? If I sent him away re- garding me as a saint, I cannot help it. I shall not speak to him again." " Poor George," said Cyril gently. " Were you very angry with him, darling ? " " I hardly lost my temper, but I did speak bitterly. A man, a clergyman, with a wife, begging me to run away with him ! It brought up the past, and made me feel he knew I might be trifled with." " I could not have saved you without George's money. I could not have come to you without his help. I believe he is compelled to love my sister because of his love for me/' said Cyril sadly. " The Corindons have been my saviours. Had it not been for George I should have gone under years ago. Had it not been for Lilian I should have lost myself in London." " I love Lilian," said Eva. " Presently I will write to George, forgiving him, promising to be his friend if he will not speak of what he has no right to offer me." " Burntbeer and Wintering Hay may not come together in the future," said Cyril, looking up and down the cleave, then taking his sister's hands. " I may see little of George during the next year or two, and as for Lilian " " What is it, dear ? " she whispered when he stopped. " Nothing ; in the worst sense nothing. It is all over ; everything has gone to ruin the house must be sold and I shall soon be going away to hide myself." Then Cyril looked up and saw his sister's eyes, very much like Lilian's for the essential light was there, though Eva had the lesser knowledge fixed upon him more in sorrow than surprise. " Now I know what crazed George Corindon. I know why you have been unlike yourself these last few days. I am trying to guess what that beastly young woman was after. It is she, Cyril ? " "It is," he answered. " Were we both meant to go wrong ? " she cried pite- ously. " Was there something in the elements at our birth THE DOCTRINE OF GIVING WAY 477 forcing us out of the right way ? Don't say it was my example, Cyril." " We are both children of the same father ; and he could not find the way." " But I have found it and come safely out. And you will find it too. You have helped me. What can I da for you ? I could not understand George Corindon when he referred to your marriage so wildly, and declared he would marry you himself if they killed him for it. You are going to marry that child ? " " Because I must." " Offer her money. Give her everything you possess. Leave Lilian if you must, but do not marry that girl. I have seen her ; I know what she is. Let me settle with her." " The only price which will satisfy her is marriage." " Refuse then, and be disgraced. It will be dreadful, and will make aunt miserable, but to be disgraced is better by far than misery for life." " Darling," cried Cyril, " you do not know, and I cannot tell you. This girl has me in her power, though she is only a child. I have not wronged her. She came to me last night as a stranger, claimed me, and I must give myself." " Tell me all. I am your sister ; don't be afraid of me, Cyril darling. I would cut off my tongue rather than speak a word which could injure you." " If it came to a court of law " " I should put my brother above truth and justice. I would swear any oath that I knew nothing. Brother, I could hate you for doubting me." So he told her. He made the confession which Lilian should have heard that day upon Whistly Down ; and Eva listened with her head down, squeezing his hand feverishly, until all was told, even down to George's giving-way plan for getting rid of Rhoda ; and then she looked up, dry- eyed, and angry for a moment while she murmured, " Oh, Uncle Andrew ! It is not right that such as you should live." And after that tenderly she flung her arms about 478 WINTERING HAY Cyril's neck and cried upon him until he broke down as well. " You see I must, darling." " Yes, poor boy, you must." " Still, life is left," he cried tempestuously. (" What about Squire Tucker ? " asked an inward voice ; and another answered, "If he was kind and good in life, he cannot now be worse.") " And you will come out upon the top of the mountain as I have done. Lilian and old Joll each in their different way is right ; you will succeed because you must. You will end happily because you have been shown the Green Way and have walked along it. Let the girl go, and let her sink if she cannot help herself," said Eva disdainfully. " Those who insist upon ruining others deserve no pity. They are criminals, and should be made to suffer. You say this is the end, and so it is ; the end of your bad fortune. A few more months of strife and misery, then liberty ; and with the ending of this girl, in that life which first stupefies and then kills, your story of failure has been written." They returned to Wintering Hay in the failing light with fingers interlocked like wondering children ; and the next day Eva led her brother upon the mountain and guided him at once with the clear sight of a sibyl to the long-lost Green Way ; and they walked along it, and drank of the water at the end. CHAPTER XXVII THE DOCTRINE WORKING OUT THE quiet place pitched upon for the bitterness of that honeymoon was Deadberry, a district rather than a village, situated at the back of Hartland, beaten by Atlantic winds and benighted with rain-bearing depres- sions which, that year at least, followed one after another; allowing small benefit of sunshine, turning lanes into rivulets and hills into sponges. It was a place of cloud, where even the green of the fields looked dusky ; it was a place of black rock ; it was a place where tree-life was stunted and only creeping things could flourish, for many times each year a scythe-wind swept with the force of the ocean behind it, reaping the patient vegetation which forthwith began to grow again, never shrinking from the Sisyphean labour of unprofitable sprouting. It was a place of screaming birds ; no soft beauty, no tenderness, nothing gentle : Nature's wild rock-garden of thistle and sea-holly, where to plant a rose was almost to do murder, and to scatter flower-seeds was to provide a meal for grubs. Upon a bleak high road stood a storm-troubled inn, no house to stay at, merely a draughty cottage of stone floor which had been given the right to supply occasional tramps with beer. Its licence had not been taken away, but the last landlord had removed himself, finding it impossible to make a living, so that the house became abandoned until taken by a gentleman for one year. Even in that rough district the inn was styled most comfortless. It had been built of cob, and in those days, very long ago, when a few coaches passed its door, and the neighbourhood was infested with 479 480 WINTERING HAY smugglers and wreckers, the inn no doubt had done good business; dark cellars and numerous deep cupboards lining the immensely thick walls suggested that the landlords had not always been honest. Since that freer time the house had been faced with stone which, being porous, did little to arrest decay ; another highway also had been made into Hartland town, following a line less hilly, and this had diverted the greater part of what traffic there was, and dealt the final stroke of ruin to the inn, which was now hardly habitable, for its walls -were crumbling, its slates were being worked off by the gales, and its interior was very damp and mildewed. The signboard remained, rotten and creaking, beneath what was elegantly styled the best bedroom, showing faint patches of colour here and there, although the design and the very name had been completely worn away. Old fishermen called the place, " The Load of Mischief," and some declared that when the sun was shining across the signboard they could still distinguish the form of a small man almost crushed to the ground beneath the weight of a brawny woman astride his shoulders. About two miles away, just outside Deadberry district, was the well-inhabited village of Yondhill, supposed to have derived its name from a big hill yonder, and here there were several beer-houses, all successful, where many tales were told of the couple who were probably final tenants of the ruinous inn "up over." That a gentleman should have gone into the place was by itself a wonder ; that he should have introduced a very young wife to a home so cheerless seemed to point towards poverty or callousness. There was no other house to be had ; it was also true the gentleman had said he was there to study the wild moods of Nature, and comfort was the thing he least required here insanity appeared to crop out ; but was it not obvious that such a life was hard upon the child ? The driver of the vehicle, which had carried the couple up that stormy hill, told of the bride's anger, not restrained by his presence, when she first set eyes upon her home ; how she declared she would THE DOCTRINE WORKING OUT 481 not enter it, swore she would spend no more than one night there, and shouted her determination to go off by herself the next day, having an astonishingly great voice for so small a person ; and how the gentleman had merely smiled and said it was the only house he could find. Occasional passers-by spoke of the same voice screaming in passion ; it was wonderful, they said, how steadily she kept at it, and the gentleman never appeared to take the trouble to answer her ; but it was generally believed that a tragedy might take place in the lonely inn, and some of the men with furrowed faces and women in mourning for the sea took annual toll of the inhabitants began to talk about inter- ference, and the policeman made it his duty to pass that way and ask if all was well. He was met by the gentleman, who assured him, " My wife has an uncontrollable temper, and this lonely life makes it worse. We shall not be here long. When I have finished my work we shall go." These were the stormy months safely predicted for Cyril. He had been married hardly twelve weeks, but not a day had passed without its tempest, while sometimes that tongue would rage like the wind for a week. Twice Rhoda had gone off by herself, and Cyril had been forced to bring her back from Hartland town. A dozen times a separation had been agreed upon, but when it came to action she would not go. The thought seemed to frighten her ; still more she was vindictive. " You are not going to get rid of me. You want your liberty, and I shan't let you have it. I can at least make you miserable while I'm here," she cried. " On the contrary," he said quietly. " I find you a stimulating influence." Rhoda was too ignorant to understand the meaning of these words, and supposing them to be a new expression of hatred, went on howling, which was the only form of argu- ment she had mastered. Cyril, however, spoke a remark- able truth. On those occasions when she did permit him to be alone he was able to work. Her mindless passion, beating upon him with the unreasoning madness of the 2 I 482 WINTERING HAY winds, which at the same time scourged the walls of the un- pleasant dwelling-place, did actually stimulate, and in a sense inspire, him to devote his powers to the delineation of Nature in her wildest mood. The unfortunate child became of service. With absolute coldness of hatred he regarded her as an undeveloped element able to give a certain expression to the will of the ship-wrecking wind. He found in her the spirit which destroyed life. She was the black storm of disaster, as Lilian had been the sweet spring-breeze of growth. Lilian caused flowers to come, she beautified the earth ; while Rhoda wrecked the fishermen and sent women into mourning. It was not all storm, for moments came in the most tumultuous days when the poor little wretch crept to her husband as he sat at his work or behind a newspaper, wedged herself between his knees, and prayed in a childish fashion to be treated like a wife. " Make me happy, Cyril. You can do it so easily. I could be happy even in this awful hole if you would love me a little." " You forced me to marry you. I shall never have the least affection for you," he answered ; and then she would fling herself away and scream again, and threaten to give information concerning her father's death, using all the abuse she could get her tongue on, but leaving Cyril un- moved, for he had discovered by this time how intense was her love of comfort, and how greatly she dreaded any possibility of desertion with consequent privation or being forced to work for her own living. Now he doubted whether she would have informed against him had he been given courage to resist her ; for even in her most unreason- ing passion she retained the elemental cunning which made her ask, " What do I gain ? " or " What will happen to me ? " in reply to one of his suggestions. " You won't get me a servant, so you can do the work yourself. I'm not going to slave for a selfish brute. I am as good as you are, every bit," was one of her more reason- able complaints. " You are always grumbling because you have nothing THE DOCTRINE WORKING OUT 483 to do. You do not care for reading or sewing. Housework will employ your time." " What have you brought me here for ? You had a nice home by Wintering Hay. Why couldn't you take me there and treat me properly ? " " I could not let my aunt know I had married you," was the answer, which provoked another tempest; and with exhaustion came the sullen question, " What do you think you're here f or ? " " To work." " When do you mean to finish ? " " Possibly by Christmas." " What will you do then ? Will you take me to London ? " " We shall go to another part of the country ; less wild than this, but quite as lonely." " I won't stand it," she screamed. " I am not going to be shut up the whole of my life and treated like a nun. I'm young, and I must have pleasure ; I will have it, and if you won't take me I'll go alone." " I shall not ninder you from going." One moment she welcomed the offer of release ; the next she was declaring he wanted to get rid of her, and no bribe would tempt her to spare to him even a portion of liberty ; but during those weeks Nature was running her course in that fierce body, weakening its resolution, strengthening the old desire, so that the triumph of her husband's purpose became a matter of time, for Rhoda was not a wife in any sense, and her lot had become ten times more hard by that marriage made in any place but heaven. Could cruelty of so fierce a kind be justified ? Eva and George declared it lawful, but it was doubtful whether Lilian would have cast her vote with them. She might have insisted upon the necessity of a merciful side to every human action. Cyril, who went to Nature for his lessons, read in the cruelty of the forces round him all the teaching he required : in this terrible game of self-protection, storm- wind and lightning had to be escaped from ; even tender 484 WINTERING HAY plants were bidden to evade as best they could the crushing hoof or rending teeth of the grazing animal ; it was the duty of every living thing to struggle in its own interests ; but only men and women could add reason to resistance. If a footpad seized Cyril in the dark, had he not a right to resist even to the point of killing the assailant ? And if a young woman insisted on attacking his happiness, and through that his whole life, had he not an equal right to protect what was worth having by all-fair fighting, and to strike at vindictiveness with the weapon of justice ? Rhoda had only to follow his example, and protect herself. Cyril would not, and George did not, and Eva could not, perceive that this matter went deeper than any doctrine taught by Nature ; it passed beyond the elemental forces, soared high above the atmosphere, reached and violated the law itself, the law made simple that all could under- stand it : do violence to none, forgive all, and regard punishment, like reward, as necessary. One act of moral cowardice had tainted Cyril's life with bitterness and brought an unbroken cloud of punishment. When Rhoda forced herself upon him, it seemed necessary to yield for the sake of the Corindons ; but he would have done better by yielding altogether, and by refusing to poison the mind of George, whose only sin was the noble one of too much love for his friend, becoming at least ignoble when it bred contempt for others. Both men had given way. Not many perhaps would have made a bolder standing. So strangely constituted was the nature in Cyril that out of his weakness he found strength to persevere. Weakness stirred him to a frenzy with Rhoda and gave him strength to get rid of her. All that was good urged him often to resist and make the best of things, to create a wife out of the child, provide her with a decent home, take her upon his knee and give her lessons. Being so young she could yet be twisted straight and might grow that way ; but while thinking of these things her hateful conduct rose before him, he remembered the insolent triumph of her victory and her callousness in dragging him from Lilian ; and even THE DOCTRINE WORKING OUT 485 now Rhoda was her own worst enemy, for she declined angrily to improve herself, or to attempt the discovery of an utterly submerged mind. If her husband could not lavish caresses upon her he was useless. Their joint exist- ence was unnatural and could not be maintained. His were intellectual pleasures, hers were gross ; such was the difference clearly stated. Engrossed upon a point of study late one night, following upon a day when he had been compelled to protect his face from bird-like talons, so wild had been the devil in the girl, Cyril looked up with a shudder. The room he had con- verted into a study, where he also slept, was large and curiously shaped. Draughts from the passage, which seemed to be connected with the sea, frequently pushed open the door its catch was a hanging thread of rusty iron but a screen beside the table cut off that portion of the room ; beside the wall there rose an almost owl-like scream of sobbing, and it was then Cyril started round, drawing back a panel of the screen, to behold a piteous figure, a ghost-like shape, pathetic because so tiny and so crushed : Rhoda in her little nightdress crying like an infant in the nursery for a parent to come and remove the terror of some dream, looking no more than ten years old a mere baby, a shivering, small, and helpless thing ; one blow, it seemed, would silence her for ever, the life in so frail a body could not be strongly held, while Cyril was about to invoke the whole weight of the world to crush a maid so puny. " I could almost take her in my arms ; she is at least a female/' he whispered. " Now I am sorry for her, but pity will go when she opens her mouth." He leaned back, as a student of human nature, observing the small white shape huddled upon the floor beside one of the cupboards black with the dirt of rats. Here was something weaker than himself ; yet beneath the white robe was a strength of determination which had beaten him. Was anything more terrible than feminine weakness which with its last hold on life was able to breathe defiance ? He 486 WINTERING HAY watched the child gasping in a kind of agony, as selfish as his own longing to be rid of her, the little body convulsed, the eyes streaming, the nose dripping upon the useless finery of the nightdress ; and at last he murmured, " This is how she gives way." He went to the child, touched her, and said, " Go back to bed, Rhoda." " I can't sleep," she gasped. " I want love ; I want love." " I cannot give you that." " Will you give me one kiss ? " she begged as if choking. " I will give you nothing except your liberty." " Where can I go ? What can I do ? " It became supernatural in that damp room, once the meeting-place of wreckers, with the windy night around and the clamour of the sea beyond. Cyril felt the spirit of Andrew Mutter coming, and Rhoda, in terror of the wilderness round her, was as he had been years ago, dumb and shivering in the presence of a mind he could not under- stand, afraid of a soul which broke the law of Nature. As Mutter had planned to expel him from Wintering Hay, to send him to the Arctic Ocean out of hearing, so was he scheming to reject his wife, and cast her out, and down like Adolph Carr the drunkard upon the street-stones. He was acting in self -protection ; so had his uncle. He was fighting for independence ; so had his uncle. He was injuring and depriving another so that he himself might win what seemed to him best in life ; so had his uncle. The spirit of Mutter reached Cyril in the crumbling old inn. " I will take lodgings for you somewhere," he said. " You can amuse yourself as you like and be your own mistress. I will visit you sometimes." " I am afraid to go," she sobbed. " What frightens you ? " " I shall be alone." " You could make friends." " I should be so lonely." " Not more so than you are here. I have no time to THE DOCTRINE WORKING OUT 487 spare on you. There is no subject I can discuss with you. I have no affection to give you. I cannot reach you with my mind." He stopped, perceiving that even these simple words were too much for her intelligence. " Why can't you love me ? It's so easy," she sobbed. Such simplicity could only be smiled at, and he turned aside wearily thinking of Blue Violet, remembering the dying words of Squire Tucker warning him against matri- mony, seeing again that too distinct face and feeling the strong personality coming near, conquering the Mutter spirit and touching him with thoughts of mercy. The life of that poor fragment must be protected. In spite of an utterly ignorant mind, something from the breast of Nature was able to reach the undeveloped soul and warn it, something as indefinite as the terror which had seized Lilian and himself when about to speak their last good night, yet strong enough to make a shudder and clear enough to lead. Rhoda might guess that loneliness meant ruin ; but anger would wipe out the warning, passion would drive away the guide. " You must not go to London," Cyril found himself saying, as if the words had been forced upon his tongue. " Will you go back to Barnstaple ? I will give you as much money as I can. You can spend your time in dressing." " I won't go near the place again. I hate it," she cried, beginning to get angry. " Shall I find you a home with pleasant people ? Or shall I get you a cottage and engage an elderly woman to keep you company ? " " What do you take me for ? I'll go where I like, and do what I like. If I leave you, I'll make you pay for it," she cried furiously ; and he saw another storm was on. " We cannot live together," he said quietly. " You shall not go to London ; you refuse to live elsewhere. Perhaps you can make some suggestion ? " " Why can't I go to London ? " 48$ WINTERING HAY " I will not permit it. There would be nobody to look after you, and as you are very young and foolish you might get into bad company." Now he had done it, again by a blunder ; by opposition, by the power of suggestion, by the taunt. Rhoda and passion needed only that to start them. " You think I am a bad lot. You think I'm too much of an idiot to look after myself. A pretty nice opinion you have of me ! I'm as good as you, I'm as clever as you," shouted the wild little fool. " I'll go to London just to spite you, and I'll spend your money, and live like a lady there if I can't here, and I'll give myself a good time " " You will not go," Cyril broke in ; for he was getting frightened now that the deed seemed near. " I'll go in the morning. I am going to pack my things now ; and I will let everybody in the place know how you have treated me." " I shall go with you." " I won't have you. I hate the sight of your beastly cruel face. I'll show you I can look after myself." " You have nowhere to go." " I have my mother, and I'll go to her." Cyril said no more. He was about to call that she would not find her mother, but the spirit of Mutter closed his mouth and he let her go. She might not have listened, and probably would not have believed, had he told her that Maria was no longer in London but far distant, and the letters which purported to come from her were false. Maria, although annoyed with her headstrong daughter, had a natural affection for her ; but after becoming a lady she grew sensitive, and never wrote in her own hand, because it had been impossible to educate her ringers to the pen, and she shrank from exhibiting her common scrawl to Rhoda. George had always written, copying what she sent him, and he did so still, but did not copy. Rhoda, on the other hand, cared little for her mother who, she thought, had driven her from home. Since her marriage she had THE DOCTRINE WORKING OUT 489 only written once, and that letter had gone through George's hands at Burntbeer to Maria, who, supposing that her daughter was settled after a fashion in life, would not be troubling. Still in a passion, defiant, but excited, Rhoda appeared in the morning dressed for a journey. Her possessions began and ended with clothes ; these she had packed, and now informed Cyril he could order a conveyance ; but he declined, saying, in an attempt to protect his mind, " I will not agree to a separation if you intend going to London. You are disobeying me." " Is it likely I should obey you ? You insulted me. You told me I should get into bad company. You seem to forget I'm a lady," she shouted, with an oath ; and he let her go, perceiving that while this anger lasted nothing he could say would move her. In the miserable fashion to which he had grown ac- customed Cyril prepared his own breakfast, while Rhoda went out fasting to walk a mile. About an hour later a shaky vehicle, somewhat resembling an old-fashioned arm- chair mounted upon four cart-wheels, jolted up ; the girl jumped to the ground highly flushed, having a wild ex- pression hi her eyes, told the driver to load the boxes, then went to her husband, who was seated upstairs, one moment shivering with fear, another with happiness, and attacked him finally : " I have come to say good-bye, you brute ; and to say you are the beastliest, most selfish, rottenest man in the whole world, and if it wasn't for my own sake I'd like to see you ruined. I've told the man in the carriage all about you, how you have treated me worse than any beast, and are driving me away from you, though I'm your wife ; and I shall tell him a lot more as we go to the station, and he will let everybody in the place know, and I hope they will mob you. I shall keep my eye on you, and if you don't send me plenty of money I'll make things hot for you. I don't want your kisses now ; I wouldn't be touched by your foul mouth which has done nothing but abuse me since I 490 WINTERING HAY married you. All that I've come for is money, so hand it out." " Have you been drinking ? " asked Cyril quietly. " What's that to you ? I did have a drop of brandy because I felt giddy. It's no wonder after the way you used me." He stared almost in terror away from this wild-eyed, shivering child, who was going out alone and unprotected to prove how strong she was, to show him how respectable she could be, to convince him how little she needed guidance. He lifted the purse she had flung upon the table, placed some gold coins inside he did not count them handed it back, and saw her eyes begin to glisten. This was the first time she had been given control of money. A wonderful world of shops and pleasure rose before her eyes. She was a married woman, therefore she could not go wrong ; only an unmarried girl could make a false step, and as long as she kept the gold ring on her finger she must remain respectable by the law of morality. Everybody would respect that ring, although it encircled the finger of a child who was going out to search for pleasure and knew only one way to it, that way which, in the words of Eva, stupefied then killed. Cyril, from the wayside inn, looked out above the creaking signboard, murmuring, " She is going she has gone. Already she is not ashamed to ask for brandy. When she reaches London she may feel giddy again and ask for more ; and she has a pocketful of money, and she is a good-looking girl, and she has the eyes which some look out for. I would have prevented it if I could. Why did she force herself upon me ? " He was free ; this liberty, even if it did not last, was grand. Again with Nature, able to work and think alone, with no voice of madness in his ears, except the wind from the ocean which at its wildest could not break his peace. Now he must escape at once from the unhealthy home and blasted neighbourhood and find rest in Blue Violet, the one and only place which had brought him happiness and good THE DOCTRINE WORKING OUT 491 air and pleasant dreams. Lavender Cottage would be empty ; the key left with the kindly woman at the general store. Everybody was friendly at Blue Violet to the quiet gentleman, the studious Mr. Wilson ; not an enemy would reach him there. Rhoda's letters would be forwarded to Wintering Hay and sent on to Mr. Wilson by Eva. Here was the beauty of life within reach, here was a holiday of rest upon him ; with the solitude, the cleaves and scented bottoms, the hills, woods, and fields, all waiting beneath the sweet breezes of Blue Violet, having a new colour, a gentler inspiration, a deeper mysticism, while preserving the old enchantment of Nature at her kindliest behind. Winning the best assuredly was no sin. Anxious to get away from that neighbourhood which had served its dismal purpose, Cyril hurried to Yondhill, where there was a telegraph station, and sent a message to George, using words which had been agreed upon between them, to tell him that the plan suggested had not failed ; then returning to the inn he began to prepare for his own flight, being afraid of his wife's tongue, guessing she would have told the driver all manner of lies concerning him, fearing lest hostility might be shown him openly. Scowling faces had passed in his walks abroad ; those who knew nothing accepted their own construction of the wretched marriage, and supposed he abused his child-wife and repaid her devotion by acts of cruelty. The place was rough, the bin was lonely ; a few thoughtless spirits could easily raise a hubbub which might lead to loss of control and some deed of violence. Mr. Wilson, the scholar of Blue Violet, was in Deadberry district Mr. Rossingall, unfortunate like Blue- beard with his wives. Therefore Cyril decided to move with his portable belongings before night, and give in- structions later for the goods in the house to be disposed of by public auction. A telegram, which arrived early in the afternoon, lent him courage to stay. George had started off to come to him. The friends had not met since that early morning when George the curate had blessed the cursed union in a 492 WINTERING HAY dark church down a shabby street ; and Maria had shaken Cyril by the hand, begging him to be kind to the maid, and whispering, " Tis all over now, and we are safe." There was no reason why George should make the tedious journey when Cyril was about to go within a ride of Burntbeer, unless he had something of great importance to reveal. Distant Bideford was the nearest station ; the day was cold ; George could not arrive until after dark, and he would be very pinched after the bitter drive across that country of the scythe-wind. Cyril had not troubled him- self about Rhoda's comfort, but now that he knew George was coming to the inn he bustled about in a domestic humour, building a fire in what had been Rhoda's bedroom, clearing away all traces of her, making the place as restful as he could. Dear old George must be made welcome ; every attention must be lavished upon George. Rhoda had been a common little wench who could look after herself like a general servant. Cyril was nothing if not natural. It was getting late in the afternoon, and he was about to light the lamp, when two rough fellows passed, and one flung a stone which hit the signboard. They did not see the tenant, who went quickly to the door in time to hear one man call to the other, the wind which was blowing from them hurling the words like small shot through the chinks, " Us don't want murderers here." " Rhoda's lying tongue has done its worst," said Cyril. " She has let it be known that I brought her here, to this lonely inn, that I might make away with her, and she was running from me to save her life. It is not safe for me to stay. I can give no honest reason for bringing the girl to such a home as this." After that he dared not make a light in the house, but waited in a state of terror until at last he heard the glad sound of wheels and ran out to seize his helper's hand, and drew him in, saying, " Ah, George ! yours is the best face I have seen for months. Don't send away the carriage. Come in here a minute." THE DOCTRINE WORKING OUT 493 When George had heard of the incident of the passing men, he said at once, " I know what Rhoda is capable of. I have no doubt she told her driver you had threatened her life. The folks will believe her young girls generally are believed against a man and it is possible there may be some rocks heaved. Put your stuff into the carriage, and we will drive back with it to Bideford. I do not fancy a night here." " Was it going too f ar ? " Cyril whispered. "It was thorough," George shivered. With the wind behind they were soon being driven east- ward, Cyril's hopes rising as each mile was covered, making the gap greater between himself and the place of misery. Hardly a word was possible because of the roaring noises in their ears, and while at some distance from the town the sea flung over them a shower of sleet cruel to their faces until they reached a sheltered road and saw the lights upon the flats. By now Rhoda would be looking upon other lights to make her glad, neither so heavy nor so yellow, but fiercer, though not exposing the plague-spots nor the dangers. Such a thought was no warmer than the sleet, but behind it was liberty, a new life, and love of self. " What brought you ? " Cyril asked, immediately they were alone in a place of comfort. " To-morrow I should have travelled in your direction." " To Lavender Cottage, which has been shut up for months, and will now be damp ; I know how careless you are. I started to come directly I received your message, because I want you to return to Wintering Hay. My poor lad ! " he exclaimed suddenly. " You are thinner than I am. That little fiend would soon have sucked your life out." " I resisted at last. It seemed fearful to let her go ; it became like sentencing her to death. Last night I refused consent I had to it was the poor little dripping nose that weakened me." " Your opposition succeeded where consent might have 494 WINTERING HAY failed. Harden yourself," said George. " I am more of a brute than you ; I can sentence her." " Your wife will save mine somehow. We cannot keep them apart." " Long before Maria returns to England, Rhoda will have found her place and gone out of your life," said George quietly. " She is in Switzerland. I declared that her health was giving me anxiety, and last month, judging by your letters that the crisis was near, I sent her out of England for the winter. It pleased her. She wished to travel.* 1 " You too have been thorough," said Cyril, swallowing an impediment in his throat. " Rhoda is likely to write for her mother's address." " She will not get it ; and before she has time to write again other interests in life will have made her forget." " You are colder through it all than I am." " That is a matter of temperament. While I freeze, and you burn, the work goes on. You shall not weaken. We are making for the best. You have got rid of Rhoda. Eva is giving way." " What are you doing with my sister ? " cried Cyril. " Nothing unlawful. That is one reason why I want you to return to Wintering Hay. There you may see how tenderly I treat your sister, how much I love her, how kind she grows towards me. You can help me " " Not with Eva." P I married Maria ' ' " Not with Eva." " I have saved you from Rhoda." " You married me to her." " If I can divorce you from her, will you help me ? " " You are not the law. Don't touch Eva. You cannot move her now. She is kind to you because you have done so much for me." " When I am master of Burntbeer, and Eva lives alone at Wintering Hay, I shall win her. I am not like you ; I can last. I shall be content to wait for the best if I come THE DOCTRINE WORKING OUT 495 to it before the end, even when I am an old man and gray- headed. I want you to return home for my sake, and for Lilian's sake." " Lilian ! " exclaimed Cyril. " You are going too far," he added almost angrily. " I have not lost sight of the main duty of my life," said George, in his old dogged fashion, standing before Cyril like a rock. " I cling to the same idea of happiness for you and Lilian. She does not mention you ; she has become silent again, but she thinks of you ; I seem to see you in her eyes. It is not too late. It can never be too late while you both live. I mean to bring you together ; I mean to see you married, living on Middle Thirty " " What has come to you ? Are you beside yourself ? " Cyril broke in passionately. " I am married. I have sold my house." " You are not married ; and your house is not sold." " If you are going to talk so wildly " began Cyril ; but the dark George went on : " I bought your house ; five hundred pounds was the sum it went for. I could afford no more than half the amount, but with your permission to my agent the other half remains on mortgage. You are not married to Rhoda. I performed the ceremony the day after I unfrocked myself. You were married by a layman posing as a clergy- man and a villain. Nobody will compare the date of my deed renouncing orders with that hi the register. Only you and Rhoda can expose the fraud ; and the girl who is not your wife will never know of it." CHAPTER XXVIII THE REVELATION ONCE again Cyril returned to the restless atmosphere of Wintering Hay, and found his own Middle Thirty a field of weeds covered with white moisture of winter. His aunt more feeble, but not less loving ; and Eva with the same clear-eyed firmness which was fixed. Caroline knew nothing of her nephew's union, which the criminally stubborn George had rendered void. Eva in gentle fashion had explained that a change of feeling had taken place between her brother and Lilian ; they had discovered obstacles to affection which could not easily be removed, and had agreed to choose the lesser evil of breaking-off. Caroline answered that it was just as well ; marriage must fail without love in abundance on both sides, and she felt sure Cyril was not a man easy to get on with, while the Corindons were heathens of a low type. The old violence of feeling returned to Caroline when she thought of George, who had dared to exchange the kingdom of heaven for some miserable clods of scarlet earth. Accessible as she had become to visitors, she refused to meet farmer George, and desired to be told when he was near that she might hide herself. Caroline was only able to see black outlines traced on white ; a tragedy might be going on in the house with- out reaching her sense of knowledge ; she had never even heard of the unaccountable disappearance of Gideon Fley, nor could have guessed that the emptiness of the Chapel years ago had marked the beginning of her nephew's struggles. She was merely a gentle old lady, fond of " her children/' abusing them sometimes out of sheer affection, 49 6 THE REVELATION 497 with a soul given over to religion which had far more light and reality in it during these calmer days. Free from her husband, and weeping in solitude because of her freedom, she was able to open her mind, had grown tolerant, and could very easily forgive. " Cyril gets along better when he is left to himself. He is a strange man. Other people don't seem able to help him much," she said, with more shrewdness than was generally found in her, when Eva explained that her brother had gone away " to forget Lilian, and to study Nature instead of getting married." Captain Elias was the element of unrest, suggesting that the agitation of the storm had not wholly subsided. Although harmless in speech and manner, and most devout, he had become exceedingly noisy, so that when he prayed with his sister-in-law his voice could have been heard above the chimney-pots. This shouting was due to a slight impediment which had come into his speech, but a spirit of bravado was in part responsible : the old trouble remained and had to be shouted down. Electricity, which nobody really understood, had taken upon itself a new form now that Elias was continually engaged in garden- craft ; human beings for the most part had ceased ' buz- zing/ slugs and snails were now the offending agents ; long black non-testaceous creatures, crawling along the damp paths during the evening, crackled with sparks most horribly, while snails encased in circumnavigating abodes were dynamos of a mind-destroying type. Elias flopped about the garden, often wearing carpet-slippers, which he called his non-conductors, armed with a huge sledge- hammer made for granite-cracking, and this he let fall, like the brother of Pari Banou in the court of the Sultan of the Indies, upon gasteropoda and pulmonata actions so heroic called for Latin not only administering painless death, but burying the remains as well. Left undisturbed by strangers, he would pass the rest of his life draining the atmosphere of certain phenomena to himself repulsive, harmless to others, and benefiting the garden not a little. 2 K 498 WINTERING HAY Cyril entered his old home to leave it as soon as he was able with Eva. They climbed up the trackway to the house which had never been occupied, and as a light rain was falling they went into what might have been Lilian's drawing-room, and opening the window looked across the partial view of three blurred counties. Hand in hand upon the window-seat they talked for an hour, listening to each other's history and trying to look forward. " You have satisfied me, darling," Cyril said at last. " You at least never will give way. George frightened me yesterday ; he has lost the old strength, he lets every current of feeling blow him about ; and I was afraid for you." " Kindness of a woman' to a man who loves her is sure to be mistaken by him for what he most desires," said Eva, with a seriousness more telling than her words. " It is my duty to help George Corindon. Without him I should have been dead fearfully dead and you might have been with me. If we are both free, it is because of George. But gratitude is not love." " He speaks as if his wife had no existence." " His plan is to wait until he is master of Burntbeer, then to announce to his mother and sister that his wife is dead " " Would he deceive Lilian ? " " He will imitate you," said Eva softly. " He is con- tinually quoting you. ' Where Cyril goes I follow.' " " We agreed to walk together. The Corindons go from one extreme to the other. If George is not careful he will go too far like me." "He is safe. I am the only being who can harm him, and I will not. Some day I shall make him understand that my kindness is not on the side of weakness. It is meant to give him strength. Making the best of things is the way to win the best." " You did not say that of myself with Rhoda." " Rhoda meant absolute ruin to your life and work. If she had been good, and had any idea of doing her best, THE REVELATION 499 then I think you should have put up with her. It is true Maria forced herself upon George, but she has done her very best, and deserves reward. George told me she has been more like an obedient servant than a wife. She is so grateful to him for having made her respectable. I can sympathise with her ; but Rhoda deserves no pity." " When will she come back ? " "Is it ever likely ? She hates the quiet life which is necessary for you, and she must look back with terror upon the past few months. While you supply her with money she will find her own pleasures. She will lead the life which her own nature would have bidden her to choose." " And I am not bound to her. Eva, darling, this really looks like the end. Not an enemy left ! Not a single black cloud to come over ! George has saved me at every turn. He marries Maria for me, he frees me from Rhoda, he buys my house and gives it back to me ; and for payment he asks me to teach my sister how to love him ; the only service which I cannot render." " It is the end of the story, dear boy," said happy Eva. " The only dark cloud is Rhoda, and she will pass. We will between us try to make a happy ending for George Corindon. I will tell him stories of the earth ; you shall surround him with a better atmosphere ; and what with haytime and harvest we will help his life along, and see him stand up his old strong self it is there, it only wants bringing back. Do not fear for me, young brother ; I will have no more incidents in my little life ; I shall not lose what I have gained. And now for the future ; you must not live here while there is danger from Rhoda. We will have no more vanishings and reappearances." ~" Do you know George's wild idea ? " " I can guess that it concerns yourself and Lilian." " He actually thinks it is still possible. It was to bring me back to Lilian that he performed the mock ceremony of my marriage ; and he bought this house ' as a wedding present to you and Lilian/ Poor old George ! He under- stands a woman less than^I do," 500 WINTERING HAY " He has always been obsessed with the idea of making Lilian happy. Do you still long for her, brother ? " " Such a sister must have the truth. I am not made for marriage, Eva. I am very fond of Lilian, I want her to be with me often but not always. I feel sometimes she might interfere. I long for her company, not for her life. The best thing for me is secret communion with those things I seem more able to understand ; the wonderful things that move and have their being between earth and heaven. I am made for the dreaming life of loneliness, with the romance of the air about me. That was the message which reached me here as a child, but I could not catch it ; and when I met Lilian on Whistly Down I thought she was the interpretation of the sign. It came to me again at Blue Violet, where I worked so well, and again I could not comprehend it. But after my last walk with Lilian, and my first meeting with Rhoda, the meaning became clear, and I understood that I was in love, and I loved intensely, but not a human being. Is it not strange that we may be entirely happy and not know of it ? I was happy at Blue Violet, yet I allowed myself to be drawn aside and troubled by matters which had no concern for me. I loved, and did not know who or what I loved ; and now at last I realise that whenever I mix myself with human beings I do what is wrong ; I injure them and let them injure me, I become among them no better than a criminal ; and when I am alone with Nature I cease to be wicked, I am peaceful and content, I do no harm, I make no error, I have hardly one evil thought. The teaching of the Green Way should have been obvious, yet I have always missed it. I found solitude at the end of the path, a lonely mountain upland wrapped in mist, and that I was told to take as the best thing, and that I will take as soon as I am free, and remain all my life with a green and cloudy Nature all alone." " Lilian guessed it ; she was afraid you could not share what was best with her. You agree as to direction, but when you call Nature a constant companion she draws THE REVELATION 501 back," Eva murmured. " You must know that Lilian and I have been exchanging confidences/' she went on clearly. " I a/n the only one to whom she has broken silence con- cerning yourself. She will never meet you while Rhoda lives, whether you are married to the child or not ; nor would she meet you without knowing the great secret, and that, I think, would frighten her for ever. She would not go through ' all this uprooting and tidying up again/ to use her own words. Lilian is above us all with her high principles ; she has no Thames Street to fight down ; she came out of her garden to give herself to you, and now she has gone back to the garden. Your path is the same as hers, but it is too narrow for you both to walk along it side by side. You might have harmed her in time." " Because she is a human being ; and so I must keep from her and see old Burntbeer no more. How is it I have done no harm to you, my sister ? " " We Rossingalls help each other, if we must injure our neighbours." " What of the future ? " said Cyril, feeling strong and satisfied. " Enemies of flesh and blood have driven me from Wintering Hay again and again ; but as each one is conquered I return. When Rhoda has settled herself I shall come to this house, and spend my life in it surrounded by the old atmosphere which taught me to grow." " While I shall be mistress of Wintering Hay ; aunt will leave all to me," said Eva triumphantly. " We are successful, young brother. We have conquered our difficulties. We have struggled out of the mud and reached firm ground." " Not yet, little girl. There is still a quaking sensation beneath my feet. If the child who calls herself my wife was able to reason she could ruin me yet." And even without the faculty of reason Rhoda might shadow the prospect with the darkest cloud of all. The winter went by in peace on the warm side of the walls of Wintering Hay ; the other was beaten terribly by gales, more furious that year than usual, working out mortar 502 WINTERING HAY and dragging away slates. There would need to be some- thing like a restoration in the spring, as the house was crumbling fast. But no storm burst from the wojld of human beings, not even from George, who came with the regularity of a lover and the quiet determination of one who knew he must win ; but he was unconsciously being changed and becoming resigned and getting the old strength back under the gentleness of Eva, the persuasion of his sister, and the teaching of the fields. A few more years and youth would be quite spent, removing as dead growth the new doctrine of all for self ; and with steadiness of ripe manhood altruism would set the attitude of George's life, and the red earth, fertilised by the labours of his ancestors, would reach his spirit. Perhaps the farmer would grow dull and commonplace in time, when the fields had claimed him ; better to be dull than in revolt. A succession of harvests was bound to work an influence and produce in the soul of the man a fertile steadfastness. " There is one failing we possess for which I am most thankful," he said at last to Cyril, " and that is our inability to foretell the future. It is the romantic dream that often keeps us going. The hope of it will never be fulfilled, but while it stays in our life we come very near to having all we wish for. After all we are easily made happy. Love is so much the greatest incident of life that even the dream of it is better than most realities. Some time I shall be free, and Eva will be mistress of Burntbeer ; I will wait ten years, to let the dream germinate ; I can wait twenty ; and if necessary I'll get the secret of long life from Joll, apply it to Eva and myself and to you and Lilian and we will wait half a century. I dream to be Eva's husband ; I dream to see you and my sister making a garden upon Thirty. I have shaped my life to that dream, and I will see no other waking." " I shall not marry, neither will Eva," said Cyril ; and he was the prophet. The spirit of Gideon Fley was not yet satisfied. The man who had ended a life was punished every day, yet had THE REVELATION 503 succeeded in comforting himself with the assurance that he was at least no murderer. The work of the dead it was to stamp him with that mark, to force to its conclusion the reasoning commenced after the death of old Squire Tucker, " If I go on like this I shall become a regular murderer." That single blow with the blackthorn stick resounded still. Each month during the winter Cyril sent Rhoda her allowance, but she remained silent, until in springtime came a curt announcement of a change of address, without any information added concerning herself. The hand- writing was shaky, however ; it was Eva who noticed that. Soon came a demand for more money, and Cyril sent it. Maria returned to England, asked for news of Mrs. Rossingall, and when she received her husband's answer guessed with her woman's wit all was not well ; moreover, she required a letter from her daughter. George was forced to tell her that Rhoda had quickly tired of country life with a silent student, and had left him, attended in the usual fashion, and had not since been heard of. This was the sequel Maria had looked for ; whether she wept little or much was no concern of George or Cyril. The act was justifiable. " She has spoilt my sister's life," said George. " She would have ruined me body and soul," said Cyril. " She thought only of herself. It is fair she should be left to herself," said Eva. Counsel for the other side was not heard. There came an answer during the long days of June, upon the softest evening when Cyril and Eva were wander- ing about the garden of Wintering Hay, and Elias leaping yonder with mighty sledge freed the atmosphere of elec- tricity by obliterating snails and slugs, while peaceful Caroline watered a few seedlings she had planted near the porch. In the twilight the face of George Corindon ap- peared above the gate ; no doubt the coming of night had made it ghastly. He was beckoning, shaking towards the two he loved a newspaper. They went to him, passing Caroline who did not become aware of the silent messenger. George seized at Cyril, drew him on, unconscious then of 504 WINTERING HAY Eva, who followed almost smiling to see George lurching to and fro like Captain Mutter with the sledge. They went into the trackway, where it was dark already because trees were over them. " The address ? " George kept on moaning. " The last address ? " " Whose address ? " asked Cyril stupidly. " The only one that can matter Rhoda's." Cyril spoke it. Then George dropped the paper and began to gnaw his fingers. " Have you seen of it ? Have you heard ? " " We do not get the paper here until the morning." " Take it. Go into the light and read. I have marked the place. This is the happy ending our happy ending." It was Eva who picked up the paper. She and her brother went upon the Shelf, and beside the Chapel, tenanted by rats only, they read together : no rare story. Both had heard of tragedies like this, such as must happen while passion lasts, and tongues are wild, and men cannot bear with insults patiently. Up the steps, and between the fern-fronds, tottered the weak figure of George Corindon, once the strong boy called to be a help to others, whose ambition it had been to serve as chaplain in some prison to strengthen criminals ; and now felt one himself. He groped to them, and during those moments Eva permitted him to lean upon her. She was calm. This did not mean so much to her. She had been through the streets and rubbed her gentle shoulders against tragedy. What was such a life more or less ? Kit Cokes and Rhodas were not needed. Who mourns the crushing of a parasite, or grieves to see the vicious growth destroyed ? There was still some hardness left in Eva, bred between Thames Street and Andrew Mutter. " Found in bed ; with her throat cut," panted Cyril. " Quite dead. She cannot speak," said Eva. " Cyril, we are murderers," cried George. " A regular murderer." " Be quiet," said Eva. " Do you want anybody coming down the trackway to hear ? " THE REVELATION $05 " It is she ? Not a friend ? " " It must be she by the description." " Suspicion rests on nobody." " It will fall on me," groaned Cyril. " Don't be so foolish," said Eva steadily. " You have not been away from here for even half a day. The name is given as Miss Berry ' known as Dolly Berry/ " she read. " Thank heaven ! I never wrote to her ; and she has changed her lodgings lately/' gasped Cyril. " Still there would be envelopes. The postmarks might tell them something." " Is it likely she would keep envelopes ? " said Eva. " What are you saying ? Is there a chance ? Can we clear ourselves ? " asked George in a wild and stuttering fashion. " How did you send the money ? " Eva went on. " By postal orders. She told me she would not be bothered to change cheques. She will be recognised by photographs." " We must wait," said Eva. Terrible days went by. A certain section of the press devoted a vast amount of space to the sordid tragedy, but no arrest was made, and no messenger of evil drew near Wintering Hay. Nothing was found in the girl's room to disclose her identity. The landlady swore she knew the victim only as Miss Berry, but she admitted having taken in a letter addressed to Mrs. Somebody or other ; she could not remember the name, but rather thought it began with a P. A verdict of wilful murder was brought against some person unknown ; the affair quickly lessened in importance, dwindled into paragraphs of the smallest magnitude ; until Cyril and George were left to stare at each other, and to confess that they themselves were the murderers of the wild, pathetic child who had gone out to play with the world under the frivolous name of Dolly Berry. " I have heard nothing from Maria," said George. " She never looks at a newspaper, but I thought she would see one of the published photographs. None of them were in 506 WINTERING HAY the least like Rhoda as we knew her ; she must have changed a good deal, but her face was badly gashed in the struggle, and by attempting to restore it the photographer has given quite a new expression." " I felt certain some of the people about Barnstaple or Deadberry would recognise her ; but I should not have done so myself." " You are sure it is she ? " " It must be. Her allowance was due ; I have not sent it, and no demand has reached me." " It seems we are to be protected," George muttered. " We have now nothing but a memory to live with." " I would rather have Fley's body to deal with than the thought of that child huddled up against the wall in her nightdress. I shall be tortured by that poor little nose as long as I live," declared the unhappy Cyril ; and presently he added, " Good-bye, George. I am going away." " Where are you going ? Cannot I come with you ? " begged George wistfully. " I am going to a place where I can harm nobody. It seems I must live alone. You will stay at Burntbeer and work out your destiny on the land. If we lived together I should harm you still more, and you might turn against me. Even our firm friendship might end in bloodshed. Good- bye, George, dear old George. You have struggled to give me happiness, as you are now struggling to win Eva for yourself. Like me, you have tried to conquer a mountain with a spade. Love is the leading incident of life, but not the greatest thing, not necessary as the best for you and for me. Something will come out of Nature for each of us : to you from the fields ; to me from the solitude. We shall make a success, we shall do well enough, if we leave love alone. Good-bye, old George. Whatever you have done that seems evil you were forced to do by me and because of your affection for me." Then followed good-bye to Caroline of sharp tongue and kind heart, good-bye to the hulk Elias, God be with you to Eva. It was necessary to leave the atmosphere of Winter- THE REVELATION 507 ing Hay and abandon the romance of Thirty ; to live in the place of the young days no more ; to see it merely as a visitor while his aunt lived. Very early, as the sun was coming up shooting golden arrows between the firs, Cyril went out upon a lonely journey, passed into a deep lane and walked away beneath the honeysuckle, murmuring to himself, " Now I am going home " ; and so continued along lonely trackways, beside the deep shadow of woods, making a detour to avoid villages, fearful of doing harm to man or beast ; until the same old sun falling blinded him with gold-dust, and it was evening ; and from the last hill, standing solitary like some boundary stone, he glanced over a wooded cleave, across a pleasant slope of fields, and beheld the little whitewashed cottage smiling, but lonely ; and at a distance the thin smoke of a sheltered barton, also lonely ; and the dull brown ribbon of a pathway winding along through the gate to be twisted up under the bower of Sweet Briar Lane, also lonely. He was at home ; and as he went over to take possession of this land, a labourer came by, and said : " Mr. Wilson, sir ; good night." This was the end of the journey : a welcome and a wish. Cyril Rossingall was not here, but had succumbed, and in his place walked the quiet student, the lover of Nature, the man who was gentle in all his acts, and felt pain if by chance he harmed a living thing ; such was Mr. Wilson of Lavender Cottage, and it was he whom the labouring man greeted with a wish that his sleep might be good, calling him by his rightful name ; for Cyril Rossingall had been left in his own house more than twenty miles away to reproach himself for the murder of child Rhoda ; and the tired man with earnest face, climbing steadily upwards, from the valley of the cleave to the hill-top, from darkness to light, was without doubt the well-known philosopher of Blue Violet, the gentle Mr. Wilson, the popular Mr. Wilson, the good Mr. Wilson ready to help others. Only a struggle lay between the chrysalis and the perfect form ; only a walk separated the criminal from the stage of uprightness. Here days went by ; and Cyril felt the burden slipping 508 WINTERING HAY off while he roamed a well-remembered country, seeing the old wonder of morning and evening, lost from all eyes in silent fields, going down deep lanes, along bottoms made spiritual by a heavenly blue of flowers and butterflies, through the woods, feeling the influence of Nature return- ing in love, forcing open his two pair of eyes, working on all the senses. For he was free, he was lonely ; what more could be given except forgetfulness ? And that too was coming in the life which stupefied but made alive. And he loved what woman in the world could match that moon- mist, so lovely, so gentle, above all so silent ? It was tfte gift of speech that spoilt the world yonder. Here was no wild language, no abuse, no sin, nor thought of it, nor temptation of passion and selfish vice which had wrecked the withered years across the hills and far beyond. The burden was falling off; yet Cyril Rossingall was still a murderer. Here weeks went by ; and peace was coming fast. What joy it was to wake and feel the loving atmosphere of Blue Violet pouring in, to seat himself beside a window framed with never-to-be-forgotten flowers, watching with dreamy eyes the flight of insects, nuptial without heat of passion, or trying to catch the love-words from the courtships of gay birds. What experiments might here be made with the soothing things of Nature, what secret might be extracted, what knowledge might be won ? Whisperings and murmurings must soon cross over cleave and field, enter- ing that quiet, warm old room where the traveller, whose journey of pain seemed almost over, returned each evening after a spiritual ramble to recline with an old book of giants and fairies. Peace was well established ; yet Cyril Rossingall had been evil in his life. Here months went by ; and forgetfulness spread onward like white mist off the hills. It was easy to walk by Broom Hill, to notice strangers moving at a distance beneath the sycamores, to pass down the hill from its gateway, and so along the rough path where a struggle had taken place some time ; but no sting was there, no sharp THE REVELATION 509 remembrance, no pain. It was easy to write to Eva, hoping that Miss Corindon was well, and George was growing strong again. It was difficult to think of Rhoda in Blue Violet. Not very far away, while Cyril mused upon the secret link between plants and animals, another lover of Nature, old, ragged, but untamed, bent to gather with hands that were losing strength a wayside flower ; and before placing it in his rotten cap he brought it near his eyes, discovered a drop of dew and wondered at the blending of sunlit drop with the scented heart of the. bloom ; and he too tried to muse upon the secret link between the perfection of Nature and his own foul body, then went on to cheat and rob. In reply to this comrade's hymn to liquor, the student yonder might have sung : ' ' Another sin, another sin ! Another sin will do me good. I'll do another sin." One went down willingly, to the custom born, the other was driven by cowardice ; but moral cowardice was bound to lead to acts more fearful than naked unmorality. And the student might have chanted after hearing the echo of the tramp's defiant cry along the lanes, ''I'll stay with this life. There's luck in this life for me. I'll walk along this road all the days of my life." Yet the one worked and did his best, and would in time win great renown ; while the other was idle, and lived by his wits, not having the soul to know a better road, and would reach at last a dunghill death. Fancy now was let down by a silver cord through a distant storm-cloud ; and Mr. Wilson was a better man than most. So years went by ; and everything seemed clear. To the student of Blue Violet, whose mind had become pro- found, the vision of Nature had been revealed, so far as may be, and he knew she was very human in her jealousy, marvellously feminine, a goddess far below the great First Principle. She it was who, like a wanton, had lured him out to find her as a boy, declaring he should have no other, giving him many a picture of herself, displaying her charms, and tempting him to sin, not once, but often ; and then 510 WINTERING HAY repenting as it were of dragging him down, had flung her arms about him and soothed him gently to rest upon her bosom. Having conquered she was merciful, and to make amends gave all she could : such knowledge as a man may come to by living with her, such beauty as can patiently be borne, such happiness as comes to few ; for Mr. Wilson was a happy man ; and had found what was for him the best thing in life. It was possible to banish the past, and let it lie as dead, and rise from it to a great success, to a state .untroubled by memory or base thought. This was not conquest of self, but the action of peaceful Nature upon a soul created for loneliness. Back in the noisy world many sins of weakness waited for Cyril Rossingall, but Wilson the philosopher would never turn in that direction ; and Eva, still living with the aged aunt at Wintering Hay, was well aware she must never attempt to share life with her brother. Nature had held him throughout the years, and to her he was bound. But the sister rejoiced to know that the end would be good, and the mind of man being beyond his own understanding the gentle scholar, who had forced himself into the world of human beings to end the poacher's life, hasten the inevitable death of his kindliest friend, and drive out the girl-wife to be murdered, the man who could not harm a living thing, the man who taught morality and courage, had come to peace, and reached perfect happiness with what was most beautiful in present life : Nature, clad in working wonders, lying in light and loneliness upon the land. THE END , WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. POINTERS. PLYMOUTH RECENT 6/- FICTION Ask at your Library for the following: *Sydnor Harrison *Mary Johnston Ford Madox Hueffer * Percy White *G. B. Lancaster *Sir Edmund C. Cox 'Frankfort Moore *lnez Haynes Gillmore * Meredith Nicholson *W. E. Norris * Horace Caradoc * Hector Munro * Edward Noble "May Sinclair *Hilaire Belloc *A. J. Dawson * Harry James Smith *G. B. Lancaster *James Prior * Alice Brown *Clara Louise Burnham * Dorothy Margaret Stuart *Una L. Silberrad * Elizabeth Stuart Phelps * F. Warre Cornish * Andy Adams *Mrs. George Wemyss QUEED THE LONG ROLL LADIES WHOSE BRIGHT EYES THE BROKEN PHIAL THE HONOURABLE PEGGY (2nd Impression) The Achievements of JOHN CAK- RUTHERS THE MARRIAGE OF BARBARA PHOEBE AND ERNEST THE SIEGE OF THE SEVEN SUITORS VITTORIA VICTRIX GEOFFREY SANCLAIR MRS. ELMSLEY CHAINS (3rd Impression) THE CREATORS PONGO AND THE BULL THE LAND OF HIS FATHERS ENCHANTED GROUND JIM OF THE RANGES FORTUNA CHANCE JOHN WINTERBOURNE'S FAMILY CLEVER BETSY MARTIN THE MUMMER DECLINED WITH THANKS (3rd Impression) A DESERTED HOUSE DARWELL STORIES WELLS BROTHERS PEOPLE OF POPHAM (3rd Impression) PUBLISHED AT 5 - EACH "Mrs. George Wemyss THE PROFESSIONAL AUNT Maria Star Stella Callaghan (3rd Impression) AL1STAIR: A ROMANCE THE LITTLE GREEN GATE "Isabel Butler C5/- net.) TALES FROM THE OLD FRENCH W.J.Hopkins C3/6) THE MEDDLINGS OF EVE * For Opinions of the Press see the following Pages London: CONSTABLE & CO. LTD. 10 Orange Street W.C. THE SIEGE OF THE SEVEN SUITORS By MEREDITH NICHOLSON MORNING POST. "Those who read 'The House of a Thousand Candles' will rejoice to hear that the author is in his best form in ' The Siege of the Seven Suitors.' This is evidently a book for lovers of laughter and for laughing lovers. The book sparkles with good things." DAILY TELEGRAPH." The book is delicate, tender, sweet romance. Mr. Nicholson has so ready an imagination and so delightful a manner of combining the whimsical with the actual that his story should prove one of the most popular novels of the season." DAILY NEWS. " An excellent extravaganza, told with that zest for detail and con- vincing seriousness which mark the best ' yarns. ' " EVENING STANDARD. "The book is a quaint mixture of the farcical and the actual, and distinctly original." VITTORIA VICTRIX By V. E. NORRIS STANDARD. "A smartly written book. . . . We are given some excellent character studies ... a light, enjoyable book thoroughly to be recommended." DAILY MAIL. " A good story ... a book that does not contain a dull page. Mr. N orris is so skilful a writer . . . an eminently readable novel." PALL MALL. "The graceful ease of style, the cleverness with which the intrigue is managed, the satisfactory surprise at the finish, and the excellent character drawing, all help to make ' Vittoria Victrix ' a book to delight the novel reader." GLOBE." Mr. Norris takes us into the sunny ways of life, to the house of the affluent where we meet many remarkable characters well expressed . . . the story is never dull." LADIES' FIELD." An attractive book . . . readable in the best sense of the word." GEOFFREY SANCLAIR By HORACE CARADOC DAILY TELEGRAPH. "We like this novel. . . . There is a Disraelian touch about it. . . . ' Geoffrey Sanclair ' is extremely human ... the whole book is a success." SUNDAY TIMES. "The book is full of delightful and attractive people . . . singularly lifelike." VANITY FAIR. " ' Geoffrey Sanclair ' is a fine character . . . the story enchains the interest from the commencement, whilst the end works the reader up to a great pitch of excitement." DUNDEE ADVERTISER." Hail to Horace Caradoc ! In ' Geoffrey Sanclair ' hescores a distinct success ... a tale intensely dramatic and of remarkable power . . . one of the great novels of the year, and the sooner it is read the better." ABERDEEN FREE PRESS. " The author has woven his plot with much skill, and his story is absorbingly interesting . . . the varied panorama of society so brilliantly por- trayed makes the work one which deserves to live." London: CONSTABLE & CO., LTD. 10 Orange Street W.C. MRS. ELMSLEY By HECTOR MUNRO TIMES. "Mr. Munro has constructed the social world of his story with a truly Balzacian attention to detail. We hail gladly such sound and conscientious work." MORNING POST. " The author of 'Mrs. Elmsley' has thought deeply and studied men and things to good purpose . . . the result is a careful and most interesting piece of work ; we congratulate its author on his debut." GLOBE." A thoughtful book ... has a sociological value apart from its solid qualities as a work of fiction." MORNING LEADER." A remarkably promising novel." SUNDAY TIMES." ' Mrs. Elmsley ' is a strong book full of thought and feeling and breadth of outlook, and a sense of what Carlyle called ' the realities. ' " DUNDEE ADVERTISER." This wholly enjoyable novel ... a really effective story." THE CREATORS By MAY SINCLAIR TIMES." A comedy crowded with tragic moments." DAILY TELEGRAPH. "The tale is interesting, the dialogue is sparkling, and the characters amuse us." EVENING STANDARD says : " For the world at large it will ever be an admirably written novel of character, original and vital." PALL MALL GAZETTE. " This extremely clever book ... an excellent piece of work." DAILY MAIL. "Miss Sinclair's brilliant novel. She has given us an astounding mass of fine material in this novel, finely conceived and finely worked out . . . most skilfully constructed and full of observation, insight, and humour." ATHENAEUM. "The story, like all Miss Sinclair's work, is well written, unusual, and attractive." BRITISH WEEKLY. " ' The Creators ' is one of singular subtlety, elaborated with the utmost skill and almost uncanny in its frank revelation of the hearts of women." MRS. JAMES DOUGLAS writes: " If ' The Creators ' Lad been written by Henry James or George Meredith it would be bailed as a masterpiece of comedy " ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS. " The book is marvellously clever nay great . a rare and wonderful book." CHAINS By EDWARD NOBLE ( Third Impression.) DAILY TELEGRAPH. " Mr. Noble is a powerful and original writer, and has decidedly made an advance in his career as an arresting writer ... a stirring tale, and we follow it with great interest." GLOBE. " There are few who able story ... a strong novel, fea PALL MALL GAZETTE. " The story is distinguished fo IRISH TIMES." This is a tense and powerful story. There is beautiful and vivid word painting." COUNTRY LIFE. "The conviction and knowledge of the story are undeniable, and the inferno of Boragio, and the other inferno that in one brief moment ended it, are alike described with tremendous force. " ATHENAEUM." We should not be surprised if this proved the most widely popular of the author's excellent novels." est. who will not be interested in the personages of this admir- (1, fearlessly written and arresting in its force." " The story is distinguished for life and movement." London: CONSTABLE & CO. LTD. 10 Orange Street W.C. PONGO AND THE BULL By HILAIRE BELLOC TIMES." The rush and brilliance of this tale." DAILY NEWS. "A brilliant social satire which is a delight to read , , . immensely amusing." MORNING POST." The whole book is the same curiously fantastic mixture of satire and extravagance that we have learnt to expect from Mr. Belloc. It is no whit less successful than its predecessors." ATHENAEUM. " The story resolves itself into contemptuously rollicking laughter at the tricks of political life." EVENING STANDARD." A brilliant piece of work." OBSERVER. " The book is a thoroughly racy satire." THE LAND OF HIS FATHERS By A. J. DAWSON TIMES. " Very brightly and well written. . . . Full of life and character.' STANDARD. "Mr. Dawson's vigorous and manly story. He is able to interest one so completely ... a fine book, strong and wholesome." EVENING STANDARD. " Quite an extraordinary insight into human character marks Mr. Dawson's book. From beginning to end it keeps very close to nature ... a fine piece of plot construction." WESTMINSTER GAZETTE. " A novel that is fresh and stimulating from start to finish." COUNTRY LIFE. "The vigour and soundness of its teaching are worthy of unqualified praise." ENCHANTED GROUND By HARRY JAMES SMITH ATHEN.SUM. cc A very cleverly constructed and exciting work." SUNDAY TIMES. "A very entertaining and well-constructed story." BOOK MONTHLY. " A new author, and worth trying." MANCHESTER COURIER. "The book is well written, and the characters stand out clearly." BIRMINGHAM POST. "A human and moving story, and the characters are one and all of them drawn with skill." DUNDEE ADVERTISER. "The name of Harry James Smith is new to me, but I shall keep it in mind. For this novel is admirably written, with an individual style and view." London : CONSTABLE & CO. LTD. 10 Orange Street W.C. JIM OF THE RANGES By G. B. LANCASTER TIMES. "Among the strenuous and vivid novelists of Colonial life Mrs. Lancaster is one of the best ; and those who like the kind of thing cannot do better than read this story." MORNING POST." Mrs. Lancaster has surpassed herself in 'Jim of the Ranges.'" DAILY CHRONICLE. "A fine book, belonging, for its power of catching the atmo- sphere of wild places, to the same class of novels as Mrs. Robins' ' Magnetic North.'" PALL MALL GAZETTE." Many dramatic incidents, vivid and enthralling, bid us recommend this book to all who love a story big with adventure." DAILY MIRROR. " One might describe it as Bret Harte and the humour left out and much luxuriance, of a rather extravagant imagination, put in." SHEFFIELD DAILY TELEGRAPH. " The story teems with vivid incident . . . possesses reality ... a vigorous romance. A tale with a fascination of its own." FORTUNA CHANCE By JAMES PRIOR TIMES." A good tale, given with great fulness and fertility of interest." DAILY CHRONICLE." A novel of quite unusual interest and power." MORNING LEADER. " This fine novel." GLOBE." The story is excellent, full of humour and variety The originality of the novel keeps the reader constantly on the alert." BRITISH WEEKLY. " This spirited novel, written in gallant ashion." SCOTSMAN. "There is a wealth of local scenery and customs, strong situations, and moving passions in the romance." COUNTRY LIFE. "A first-rate story." MORNING POST." Many adventures and a great romantic interest." JOHN WINTERBOURNE'S FAMILY By ALICE BROWN MORNING POST." This excellent story . . . full of quaint humour . . . The interplay of character upon character makes the whole charm for the reader, and we could not dispense with one of them without a flaw, they form such a connected whole." DAILY CHRONICLE. "A story with a delicate sense of humour and with a delicate sense of character. It is a warm, sympathetic atmosphere which enwraps one from the first page." ACADEMY. "An absorbing book the characters are delightfully drawn." SUNDAY TIMES." The book contains some really fine character drawing, and the people seem to be living breathing figures." MANCHESTER GUARDIAN. "So many are its excellences . . . The story is altogether delightful." ,- London : CONSTABLE & CO. LTD. 10 Orange Street W.C. CLEVER BETSY By CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM MORNING POST." Some wonderful descriptions. . . . The author's characters are delightful." DAILY CHRONICLE. " The book has the same quiet charm, humour, and pathos as ' Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch.' " IRISH TIMES." An exceedingly well written and very delightful story." SCOTSMAN." Whether at home or abroad the author is a perpetual delight, and she establishes her claim to cleverness." MORNING LEADER. " Miss Burnham provides on almost every page a quaint humour that ensures to the reader enjoyment ' good and plenty.' " SHEFFIELD TELEGRAPH." This tale with its homely sketches and kindly humour ; it has a real charm." LIVERPOOL DAILY POST." A delightfully wholesome and original story." MARTIN THE MUMMER By DOROTHY MARGARET STUART DAILY CHRONICLE." The book gives an elaborate and careful picture of mediaeval life, and has some strong moments." THE WORLD. " Od'sbodikins but 'tis a merry tale.. . a most knightly narrative, full of gallant deeds and amorous adventures." THE MANCHESTER GUARDIAN. "Miss Stuart's descriptive and narrative passages are written with an imaginative vigour and a power over words that are rare in books of this style." SCOTSMAN." Boldly imagined and vigorously told, always pleasant to read.' LIVERPOOL POST." One of the best written stories of the days of chivalry. The author makes the old centuries live again." DECLINED WITH THANKS By UNA L. SILBERRAD (Third Impression.} EVENING STANDARD." The subjects are unusual and strong, the characterisation powerful and convincing, and the style clever and always exactly suited to the subject with which it deals." BOOKMAN. " Those people who demand insight and thoroughness of treatment rather than briskness and sensation, will find in ' Declined with Thanks ' a book which will satisfy their wants." PUBLISHERS' CIRCULAR. "' Declined with Thanks' contains some very interesting stories of a highly interesting character . . . enjoy the healthy entertainment of pure fiction." THE LADY. "Undeniably powerful and fascinating.' London : CONSTABLE & CO. LTD. 10 Orange Street W.C. PEOPLE OF POPHAM By Mrs. GEORGE WEMYSS Fourth Impression. "ARTHUR PENDENYS" in "Books of To-day," says :" It is the leading characters in the book who intoxicate us with joy when we contemplate them . . . The whole volume is a perfect bit of kind and delicious humour ... the characters are beautiful ... all the children are adorable." MORNING LEADER : " There is abundant fine material in it" THE MEDDLINGS OF EVE. 3/6 By W. J. HOPKINS Author of "Old Harbor." DAILY MAIL." The book is altogether charming simple and bright and true and tender." THE PROFESSIONAL AUNT By Mrs. GEORGE WEMYSS Third Impression. Price 55. TIMES. "Lively and winning." DAILY CHRONICLE. "A joyous, pleasure-giving Tolume." DAILY MAIL. " Altogether charming." SPECTATOR. " A remarkably pretty book." BOOKMAN. " A delicious and dainty sketch of a charming Aunt . . . one puts the book down with regret that it is finished, but with pleasures in the thought that the unselfish Aunt is to have her chance of happiness in a house of her own." TATLBR. " Humorous, charming, and delightful." WELLS BROTHERS A most absorbing and wholesome new story By ANDY ADAMS " The author's many years' experience as a cowboy combines, with a happy knack for story-telling, to make this one of the most accurate, thrilling, and entertaining Western stories which has ever appeared and an ideal book for boys." London : CONSTABLE & CO. LTD. 10 Orange Street W.C. A DESERTED HOUSE By ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WORLD. "The book holds the reader's interest from first to last, and closes with a dramatic touch well conceived and executed." OBSERVER." Written with charm and a precision of style that recalls Mrs. Edith Wharton." YORKSHIRE POST. " The book is a permanent acquisition to the shelf of fiction." DARWELL STORIES By F. WARRE CORNISH THE MORNING POST says : "Here, indeed, is a charming book which ought not to be neglected." STANDARD. " It is now ten years since " Sunningwell " delighted us with its quiet humour, observation and wisdom, all sorts and conditions of men. Mr. Cornish has kept silence since then, and now at last he has come forward with some quiet, simple stories, which are certainly something delightful." THE PALL MALL GAZETTE writes :" Characters almost worthy of a place among the immortals to whom Dickens, Thackeray, and George Eliot have chained our affec- tions. The story is a masterpiece, and brings the author at a bound into a foremost place among the novelists of to-day." THE EVENING STANDARD." This is a book to read with a keen appreciation, a book that is literature and withal a very readable book." THE SPECTATOR : " The qualities which mark Mr. Cornish's work will win him a hearing from all lovers of good style and level thinking." TALES FROM THE OLD FRENCH Selected by Isabel Butler Decorative Title and Chapter Headings. Crown 8vo. 55. net. Typical Old French Tales which illustrate the mode of thought, sentiment, religious belief, superstitions, and even the daily life of the Middle Ages. ATHENAEUM. " In every respect a charming book . . . translated with simplicity and directness . . . shows a true understanding of the period in which the stories were written. We commend this dainty volume to anyone who wishes to sample mediaeval French literature at its best." London : CONSTABLE CO. LTD. 10 Orange Street W.C. THE BROKEN PHIAL PERCY WHITE Pall Mall Gazette" The tragedy is thoroughly holding and crisply told." Globe" The story is of so excellent a quality. It is for all to read. Its plot is well-conceived. The plot is for all to read." Punch 11 1 thank the gods that the author has given us a heroine who really lives, and loves, and suffers for her love." THE HONOURABLE PEGGY Second Impression. O. B. LANCASTER Daily Chronicle " The author is clever enough to make his new novel entertaining all the way through." Daily Mail" There is power in the book." Evening Standard" A skilful working out of a clever plot." THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF JOHN CARRUTHERS SIR EDMUND c. cox Pall Mall Gazette " The admirers of 'John Carruthers' will welcome this further instalment of stories .... all are excellent." Globe" No one who can enjoy the unravelling of mysteries should omit to read this volume." THE MARRIAGE OF BARBARA FRANKFORT MOORE Pall Mall Gazette "This moving story is one to be read with breathless interest, with many a surprise, and continuous delight . . . thrilling and picturesque." Evening Standard "A tale of real charm and full of stir and action." Morning Post "No one need fear having his interest awakened and held if he arms himself with ' The Marriage of Barbara ' for a holiday." London: CONSTABLE & CO. LTD. 10 Orange Street W.C. NEW 6/- NOVEL BY Mary Johnston THE LONG ROLL THE PALL MALL GAZETTE says: "A piece of descriptive writing of the rarest excellence. 'The Long Roll' is a great literary achievement." THE DAILY NEWS says : " Miss Mary Johnston's vigour and her strenuousness never abate. Every action is to be made big with destiny. Every scene is pregnant, every voice in the air is an alarm ; even the stillness of the night is fraught with omen. There is a wonderful vitality and enthusiasm poured out in these pages." THE DAILY CHRONICLE says: "Miss Mary Johnston's fine book. The story is chock full of vigour and movement and colour." 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London : CONSTABLE & CO. LTD. 10 Orange Street W.C. "This thought-compelling book ought to do England invaluable service." Truth Sir WILLIAM BUTLER AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY 16s. net. Daily News." Here is a book worth reading." Westminster Gazette." Here is a new light on recent history." Morning Post "The record Butler has left is worthy of the life he lived." Standard. "The record of a great thinker, a brilliant soldier, a high-minded gentleman." Pall Mall Gazette. "None can resist the fascinating matter and style of the Autobiography." Spectator. "A delightful narrative of adventure and the revelation of a lovable character." Athenaeum." More alive and alert than any other life-record of recent years." SIR FREDERICK HAINES By ROBERT S. RAIT, Fellow of New College, Oxford. Demy 8vo. Illustrated. 10s.6d.net. Frederick Paul Haines fought his first battles against the Sikhs, serv- ~Tis letters describe the battl important as to Inkerman. i 1 ICUC11CK. ^<1U1 JldlHCS lUUgUL Uia IUM UdLl _ ing as Lord Cough's Military Secretary. His letters describe the battles of Alma and Balaclava, and are specially im The Times. "The book is of great value to students of the political and military history of India in the nineteenth century." Daily Telegraph. "Mr. Rait has been able to make use of Sir Frederick's letters and papers and has done so with good effect, so that his volume is not only a biography of the soldier, but also a work throwing many fresh lights on some aspects of the campaigns in which he was engaged." Daily Chronicle." Mr. Rait has sketched for us the career of a soldier who was as cultured as he was courageous and as blame- less in all the walks of life as he was ever bold in battle a British Bayard, in fact, without fear and without reproach." London: CONSTABLE & CO. LTD. 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UNIVERSITY OP CALIFORNIA LIBRARY THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW NOV 23 191$ SEP 1719^8 L3 V 30w-l,'15 I U U / D 310167 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY