REVENUES OF THE WICKED
 
 THE REVENUES 
 
 OF 
 
 THE WICKED 
 
 BY WALTER RAYMOND 
 
 Author of " Tryphena in Love " " Young Sam and Sabina " 
 " The Book of Simple Delights," &c., &c. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 E. P. DUTTON & CO 
 
 1912
 
 In the house of the righteous 
 
 is much treasure: 
 
 But in the revenues of the wicked 
 is trouble. Proverbs xv, 6. 
 
 2137836
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK I: THE REVENUE OF PROSPERITY 
 
 Chapter I Page 
 
 Hatchbarrow 3 
 
 Chapter II 
 
 Shearing n 
 
 Chapter III 
 
 The Beacon Head 26 
 
 Chapter IV 
 
 The Party 41 
 
 Chapter V 
 
 Sweet Moonlight 64 
 
 Chapter VI 
 
 The End of the Party 69 
 
 Chapter VII 
 
 John and Jane 73 
 
 BOOK II. RETROSPECTION 
 Chapter I 
 
 Retrospection 83 
 
 BOOK III. THE REVENUE OF DOUBTS AND FEARS 
 Chapter I 
 
 Thomasine's Diplomacy 125
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Chapter II 
 
 Deep Soundings 136 
 
 Chapter III 
 
 To Netherton-Town 149 
 
 Chapter IV 
 
 What Philip had to TeU 169 
 
 Chapter V 
 
 Thomasine's Return 172 
 
 BOOK IV. THE REVENUE OF TROUBLE 
 
 Chapter I 
 
 Confessions , . 181 
 
 Chapter II 
 
 The Decision 198 
 
 Chapter III 
 
 Thomasine Tells 207 
 
 Chapter IV 
 
 The Surprise 218 
 
 Chapter V 
 
 Discomfiture . 229 
 
 Chapter VI 
 
 Humiliation 237 
 
 Chapter VII 
 
 Once More the Hearth 243 
 
 EPILOGUE 249
 
 BOOK I. THE REVENUE OF PROSPERITY
 
 The Revenues of the Wicked 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 HATCHBARROW 
 
 AN evening in early June. 
 
 The sun hung in the sky above a rift in the 
 horizon, a wood-clad chasm, through which a hidden 
 river rushes down its valley between two moors. 
 The west was all aglow so golden, so resplendent, 
 that the distant moorland below it, fast darkening 
 into shadow, had put on a robe of purple, richer, 
 deeper and more sumptuous than the flower of the 
 heather yet to come. 
 
 In those days you might have crossed Eddyford 
 Common fifty times without chancing upon any 
 human soul. You might almost do the same to- 
 day. And yet on that summer afternoon, as cousin 
 Jane Peters of Eddyford subsequently affirmed, the 
 whole country " did seem alive wi' folk." Cousin 
 Jane Peters had never in ah 1 her life seen such a sight 
 of folk not all to one minute not outside of a town, 
 of course. From all sides people were coming ; and 
 when cousin Jane Peters afterwards counted them 
 up on her fingers, she could swear to ten at the very 
 least. Well, she waited for two and walked on in 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 their company. She did not wait for the others 
 because "'twas mostly a pa'cel o' giddy maidens" 
 and the rest were more than a mile off. Under such 
 circumstances it was not to be expected. She waited 
 for Peter Jay, the parish clerk, because he was a 
 staid man and short of breath. Perspiration, ready 
 and profuse, was the boast of cousin Jane Peters, and 
 on the way to a party, and dressed a little heavy for 
 the season, she was not going to walk herself into a 
 bath o' sweat. Not likely. And she waited for uncle 
 Jeremiah Brook, as of course anybody would he 
 such a great age, in his long white beard so hand- 
 some as Moses in a picture Bible. Besides, uncle 
 Jeremiah Brook was lonely in life and with money 
 to leave. Thus he was worthy of both sympathy 
 and respect. So, one behind the other along the 
 uneven track, they all three walked on their way to 
 Hatchbarrow very comfortably together. 
 
 Cousin Jane Peters was an ample middle-aged 
 spinster in a coal-scuttle bonnet which almost hid 
 her comely but rather commonplace face, and a gown 
 which was really a springtime of bright flowers. 
 
 Peter Jay, except that no cascade of black crpe 
 " weepers " dropped over his back, was dressed for 
 a funeral, as was usual on any occasion of festivity. 
 
 At his age uncle Jeremiah Brook did not waste 
 money on new clothes. His cloth gaiters were sadly 
 in creases. His jacket was rusty upon the shoul- 
 ders. His beaver hat showed slight but unmistak- 
 able symptoms of mange. Uncle Jeremiah Brook
 
 HATCHBARROW 5 
 
 had no need of vain show with his beard and 
 intellect. 
 
 All the world was for Hatchbarrow. 
 
 As we also have to get to Hatchbarrow we are 
 lucky to fall in with three wayfarers so conversant 
 with that household and so competent to show us 
 the way. 
 
 " I must speak," said uncle Jeremiah Brook, 
 whom great age and wisdom were for ever com- 
 pelling to adverse criticism. " Of all God-forsaken 
 places in creation, Hatchbarrow do, to my mind, 
 stand the most alone." 
 
 " And yet always look pleasant," smiled cousin 
 Jane Peters, who always looked pleasant herself 
 when on the way to a party. 
 
 " In summer do. An' in winter so pleasant 
 as can," agreed Peter Jay. 
 
 " An' though so lonesome like no place more in 
 sight. For mount any hill for miles an' look about, 
 in the right direction to be sure there is Hatch- 
 barrow." 
 
 " So 'tis." 
 
 "An' so certain, that when you be out o' sight 
 in a coombe or a valley, you do seem to know he's 
 there." 
 
 " Now don't 'ee ? " reflected Peter Jay. 
 
 " You do. But mind John Scutt do keep^the 
 house so constant whited." 
 
 " Keep a house whited, so I've a-heard tell, and 
 for witch or devil 'tis the go-by," said the parish clerk.
 
 6 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " I must speak. If there is any witching o' 
 Hatchbarrow must be from inside. If the devil do 
 ever go there, John Scutt must ha' squared un 
 somehow." 
 
 " Oh! he've a-squared un for certain," said Peter 
 Jay, who not being a relative had no need to knuckle 
 down to uncle Jeremiah Brook's bit of money. 
 " He've a-squared the devil the only way there is. 
 John Scutt do work harden' act. straight, a upright 
 honest man. And so anybody in ,jjhis parish can 
 tell 'ee." 
 
 " I must speak, ""'repeated uncle Jeremiah Brook 
 severely, because, after all, Peter Jay could not be 
 called a man of property. "You do show heat. 
 Peter Jay uncalled for." 
 
 " An' how beautiful Tamsin really do keep the 
 front wi' her flowers," interposed cousin Jane Peters. 
 "An' the early roses over the porch an' all." 
 
 " Now, there, 'pon my word, I must speak." 
 Uncle Jeremiah Brook showed unmistakable warmth 
 himself this time. "As to Tamsin, to my mind, 
 both John Scutt and Jane do not only talk weak but 
 act foolish." 
 
 By this time they were all hot cousin Jane 
 Peters perspiring, Peter panting and uncle Jeremiah 
 Brook burning with indignation. So they came to 
 a stop on the hill and mopped their brows as they 
 looked at Hatchbarrow. 
 
 Standing alone on a hill-side facing the south, 
 remote from the village of Eddyford, to which parish
 
 % HATCHBARROW 7 
 
 it belonged, with no other dwelling in sight, the 
 homestead at Hatchbarrow looked out upon a 
 billowy waste, and was solitary as a ship at sea. 
 Yet at this time of the year, in spite of large black 
 patches where the heather had been burnt, the 
 moorland was not sad, hut green with the freshness 
 of young bracken and spangled with clumps of 
 flowering gorse. 
 
 The sunlight had pass$l from the front of the 
 house, it is trua^but it still shone on the " pointing- 
 end," on one wall of the great porch, on the sides of 
 the chimneys and projecting dormers. It gently 
 marked homely and unsuspected undulations of the 
 thatch on barn and shed subtle lines and curves 
 not to be distinguished under cloud or in broad day. 
 The single window in the gable, the pnly one that 
 could catch a gleam of the sun, glistened like a gem. 
 Also the trees, which sheltered this group of build- 
 ings on every side except the front, like a hood 
 around a human face, caught something of the 
 transitory splendour. Mostly beech, on their leaves 
 still lingered a memory of the glossy freshness of 
 spring. But intermingled were ancient weather- 
 beaten firs with bare stems erect and straight. High 
 enough to catch the glance of the sunset, their 
 twisted weather-beaten limbs stood out red and grey 
 from the masses of dark foliage, bright as glowing 
 logs, from which the flame had departed, against a 
 black chimney at the back of a^rmhouse hearth. 
 And close around the homestead was the farm
 
 8 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 corn grounds and fields of grass, enclosed by high 
 banks walled with a primitive open masonry, moss- 
 covered and shadowed by tall overhanging beech 
 hedges. The wheat was green. Fields as yet un- 
 cropped, but tilled as fine as garden soil, were red. 
 The grass was growing for the scythe. This patch 
 of cultivated land was like an island of plenty in 
 a broad ocean of moor and waste. 
 
 Such is the picture of Hatchbarrow seen about a 
 hundred years ago on that evening early in June, 
 at the moment when these three philosophers stood 
 and gazed at it. 
 
 " Well ! What a place is to your own mind so 
 'tis," said cousin Jane Peters with unconscious pro- 
 fundity. 
 
 " An' the Creator of all had no need to bestow 
 every gift 'pon one spot. He did not stint room 
 for His works. Any man wi' one eye can see that." 
 
 "An' the heart is neither sad nor lonesome where 
 there's work." 
 
 " Ah ! Now what did I say ?" Peter Jay raised 
 a hand to demand attention. " When the small- 
 pox were so bad in parish an' folk did come wi' 
 ' Peter, you must find it terr'ble sad so much diggen,' 
 an' what did I tell 'em? 'Pity a poor sexton,' 
 said I ' what can't nourish his heart wi' sadness 
 while so busy.' ' 
 
 " I must speak," said uncle Jeremiah Brook. "If 
 'tis your "meaning that I be a one-eyed man or lazy, 
 your words be water 'pon a duck's back."
 
 HATCHBARROW 9 
 
 " How your uncle do quacky," said Peter Jay. 
 
 Happily at that moment other wayfarers came up. 
 
 Young girls from the village on foot and clad in 
 holiday white came laughing along the winding 
 road which in some places was little better than a 
 rutty track. And others had come into the landscape 
 whom cousin Jane Peters had not seen in the first 
 place. Maidens and matrons on horseback picking 
 a way between the bright green bog and the brown 
 heather, they came from outlying farms on diverse 
 mounts, rough ponies and bony old mares from the 
 plough, with the company frock in a parcel tied to 
 the saddle in front. What matter, so long as they got 
 there ? Pride there was, no doubt, but no room for a 
 paltry pride amongst these moorland folk. The two 
 varieties of mankind were divided, clear to sense 
 as land and water. There were gentle and simple. 
 One man saved and grew rich, another wasted and 
 became poor. That made no difference. Neither 
 could the Rubicon be crossed by the one, nor the 
 latter drop sifted through misfortune's sieve. All 
 more or less kin, there was no labouring class. The 
 richest laboured in the fields, and the women also at 
 the hay and the harvest. He who took a wage earned 
 it of his neighbour and remained none the less a friend. 
 
 Now and then a two-wheeled cart, with some 
 old " gramfer," came jolting over the ruts, but 
 travellers more bent on mirth you never could see. 
 They hailed each other, and laughed and shouted 
 time-honoured jokes across the ancient moor.
 
 io THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 They were hastening to John Scutt's sheep- 
 shearing party. And why this wonder to see the 
 moorland suddenly peopled with old men and 
 women folk ? Have you not heard that they were 
 sheepshearing at Hatchbarrow ? So the young men 
 were already there. 
 
 When they reached the house, Peter Jay and uncle 
 Jeremiah Brook, choosing the coolest and most 
 satisfactory place to assuage their thirst, strolled out 
 into the barton to watch the shearers at work.
 
 II 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 SHEARING 
 
 THE barton that square enclosure bounded by the 
 garden, the cowstalls, the stables and the barn, 
 which townspeople generally call the farmyard 
 was merry with the sound of voices mingled with the 
 bleating of sheep. 
 
 To any stranger coming to Hatchbarrow the 
 barton was worth a glance. 
 
 The outbuildings, although sound by reason of the 
 thickness of their walls, were ancient and weather- 
 beaten. They presented a striking contrast to the 
 comfortable appearance of the well-kept white- 
 washed house. The stone of which they were built 
 was of a rich brown mottled with greys, and the 
 roofs were of many colours, from the pale yellow of 
 last season's reed to the sombre hues of a crumbling 
 thatch, sodden by many a winter's rain and half 
 hidden under bright green moss and patches of 
 houseleek. The cowstalls, empty at this time of 
 the year, were supported by round stone pillars. 
 The great barn was buttressed, and a gable, sheltering 
 a shattered pigeon-box under its eaves, projected 
 from the roof and crowned with a certain dignity its
 
 12 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 lofty doors. Its crumbling stones were plentifully 
 enriched with lichen. Ferns and pennywort were 
 everywhere growing out of the chinks. And on the 
 other side of a low wall rose two great stacks of 
 purple beech faggots, another of rich brown turf 
 cut on the moor for winter firing, and a double row of 
 golden mows of wheat and oats. The whole place 
 was a feast of colour if there had been eyes to see it. 
 To the eyes of the moorland folk the buildings 
 wanted repairs. The stacks were interesting merely 
 as to number and size. 
 
 And yet, so wonderful the unsuspected influences 
 which direct and misdirect the currents of human 
 life, the mysterious spirit of beauty, residing in nooks 
 and corners and lurking under the eaves of these 
 decaying buildings, lay at the beginning of the 
 story which was to work its fulfilment before the 
 wool of this shearing should have time to reach the 
 hands of the weavers. 
 
 This evening the great barn doors were open. 
 From within came a sound of clipping, but the work 
 was just drawing to a close. Over a thin layer of 
 straw a winnowing-sheet had been spread on the 
 barn's floor, for such was the plan for the shearing 
 at Hatchbarrow, and still in the dim of the building 
 prostrate ewes and kneeling men might have been 
 seen. But the last of the flock had been taken. 
 As he finished his sheep each shearer stood upright, 
 stretched his limbs and took a deep breath of fresh 
 air.
 
 SHEARING 13 
 
 " There you be then, Mr. John Scutt." 
 
 " Aye, there you be, John Scutt." 
 
 Thus, one after another, each signified that the j ob 
 was done. Very quickly a various group of young 
 and middle-aged, though all in duck once white but 
 now dirty and yelk-stained, gathered around a stout 
 thick-set man of less than middle height and drawing 
 towards three score years of age, who stood by the 
 barn's door just off the winno wing-sheet. 
 
 " There you be then, Mr. John Scutt." 
 
 His shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows left bare 
 a pair of hairy muscular arms hard and brown as 
 oak. The short fingers of his left hand clutched an 
 almost empty pitch-kettle. In the right he held 
 an iron with which to place a brand upon his sheep. 
 His face was square and his jaw deep. His eye- 
 brows of a ruddy brown colour were straight and 
 low, but so coarse and bristly that they projected 
 like eaves above his grey eyes and prominent cheek- 
 bones. His hair was red, though scarcely of the 
 violent hue that could give him a claim to be called 
 " carroty-headed," and it was abundant. He had 
 been too busy to shave for a couple of days. A 
 rusty stubble covered his chin and long upper lip 
 and encroached far in upon his broad cheeks. So 
 that in his ragged waistcoat, his old cord breeches 
 creased and stained with pitch, his gaiters that here 
 and there wanted a button, he was not altogether 
 a prepossessing figure, and a stranger might have 
 wondered at the rough deference paid him by those
 
 14 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 around. For although the flock was his, the shearers 
 were no hirelings, but neighbours from the village or 
 the homesteads scattered far apart upon the moor. In 
 those old days, of about a century ago, the work of the 
 farm had not been severed from the social life of the 
 neighbourhood. The harvest of the fleece was one 
 of the j oiliest seasons of the year. The party of 
 shearers went from farm to farm, and each day's 
 work was followed by a supper, after which dance 
 and song did not cease until after daybreak. 
 
 All the clipping had ceased except from one pair 
 of shears. 
 
 " Come on, young Isaac. Bring her on. Hold 
 fast a minute." 
 
 " There you be then, Mr. John Scutt." 
 
 " Just off the win-sheet ! That's it," said he of 
 the pitch-kettle in short, impatient sentences. 
 
 The young shearer dragged the ewe forward and 
 held her fast. 
 
 John Scutt set his mark a large letter S with a 
 perpendicular stroke through it on her panting side. 
 
 The others watched in silence and intently, as 
 though this familiar thing were new to them, as 
 country people will. It took time, for the pitch was 
 getting cold and scarcely enough. The iron was 
 applied several times and still the mark was indis- 
 tinct. 
 
 " There ! That must do, young Isaac," cried the 
 owner at last in a tone of discontent with a job not 
 over neat.
 
 SHEARING 15 
 
 Young Isaac released his hold. The ewe scam- 
 pered, bleating, to rejoin the flock huddled in the 
 further corner of the yard beside the gate, and John 
 Scutt's shearing was at an end. 
 
 "So there's another lot done," cried the young 
 Isaac, wiping his shears on the palm of his hand as he 
 stepped into the middle of the group of neighbours. 
 
 The moorland men were mostly tall and straight. 
 They came of a quicker, more nimble-minded race 
 than their distant neighbours in the rich vales to the 
 east of the hill country. Even to-day their speech 
 bewrayeth them, and although their voices are often 
 harsh their dialect retains the softer vowel sounds 
 of the Celt. Toiling and struggling from daybreak 
 to dark against bitter, snow-bound winters, and 
 summers often wet, they lived a hard life. With 
 each other dry and rough, as the bark on the young 
 oaks in the copses, strangers nevertheless remarked 
 upon a natural courtesy quite pleasant to contem- 
 plate. They loved their country understood it and 
 nothing else. It was noticed that any who went 
 away always did well. But few left. They were 
 at home on the hills and the moorland with the 
 ponies and the sheep. 
 
 As fine a show of stalwart youth as eyes could 
 wish to rest upon stood in John Scutt's barton that 
 evening, yet the young Isaac Cledworth outdid the 
 tallest in height by at least two inches. He was 
 thin but wiry and muscular, sandy-haired and 
 freckled, with quick grey eyes having more fight
 
 16 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 than kindness in them. Nature had bestowed on 
 him a countenance of less distinction than the well- 
 featured faces round him a round head, rather 
 small, and a short truculent nose. Yet young Isaac 
 Cledworth was a celebrity, and both for cudgel- 
 playing and wrestling his fame was known for half a 
 dozen counties round. He had a way of shouting 
 statements of universally accepted fact with an air 
 of defying contradiction. And he paid marked 
 deference to the man with the pitch-kettle and spoke 
 his name in a lower and softer tone of voice. 
 
 " Ay ! The biggest flock an' the best that's Mr. 
 John Scutt's o' Hatchbarrow." 
 
 " And that's no lie," responded Peter Jay as 
 solemnly as if he had been in church. 
 
 " And the heaviest shear this summer sheep for 
 sheep that's Mr. John Scutt's o' Hatchbarrow." 
 
 " An' that's gospel truth." 
 
 " An' I'll bet any man a guinea he can't ride half 
 a mile anywhere, from one end to t'other o' Eddy- 
 ford Common, but he'll meet wi' a big S wi' a skiver 
 down his back for that's Mr. John Scutt's o' 
 Hatchbarrow." 
 
 " An' that's a solemn fac'." 
 
 A murmur of universal corroboration passed 
 round the company, as if the congregation had sud- 
 denly aroused itself. 
 
 " A solemn fac'. So 'tis. A solemn fac'." 
 
 At the mention of his wealth, with a wave of the 
 hand, as of a serious man impatient with the empty
 
 SHEARING 17 
 
 tattle of giddy-headed youth, Mr. John Scutt had 
 stepped a little aside. He pulled a tuft of rough 
 grass from the corner between an upping-stock and 
 the garden wall, and stood wiping and rubbing stains 
 of pitch from his fingers. For a reason known to 
 himself the young Isaac was no favourite with him. 
 But he hated any talk of his riches, and when the 
 weight of the fleeces was spoken of he snorted a 
 contemptuous " Pooh ! Pooh ! " 
 
 Suddenly he glanced back over his shoulder and 
 asked sharply: 
 
 " Have 'ee found my sheep any too many for 'ee, 
 young Isaac Cledworth ? " 
 
 The question had a double meaning. Big flock 
 or little the shearing was done by neighbours with- 
 out pay, and the only recompense was a liberal 
 hospitality. The young man was most eager to 
 disclaim any such meaning. 
 
 " Not a fleece, Mr. John Scutt." 
 
 " I thought maybe you did," was the reply, spoken 
 in the short manner of one who intends to rebuke. 
 
 " I must speak," said uncle Jeremiah Brook. " I 
 do not think any such thing was meant or intended." 
 
 With that the conversation would have closed had 
 not the old Isaac Cledworth seen fit to put in a 
 word or so in support of his son. 
 
 The old Isaac Cledworth was a little red-faced 
 man with a wrinkled forehead below what is some- 
 times euphemistically called " a broad parting " 
 that is to say, a highway of baldness, in his case
 
 18 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 passing between two rough hedgerows of unkempt 
 grey hair. For the moment his complexion threat- 
 ened apoplexy. This was not the result of excite- 
 ment or the spirit of argument, but because the old 
 Isaac Cledworth was doing his best, and that a poor 
 one, to balance himself on one leg. 
 
 The old Isaac Cledworth was one of those restless 
 spirits who must always be a-doing, always " a-pro- 
 jecking " and trying to think of some new dodge. A 
 man, as the saying is, with a maggot in his brain. 
 Most of the shearers had a change in the barn. The 
 old Isaac Cledworth started of a morning ready in 
 his second-best suit. In eager anticipation of the 
 feast he was already divesting himself of a pair of 
 duck trousers by dragging them over his hob-nailed 
 boots a precarious and unstable operation for any 
 man who for hours has been bent two-double like a 
 hinge, and has only managed to avoid permanent 
 stiffness by the regular use of an internal lubrication, 
 of which the active principle was malt. After all, 
 a man is neither a barn-door fowl nor a parrot on a 
 perch. And nothing will more enrich a man's com- 
 plexion than a maggot in the skull, which has been 
 encouraged and refreshed by frequent regular 
 libations of home-brewed. 
 
 Below a pair of neat cord breeches with flat brass 
 buttons at the knees, he at last discovered a pair of 
 blue-grey worsted hose. 
 
 Such was the old Isaac Cledworth, a near neighbour 
 to John Scutt, for, although his was a scattered
 
 SHEARING 19 
 
 holding, some of the fields adjoined the land of 
 Hatchbarrow. 
 
 "No, no, Mr. John Scutt," cried he. "Don't 
 you think that. Such a thought was never in the 
 boy's mind. Work or skill, let every man get and 
 hold so much as he can that's my maxim. Some be 
 luckier 'an some or born wi' more headpiece an' 
 you be both o' it. For 'tis wonderful, an' so 'tis 
 what you have a-bin able to do, an' all praise " 
 
 He paused, for the second refractory trouser-leg 
 parted unwillingly from the hobnails, stood upright 
 and added: 
 
 " An' all praise to 'ee for it, Mr. John Scutt." 
 
 This commendation, however, pleased John Scutt 
 no better than the others. With growing impa- 
 tience he threw his tuft of grass upon the ground. 
 It had only added green to the pitch stains. 
 
 "Pooh! What I've a-got," said he, shortly, 
 " I've a-worked for an' put by." 
 
 Others of the company added each his humble 
 contribution of wit and wisdom. 
 
 " We've all a-worked more or less." 
 
 " I must speak. You ha'n't all put by." 
 
 " An' after all, bear in mind this. Mr. John 
 Scutt have only had one to bring up." 
 
 " An' old Isaac here was so greedy of offspring. 
 How many was it, Isaac a score an' one ? " 
 
 " An' children when their bellies do pinch be like 
 stock 'pon common when keep do run short. They 
 do come home to door an' blarey." 
 
 C 2
 
 20 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " But look here. Old Isaac never laid out so 
 much 'pon his score as Mr. John Scutt, by all ac- 
 counts, have a-spended 'pon his one." 
 
 " But there is stock you do know that don't pay 
 a man for doing so extra well." 
 
 " An' Isaac is a very knowledgeable man." 
 
 " But Mr. John Scutt's Tamsin now she well, 
 she " 
 
 " I should dearly love to cast eyes 'pon the sweet 
 pretty face o' Tamsin now," drawled Peter Jay. 
 
 At once arose a roar of laughter, and the com- 
 pany, one after another, began to call for " Tam- 
 sin." " Come on, Tamsin." " Where be Tam- 
 sin? " with such a boisterous hilarity that the old 
 sheep-dog came out from behind the upping- 
 stock and spoke, and the sheep huddled closer still 
 into the corner. 
 
 The truth is for the twentieth time that afternoon 
 Tamsin had been sent to the cellar. At the mention 
 of her name the father of Tamsin cast aside his mood 
 of impatience and joined his voice to this banter. 
 Speaking always in his rough short manner, but now 
 with a thorough good humour, his voice softened 
 into a certain tone of apology not for himself, of 
 course, but for Tamsin. 
 
 " Well, where can our Tamsin have got to ? I 
 tell 'ee what 'tis, neighbours. As one o' 'ee said 
 just now, when the keep do run short on common 
 all your stock'll come up to gate an' blarey. You 
 be dry, so, like the bullocks, you do cast eyes across
 
 SHEARING 21 
 
 to door an' blarey. But where is Tamsin? Tarn- 
 sin! Tis a fresh cask, neighbours. I reckon the 
 tap is slow to run. For our Tamsin is no slug by 
 nature. Tamsin! Oh! Here she is, then. Here 
 is our Tamsin." 
 
 As he spoke a girl of about twenty came out of 
 the homestead porch and along the garden path 
 towards the gate. From her neck to below her 
 skirt she was covered in a " pinny " of light blue 
 that hung as straight as a smock. But the sleeves 
 were short, leaving her arms bare from above the 
 elbow. She moved slowly, taking short and careful 
 steps, for she carried a large vessel, holding it before 
 her with both hands. It was of the shape of a jug 
 but built of oaken staves and banded like a tub or 
 a bucket. As well as a handle it had a wooden lip 
 for pouring, by which Tamsin steadied it, her eyes 
 intently watching all the while, for such a mountain 
 of froth rose above the brim that she could not see the 
 liquor. 
 
 Young Isaac ran to open the gate. 
 
 " Let me take it," said he as she passed 
 through. 
 
 " I can carry it well enough myself, thank you," 
 replied Tamsin without stopping. 
 
 At this the shearers laughed. 
 
 " That's the go-by for you, young Isaac." 
 
 " Tamsin why, she wouldn't look at Isaac." 
 
 " Not likely. Tamsin's a lady." 
 
 " An' do visit wi' the gentry."
 
 22 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " But that's nothing but right in the bad weather. 
 Tamsin being so delicate like." 
 
 " An' her father next kin to a squire, by all 
 accounts." 
 
 " I must speak," said uncle Jeremiah Brook. 
 " At such a time this is uncalled for." 
 
 Then they all laughed again. The banter of 
 Eddyford was unrestrained but good-humoured. 
 
 The girl, perhaps conscious of being suspected 
 of now and then giving herself airs, blushed and 
 looked vexed. But old Isaac Cledworth, with a wink 
 to the rest, stepped forward and met her half-way 
 between the garden-hatch and the barn. 
 
 " Let's have it, Tamsin, my child," he coaxed. 
 
 Glad at heart to be relieved, Tamsin gave it up 
 with a smile, whereat the shearers laughed the 
 louder and the face of young Isaac fell as dark as a 
 thunder-cloud. But nobody had time to take note 
 of that. Peter Jay had already run to fetch the 
 drinking-horns from the barn. They closed around 
 the old Isaac and watched and waited their turns 
 whilst, with respectful care, he poured out the 
 strongest of the Hatchbarrow brew. 
 
 " Don't be long, father. Everything is ready, 
 and for certain everybody has come. You'll find a 
 pat of butter in the back-house to get off the pitch. 
 I've put your things on the bed. And mother will 
 carry up your hot water to shave. Make haste, all 
 of you. And to save time I'll go and turn out the 
 sheep."
 
 SHEARING 23 
 
 The voice of Tamsin was low and musical. Her 
 speech betrayed scarcely a trace of dialect, only the 
 gentle modulation that even to-day makes some 
 simple, old-fashioned utterance as pleasant as a song. 
 
 " That's right, Tamsin," cried old Isaac Cledworth 
 merrily. " Keep your father up to your mark. See 
 to it he do get the good o' your schoolen." 
 
 " Oh, ay, neighbour," agreed Mr. John Scutt, 
 now thoroughly delighted with the old Isaac's 
 humour. " Our Tamsin do keep an eye 'pon father. 
 Do this. Leave off that. 'Nother shirt. Clean 
 collar. I must do as I be bid." Then he glanced 
 at Tamsin with pride. " Get on, then," he said, 
 with an assumed air of reluctant yielding to the 
 whim of a spoilt child. 
 
 The girl fetched from the shed a rough moorland 
 pony, ready saddled, and led him by the bridle to 
 the stone upping-stock. The wise-looking old 
 sheep-dog, who had just now slunk back to his 
 nook when he found the noise was only frivolity, 
 hearing the sound of hoofs, came out of his corner. 
 This time it was business. He stood ready, slowly 
 wagging his tail. She mounted the steps, and, 
 without the security of a pommel or even troubling 
 to place her foot in the stirrup, sat erect and at 
 home, whilst the little horse tossed his head with 
 pride to find her on his back. 
 
 Her father strode across the barton before them, 
 opened the gate and turned the sheep into a short 
 lane leading to the common.
 
 24 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 The shearers stood gazing at all these proceedings 
 in the same old silent way, as they drank in turn, 
 refilled and passed round the drinking-horn. There 
 are certain brews the contemplation of which the 
 wise do not interrupt with conversation. 
 
 In the last gleam of the sunset Tamsin rode 
 slowly towards the moor. She was not tall, but her 
 slight figure gave her an appearance of more than 
 middle height. In the slanting light, the backs of 
 the newly shorn flock in front of her gleamed white as 
 silver, and for the moment the rusty coat of the 
 undipped pony shone like burnished copper. But 
 Tamsin' s head was bright as the edge of one 
 of the fleecy clouds scattered on the soft pellucid 
 sky above, which, catching something of the glory 
 of the passing sun, seemed to float like golden 
 islands on an emerald sea. 
 
 Even the rough moorland folk must have been 
 dimly conscious of something in Tamsin different 
 from themselves of a romance and beauty beyond 
 anything that entered into their hard and homely lives. 
 Peter Jay, the parish clerk, one of \he first on earth 
 to call when the jug ran low, forgot to drink and 
 spoke with the foaming cup arrested not three inches 
 from his lips. 
 
 " I tell 'ee what 'tis, Mr. John Scutt, you be no 
 beauty, you know not you yourself. Not one, as 
 I should say, for the show ring. No. You be not. 
 Now, that's flat. An' as for Jane, well, there ! You 
 chose her. You wed wi' her. She's your missus.
 
 SHEARING 25 
 
 So tidden for I to speak. But your Tamsin there 
 she really is so neat an' so pretty as a flower." 
 
 " She is," said the old Isaac Cledworth, his head 
 on one side, with the air of a critic. " An' so quick 
 as a bird by that I do mean, if I may so speak, so 
 bright in her intelleck like. Different to folk here- 
 about. But all that I do allow, she learned to the 
 boarden school."
 
 26 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 THE BEACON HEAD 
 
 TAMSIN passed slowly out of view. 
 
 What with serving the shearers since early morn- 
 ing and preparation for the party in the evening she 
 had spent a busy day. Now everything was ready 
 and only waited whilst the men just cleaned them- 
 selves and slipped into their dancing clothes. The 
 shade of the leafy hedgerow was cool and refreshing, 
 and Tamsin could well spare a few minutes to loiter. 
 So the pony dropped into his most deliberate pace. 
 The sheep spread into the ditch to get a bite of 
 grass as they passed, or climbed the bank to pull a 
 leaf from some ivy-covered trunk. 
 
 The coming festivity aroused in the heart of 
 Tamsin no joyful anticipation. Amongst the rela- 
 tives and young farmers she had found no acceptable 
 sweetheart, nor was she looking for one, like most of 
 the village girls who had come tripping to Hatch- 
 barrow that afternoon. It was part of the life into 
 which she had been born a life in which idyllic 
 simplicity was shaken together with coarseness and 
 brutality like mixed corn and chaff in a measure. 
 But a strange fate had early taken Tamsin by the
 
 THE BEACON HEAD 27 
 
 hand to lead her into quiet, pleasant fields remote 
 and different from the rugged wildness of Eddy- 
 ford and the moor. Always she came back as out of 
 dreams into reality. Then, again, the dreams were 
 the only true thing, and some of the surrounding life 
 little better than a nightmare. Tamsin hoped and 
 prayed that things might go well that evening. But 
 the fact is the guests at Hatchbarrow were apt to 
 get a great deal too wild and noisy. 
 
 For the moment everything was still and calm. 
 The wind had scarcely breath enough to rustle the 
 beech leaves. She need not hurry. She stopped, 
 lifted her blue pinny and from her pocket drew a 
 little three-cornered note. Then Tamsin read. 
 Every word, every syllable she knew by heart. Yet 
 Tamsin read. And Tamsin sighed. And the cheeks of 
 Tamsin reddened as the evening cloudlets overhead 
 had already done even since she rode out of the barton. 
 
 Suddenly she lifted her head and listened. 
 
 Was there still a visitor upon the road? Yes. 
 Her ear could distinctly catch the dull thud of a 
 horse's hoofs on the soft peaty earth of the common. 
 She hastily thrust the letter out of sight. It would 
 be just as well to get her flock through the gate first, 
 instead of having to pass this late-comer in the 
 narrow lane. 
 
 " Speak to them, Brin ! " 
 
 They were quickly at the lane's end. 
 
 As Tamsin was picking her way to the front of her 
 sheep, she caught sight of the approaching horseman
 
 28 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 cantering between distant clumps of yellow gorse. 
 It was no belated guest. A young man, well dressed 
 a gentleman, on a horse well cared for. Before 
 she could identify him he dropped out of sight in a 
 hollow of the moor. Again he mounted the ridge, 
 saw her and quickened his pace. Preoccupied with 
 her sheep, Tamsin found scarcely time to look up, 
 until he was quite close. 
 
 He waved his hat. 
 
 She stopped stared in wonder then cried out in 
 surprise : 
 
 "Philip!" 
 
 " Thomasine ! " 
 
 He dismounted was hurrying towards her. 
 
 But Tamsin held up her hand. 
 
 " Stop ! Stop ! Let the sheep run through first ! " 
 
 He drew back, laughing merrily. 
 
 " Come along, then. Make haste, Shepherdess! " 
 
 She held open the gate. The old dog, at the tail 
 of the flock, gave a bark. Like a torrent let loose, 
 the sheep ran away, to scatter amongst furze and 
 heather, and Tamsin was free. 
 
 " Oh, Thomasine ! What luck ! 'Tis more than 
 I could have hoped for, dearest, to meet you alone 
 like this." 
 
 He took her in his arms, lifted her from the pony 
 and kissed her again and again. 
 
 The girl cast an anxious glance at each winding 
 track across the moor, then over her shoulder down 
 the lane by which she had come.
 
 THE BEACON HEAD 29 
 
 Then followed a hurried whispered explanation. 
 
 " Will any one pass this way ? " 
 
 " You can't be sure. 'Tis our shearing. But, for 
 certain, by this time, all that are coming must have 
 come." 
 
 " I knew you were shearing." 
 
 " Then you were coming to the party ? " 
 
 " Mr. Marshall sent me because it was certain 
 your father would be at home." 
 
 " Then you were coming on business ? " 
 
 " Yes. It is arranged about Hatchbarrow, Tho- 
 masine. There is but one point to settle." 
 
 " For father to buy it ? " asked Tamsin, eagerly. 
 
 " Yes. They have virtually accepted Mr. Scutt's 
 offer after all their higgling." 
 
 " Then Hatchbarrow will be our own ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He will be glad." 
 
 " Why, Thomasine, you will be such an heiress 
 that I- 
 
 She interrupted him with shy impatience, which, 
 nevertheless, blushed a plea for toleration with so 
 absurd a sensibility. " Don't, Philip, say that sort 
 of thing. It troubles me." Yet the beaming face 
 of Tamsin betrayed her pleasure. After all, there is 
 great comfort in the knowledge that one's father 
 is prosperous, has bought a freehold estate and 
 henceforth will till his own land. 
 
 " There is just time for the Beacon," he begged of 
 her.
 
 3 o THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 " Supper is laid. They were getting ready to go 
 
 in- 
 
 " But we see each other so rarely, Thomasine." 
 " Mother will be calling. They will miss me," she 
 hesitated. 
 
 " Come, darling. Just for a minute. Come." 
 What did she care if they waited and called ? So 
 long, that is, as none guessed the cause of the delay. 
 Once more she glanced around. Everywhere upon 
 the moor was an unbroken solitude. 
 " Come, then." 
 
 He hf ted her into the saddle. She gave her pony a 
 pat upon the neck, turned his head from home and 
 trotted from the shadow of the trees into a deep 
 hollow cut in the hillside by a brook which dwindled 
 in summer to the merest rill. The banks were high 
 and they were out of sight. The gap was bestrewn 
 with rocks. But Tamsin led the way by a crooked 
 track made by the wild ponies, avoiding all treacher- 
 ous patches of bright green moss flecked with the 
 white down of cotton grass. So they mounted the 
 steep to the head of a moorland ridge looking down 
 upon the sea. There was no true path over the 
 height. Whortleberries were not ripe, and at that 
 season of the year none but the idle climbed so far. 
 The afterglow that heralds the dusk still lit the grey 
 stones of an ancient cairn. Close by leaned the 
 stump of a broken post, which may once have held 
 aloft a beacon cradle. It served the lovers for a 
 tethering-place. Far below, beyond a wood dense
 
 THE BEACON HEAD 31 
 
 and mysterious, lay the sea, purple-blue where it 
 met the tree-tops, but fading away in streaks of grey 
 and silver. Across the channel, a dim outline of 
 coast, beautiful, fairy-like, romantic, with green 
 hills melting in a veil of haze, seemed to float upon 
 the waters. In the fleeting light it changed with the 
 minutes and was inconstant as a dream. 
 
 They sat down upon a square boulder with their 
 arms around each other, and between their kisses 
 gazed into each other's eyes. 
 
 His was a frank manly face, not over dark, 
 though his cheeks were tanned with the open air. 
 And his grey eyes were bright and honest, with a 
 suspicion of humour lurking somewhere behind them, 
 even when they looked upon Thomasine most ten- 
 derly. His hair was brown and wavy, and a little 
 peninsula of well-trimmed whisker jutted down 
 between the ear and the cheek. Otherwise the face 
 of Philip was shaven. He wore a white neckcloth, 
 a blue flop-tailed coat with brass buttons, and a 
 linen shirt with a goffered front. 
 
 " Oh, Thomasine ! " 
 
 "Philip!" 
 
 In such few words can the tongue of love manage 
 to say so much! 
 
 They had been lovers for years. They had been 
 secretly engaged for months. Nobody was told of it 
 except Isabel Marshall, daughter of the old lawyer 
 Marshall who had just purchased the land for her 
 father. She had been Thomasine's bosom friend at
 
 32 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 the boarding-school. It happened when Thomasine 
 last went to stay with Isabel one of those visits 
 to gentry which caused comment amongst the 
 neighbours at the time of the drizzling rain when 
 the last sea-fog hung over the moor. For it was one 
 of the doting absurdities of John and Jane Scutt 
 that their Thomasine was weak in the chest. They 
 were so anxious about this only girl. " Fine clear 
 weather," insisted John Scutt, " the maid is sound 
 as a bell but come a sea-fog well Such 
 foibles caused great amusement in Eddyford. So 
 everybody was the better for them and none the 
 worse. Isabel was charmed to have her friend. 
 Lawyer Marshall was pleased to* be able to show 
 attention to a growing client. As to Thomasine 
 and Philip 
 
 " Oh, Thomasine ! " 
 
 "Philip!" 
 
 It happened in the side street in the small market- 
 town of Netherton, with a sprinkling of people in 
 sight and windows in all directions. Words were 
 few, and they could but whisper their promises; 
 but they promised with both their hearts. Yet there 
 were difficulties in the way. They had thought it 
 better to say nothing at present, since they could 
 not hope to marry for a long time. For Philip was 
 little older than Thomasine. He had been articled 
 to the lawyer Marshall and was with him still. 
 He was not well off, had little but his future pro- 
 fession to look to, and there would be opposition for
 
 THE BEACON HEAD 33 
 
 certain from all his friends. So they had only told 
 their love a love, sweet, pure, beautiful as a spring 
 flower. A love so full of the spirit of hope that 
 it must live for ever and ever. And that was what 
 they promised. No matter how long they must 
 wait no matter what troubles and difficulties, for 
 ever and ever. Since then they had only seen each 
 other for a few minutes, on those rare occasions when 
 Thomasine, of a market day, went with her father 
 into Netherton town. 
 
 They looked across the sea. 
 
 Far away against the soft, scarcely perceptible 
 grey outline of the distant coast was the gleam of a 
 white sail. 
 
 " She is a fine ship," said Philip, " outward 
 bound, with who knows what adventures before 
 her." 
 
 At the words, a vague but tender emotion stirred 
 in the heart of Thomasine, as when one's soul 
 responds to the human in some commonplace 
 incident or perceives a deeper significance in the line 
 of a poem. Their hands were clasped. Philip felt 
 her fingers close more warmly upon his. 
 
 " How would you like, Thomasine dearest, for 
 you and me to be sailing away together over the sea, 
 mile after mile, day after day, to some new country, 
 on the other side of the world." 
 
 And Thomasine took up the parable. 
 
 " To some country where nobody should be proud, 
 
 where nobody should be mean " 
 
 D
 
 34 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " Where nobody should interfere with any- 
 body," laughed Philip. 
 
 " Where nobody should look down on anybody, 
 where nobody should be unkind where- 
 Finding her hesitate, Philip once more came to 
 her help. 
 
 " Where everybody should love somebody, and 
 everybody marry the one they love, and everybody 
 live happy ever afterwards." 
 
 But Thomasine let drop the fairy tale and came 
 back to themselves. 
 
 " It will not matter when we are always together," 
 she whispered, and hid her face on his shoulder. 
 She was so simple, there could be no place for reti- 
 cence in a love so pure. And yet one may sometimes 
 be shy, even of the tenderness of one's unspoken 
 thoughts. 
 
 " Do you mean it, Thomasine? " 
 
 Mean it ! What answer could she return to such 
 a silly question ? She only drew the closer. 
 
 " That you would be happy to go to a new 
 country? Thomasine, dear, I shall never like the 
 law. I don't like their musty old parchments. I 
 don't like their ways. I don't like the office and the 
 stiff-legged table and the chair. If a thing must have 
 legs let it be a living thing, Thomasine. I ran free 
 too long on these moors to live indoors. There is 
 nothing in it but to spend your days in a hutch like 
 a tame rabbit. I shall never be able to buy a Hatch- 
 barrow, Thomasine, and pay for it out of the law."
 
 THE BEACON HEAD 35 
 
 " Why couldn't you take a farm? " said Thom- 
 asine timidly. 
 
 Philip shook his head. " I could not manage it, 
 Thomasine." 
 
 " Father would tell you what to do." 
 
 But Philip looked unconvinced. 
 
 " A gentleman can be a farmer, Philip. Your 
 own father farmed his glebe." 
 
 " Thomasine, darling ! My father left us very poor 
 indeed. But all my uncles who went to America 
 are rich. The money coming to me is enough to 
 make a start there. But such a humble start here. 
 sAnd we should go to friends friends who would 
 welcome us, Thomasine." 
 
 He must have thought much of the scheme. It 
 was complete in his mind and he spoke with the 
 warmth of an advocate. Suddenly, the girl raised 
 her head and looked into his eyes, with an intui- 
 tion clear and certain. 
 
 " Philip ! You have spoken to your mother." 
 
 Philip was found out. He was frankness itself, 
 but he had not intended to worry Thomasine with 
 this so soon. 
 
 " Yes, dear I told her. I hate carrying about a 
 secret. Better have it out. Otherwise it will pop 
 out to disconcert you. Yet I meant to keep this 
 one from you. I told her this morning. I I am 
 glad I told her, after all and glad also that you 
 know it." 
 
 So the inevitable time, that she had thought of so 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 constantly and dreaded so much, was come. 
 Thomasine put no questions to Philip. After all, 
 Philip's mother was a lady of such marvellous 
 strength of character and so well known in the 
 neighbourhood, that nobody in Eddyford would 
 have found it necessary to inquire what Philip's 
 mother might have said. Thomasine looked very 
 sad. With all his cheerfulness of disposition, 
 Philip made but a poor attempt to pass the matter 
 lightly by. 
 
 " I must admit," he laughed, " at the first 
 glance, she did not appear to regard the matter 
 with a favourable eye." 
 
 Thomasine, uncomforted, looked thoughtfully 
 upon the distant sea. 
 
 "It is only natural. I quite see that," she 
 presently began, speaking with a slow despondency. 
 " I am not a lady by birth. Father and mother are 
 but plain rough folk. She could never be happy in 
 their company nor they in hers. Sometimes they 
 say and do things that make even me ashamed. 
 But I love them dearly, and ten minutes after- 
 wards I am ashamed of myself. They love me. 
 They worship me even to absurdity. I am all the 
 world to both father and mother. Mother will not 
 let me put a hand to anything rough. They think 
 a lot of money. They toil for it slave for it. 
 Yet they spent to have me taught above their 
 station. Oh! we have our pride as well. We are 
 upright and can look anybody in the face. And
 
 THE BEACON HEAD 37 
 
 honest to the last farthing. And after all, the Scutts 
 have held Hatchbarrow for a pretty deal more 
 than a hundred years, and " 
 
 " Yes, Thomasine darling, my mother knows all 
 that. I have heard her praise your people hundreds 
 of times. She knows the good old stock from 
 which they spring. Everybody on the whole 
 countryside both knows and speaks of it." 
 
 For a moment he silenced her with kisses, but 
 Thomasine had more to say. 
 
 " If we should ever go away I am willing to do 
 anything for your happiness, Philip, but if we 
 should out of their reach for they would 
 agree to it oh! what would happen to them? 
 Across the seas, to their minds, I should be as far 
 off as if I were dead. They would never expect 
 to see me again. Poor father and mother ! I am 
 the one joy of their lives. Except for me, it is all 
 work, and get, and save." 
 
 " Think no more of it, darling. We must wait a 
 very short time and it will all come right." 
 
 " Your mother will never consent." 
 
 "Give her a chance, Thomasine dear. It was as 
 well to pay her the compliment," laughed he, for he 
 had already thrown aside his annoyance with the 
 telling of it. 
 
 "Oh, Philip!" 
 
 " But we'll do as we like after all." 
 
 " Oh, Philip ! You could never change." 
 
 " Never."
 
 38 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " Nothing ever can come between us." 
 
 " Nothing on earth, Thomasine." 
 
 " You will always love me no matter whatever 
 happens." 
 
 " Love you, Thomasine " 
 
 Thus they came back to the old, old story. 
 That old story in which so much of the force and 
 the beauty is to be found in the punctuation. It 
 was as if all the house-sparrows of Hatchbarrow 
 were mating of an early April morning after rain. 
 There was such a sound of chirruping that even the 
 lawyer Marshall's middle-aged old roadster, taking 
 it for encouragement to himself, began to get 
 restive and think it time to go. Philip was driven 
 to get up and quiet him. 
 
 Thomasine rose also. 
 
 The sun had sunk out of sight. The light had 
 passed away from her sails and the solitary ship 
 was no longer to be seen. 
 
 " I must go." 
 
 " Just a little longer, Thomasine dear." 
 
 " They will all be wondering. Every tongue will 
 be wagging. Somebody might even come to look 
 for me," she laughed. 
 
 " Just one minute." 
 
 " Truly I must not. I must go." 
 
 Yet they sat down once more. 
 
 " Thomasine ! Do you mind if we keep our secret 
 a little longer? " 
 
 " Just whatever you think wise," she whispered.
 
 THE BEACON HEAD 39 
 
 " But perhaps we can talk again." 
 
 " You will stay to the party ? " 
 
 " Yes. For some time at any rate." 
 
 " Come soon. Supper is ready. Come just as we 
 are settled. I will meet you at the gate when you 
 leave. But now I cannot stay. There may be 
 someone in the lane. Ride round the hillside and 
 come by the true road." 
 
 So they parted. Only for half an hour it 
 was a parting nevertheless. They made the most 
 of it. 
 
 " Once more, dearest." 
 
 " Good-bye," sighed Philip. 
 
 " Not good-bye. Say au revoir." 
 
 Perhaps after all the old Isaac Cledworth was 
 right in the matter of that boarding-school. 
 
 Pony and maid were moorland bred. They went 
 clattering over the stones without fear or danger. 
 Between the high hedges the lane was almost 
 dark. The barton seemed to be empty as she passed 
 through the gate, and the barn's doors were shut. 
 But before she could reach the stable-door young 
 Isaac Cledworth stepped out from the gloom of the 
 cow-stalls. 
 
 " Hullo, Tamsin ! Why you be slow at shepherd- 
 ing to my mind," he drawled with a grin. 
 
 " I galloped round the Beacon Head for the sake 
 of a ride," laughed Tamsin. 
 
 " Tamsin, look here, I waited about to have a 
 word wi' 'ee, Tamsin. Look here "
 
 40 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " There's no time," said she. 
 
 " Only a minute. Just a word in your ear. Look 
 here " 
 
 " But they're all waiting." 
 
 " Here then one minute " He was standing 
 
 between her and the house, but he stepped forward 
 and laid his hand on the rein. " You'll be all so 
 quick, because I'll just tie up the pony for 'ee." 
 
 " Thank you kindly. If you will be so good," 
 replied Tamsin as she slid from the saddle. 
 
 " Tamsin. Listen to me a word. I can never so 
 much as get to tell 'ee. I do love 'ee " 
 
 But Tamsin was no longer there to hear. 
 
 No sooner had he lifted the bridle over the pony's 
 head than she ran away through the garden hatch 
 to where the voices of the shearers were to be 
 heard in front of the porch.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE PARTY 
 
 " TAMSIN ! " 
 
 "Where's Tamsin? " 
 
 "Where is Tamsin then?" 
 
 " I must speak. I never afore witnessed the like." 
 
 As she came running up the garden path, a little 
 flushed, a little flurried, a little out of breath, Tamsin 
 could distinguish that the voices, from the impres- 
 sive bass of Peter Jay the parish clerk to the shrill 
 treble of the old Isaac Cledworth the tithing-man, 
 were all clamouring with one accord of the un- 
 accountable absence of Tamsin. Tamsin knew, 
 without any telling, what the excitement was all 
 about. But what did she care ? Philip was coming. 
 Philip was near. He would be at the party. He 
 would stay for a dance. She should see him and 
 talk to him again. 
 
 The shearers had not gone indoors. They could 
 not go in without Tamsin. They stood loitering 
 around the porch, just as if it had been Sunday and 
 they waiting to troop into church at the back of the 
 parson's cassock. There was far more commotion 
 than if parson had been late. Such irregularity 
 might be due to an accident or pardonable absence
 
 42 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 of mind. For Tamsin there could be no excuse. 
 A sense of grievance found expression in this 
 universal cry, " Where is Tamsin ? " 
 
 "Hullo! Here is Tamsin!" 
 
 They came crowding around her so close that she 
 could not go forward. Talking all at once, they put 
 questions and answered them in the same breath. 
 
 " Where have 'ee been, Tamsin? " 
 
 " There's no excuse 'pon earth that'll hold good, 
 unless Tamsin do own she have a-been a-courting," 
 squeaked the shy little voice of the tithing- 
 man. 
 
 Then all the rest took up the tale. 
 
 "Have 'ee been a-courting?" 
 
 " By the face o' Tamsin, I'll swear she must 
 ha' been a-courting," cried Peter Jay, and the better 
 to support his assertion put his finger to raise her 
 chin. 
 
 "Who is it then?" 
 
 " We be all here." 
 
 " No. No. Stop a minute. Not so fast." 
 
 " Count up." 
 
 "All here but the young Isaac! " 
 
 " Now that do look bad." 
 
 " Ay. The young Isaac ! The young Isaac ! " 
 
 " Who else could it be ? " 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! You be sly, Tamsin." 
 
 " You be a double-faced maid, you be " 
 
 They were all good-humoured, in part from the 
 old brew. One gave her a push and another
 
 THE PARTY 43 
 
 pretended to save her from falling. But Peter Jay, 
 the parish clerk pulled her round by the sleeve of 
 the blue pinny and spoke close to her ear in an 
 earnest whisper. 
 
 " If you've a-send young Isaac in haste to put in 
 the banns, 'tis very short-sighted, Tamsin. For he'll 
 find the house locked up, an' by the same token 
 here's the key in my pocket." 
 
 "I must speak. So many such remarks to a 
 young maid is unseemly." 
 
 And before the roars of laughter had died away, 
 the old Isaac Cledworth stepped forward, and putting 
 on the manner of a tithing-man with a delinquent, 
 laid his hand on her shoulder. 
 
 " I shall speak sharp to Isaac on the matter," 
 he said. " But, Tamsin, where's they posies ? " 
 
 " Ay. The posies. Our posies. We've a-waited 
 half a hour a'ready," answered the full chorus. 
 
 Tamsin, with an air of innocence, childlike enough 
 to deceive the wisest there, replied with a question. 
 
 "What posies? " 
 
 To be behind-hand with a duty is one thing and 
 may happen to the best of mankind, but to affect 
 ignorance of a well-known established attention 
 to one's neighbours clearly indicates the presence 
 of that objectionable form of pride usually 
 described by the term " stuck-up." Resentment 
 was to be detected in the murmur of that little 
 crowd. 
 
 " What ! No posies for the shearers ! "
 
 44 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " A maid an' a flower garden an' no posies ! 
 Tis a thing unheard of." 
 
 " Now that's Tamsin's pride." 
 
 " That's what do come of so much foolen an' 
 schoolen 
 
 " I must speak. I never heard o' such a thing 
 so woeful proud or so wilful neglectful not in the 
 whole course o' my life." 
 
 But Tamsin did not care. In secret her heart 
 was laughing at them and their posies, for at any 
 moment Philip might be there. With a toss of the 
 head, she pushed her way between the grumblers 
 and into the porch. They were all ready for the 
 party and so was she. She took off her blue pinny 
 and laid it on the stone seat. Without a word she 
 pushed to the great oaken door, and from the corner 
 behind it drew a flat earthenware cream-pan filled 
 with fresh bunches of sweet smelling flowers 
 mignonette, gilawfers, pinks, and here and there 
 a wallflower. She had hidden them there in readi- 
 ness, out of the light on the cool stones, and now 
 the evening air was filled with fragrance. All in 
 her white frock, ready for the party and the dance, 
 Tamsin stepped out upon the path and, holding the 
 brown vessel pressed against her left side, dealt out 
 a posy apiece to each of the shearers. 
 
 How they all laughed to find themselves " so 
 proper a-sucked in." Each one declared that, as for 
 himself, so soon as ever Tamsin asked " What 
 posies ? " he knew that Tamsin had not forgotten,
 
 THE PARTY 45 
 
 never could forget, " they posies." But the old 
 Isaac Cledworth, sly little fox, stepped behind her 
 back and putting his hand under her arm managed, 
 unseen, to finger away one of the posies and to hide 
 it in his hat. 
 
 " Why Tamsin ! For all so much schooling, you 
 be no true reckoner, sure. You be a posy short," 
 he cried with concern as she came to the end. 
 
 " Everybody has one," replied she glancing from 
 one to another. 
 
 ' Young Isaac is not in yet. You do know, sure. 
 Who should if you don't ? Young Isaac," they all 
 shouted in chorus. 
 
 " He'll have to take you yourself, Tamsin. An' 
 a happy man he'll be," whispered' old Isaac with a 
 wink nobody saw because of the dusk. 
 
 Tamsin set down the empty pan, ran to the flower- 
 knot, picked quickly a bunch of flowers and tied 
 it up with a ribbon of the long striped grass that 
 grew in the middle of the plot. By the time she 
 returned to the porch, old Isaac Cledworth had 
 put back the posy into the pan and young Isaac 
 was coming up the path. 
 
 " Be sprack, young Isaac. Here's a posy so big 
 as a picklin' cabbage, a-picked a-purpose for your 
 very own self, an' Tamsin a-waitin' to pin un in 
 your buttonhole." 
 
 Young Isaac quickened his pace to a run. He 
 came too late. 
 
 Tamsin had clapped down the pan, and taken wing
 
 46 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 like a bird. Young Isaac might choose whichever 
 posy should chance to take his fancy and fasten it 
 in for himself. 
 
 " Not for you. Never in this world. Not for you, 
 young Isaac," laughed the shearers. 
 
 " Yet, where a maid's so coy, there must be a 
 thought. Now we do know wi' the sexes a thought 
 do lead to a look, an' a look is the best half of a 
 inkling, an' a inkling is next o' kin to a whisper in 
 the ear, an' a whisper in the ear is the first step to 
 the altar rail. So there you be," argued Peter Jay 
 optimistically. 
 
 Others also took a hopeful view of the matter. 
 For let an idea of this sort once take root in the 
 neighbourhood of Eddyford, it never ceased to 
 spread and grow. Many a harmless couple, with no 
 such intention in the world, had been driven into 
 very successful matrimony, merely to escape the 
 fatigue of perpetual reiteration, and from the desire 
 to hear no more about it. However, for the present 
 discussion was cut short. 
 
 " Come along then. Come on to once." 
 
 It was the hospitable voice of John Scutt who 
 had come out to the door. He turned and led the 
 way. The shearers with their posies merrily trooped 
 after him to join the other guests already assembled 
 in the great kitchen. 
 
 " There, shake yourselves down together. Friends 
 and sweethearts, match yourselves up, how you be 
 a-minded."
 
 THE PARTY 47 
 
 Changed from head to foot, shaven, scrubbed, 
 buttered, brushed, in a white stock and a black coat, 
 standing at the head of his table-board, even after 
 the guests were seated, John Scutt was scarcely to 
 be recognized as the man with the pitch-kettle. 
 His clothes displayed a fit and style hitherto un- 
 known in Eddyford. The fact is, Tamsin had 
 taken the matter seriously in hand. In her opinion, 
 and who shall say that it was not based on first-rate 
 authority, the Netherton tailor was no good. She 
 had insisted on accompanying her father to Exeter, 
 and there she chose the cloth and the neckcloth, and 
 all the lot of it, watched him measured and gave 
 admonitions as to the cut. He might do as he liked 
 upon the farm, but in town or in company hence- 
 forth he should be fit to be seen. Tamsin had her 
 reasons as we know. And now she glanced at him 
 with secret pleasure. Philip was coming and her 
 father looked really nice. TJbie clothes were perfect, 
 and he already unconscious of them. Shearing done, 
 company present and everything going well, his 
 roughness changed to a hearty joviality. In Tamsin's 
 eyes he looked the plain,. substantial yeoman, worthy 
 to be the owner of Hatchbarrow, as carving knife 
 and fork already in hand, loudly in haste to be 
 hospitable, he shouted at the top of his voice: 
 
 " Who says beef ? Isaac, sit down an' carve the 
 ham. Peter Jay, there's a spare-rib right under 
 your nose that is, if you've a-got eyes to see. 
 Now then, Jane. What have 'ee got your end ? "
 
 48 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 The table was a long oaken board set on trestles. 
 Erect and silent, in cap and company-gown of stiff 
 watered silk, with an anxious expression on her 
 weather-beaten face, Jane had watched the guests 
 shuffle into their places. Prosperity had not con- 
 ferred on Jane Scutt a freedom from care. Rather 
 it seemed to have cast a burden of anxiety upon her. 
 She sighed under the responsibility of these two 
 rows of visitors. 
 
 When Peter Jay declined to express an opinion on 
 Jane's beauty he exercised a prudent reserve. The 
 mother of Tamsin was tall and broad, yet she was 
 uncommonly bony. There was no mock modesty in 
 that matter. Wherever there was a bone you could 
 see it. Her cheek-bones were high and prominent, 
 and her chin sharply denned. Her shoulders showed 
 like mountain ridges under the silk and her elbows 
 looked as if they would pierce the tight sleeves. 
 Jane was strong and gaunt. Yet her features were 
 even and well formed. One might imagine her a 
 beauty in her girlhood. But that was past and 
 gone. Her hair was still black as a gipsy's, but her 
 cheeks were sallow and thin, and the lines in her 
 forehead were deep-marked as furrows on a soil of 
 clay. But Jane had done much work. Her hands, 
 large and muscular as a man's, for the moment 
 resting on her breast with fingers interlocked, were 
 veined and ridged, and almost as brown as the 
 buck-horn handle of the carver in front of her. 
 Jane's eyes wandered slowly up and down the table,
 
 THE PARTY 49 
 
 closely observant, but always full of anxiety. They 
 were always so. It was a common talk amongst the 
 neighbours that Jane Scutt, with everything that 
 heart could wish for, must needs carry the woes of 
 the world on her countenance. 
 
 The sumptuous appearance of the feast begot an 
 immediate merriment in the hearts of the guests, 
 but Jane found never a smile for their sallies. Yet 
 deep in her heart lay concealed a silent pride. The 
 spirit of her Tamsin was present everywhere. It 
 rested upon a table more daintily spread than was 
 usual in a moorland farm at that period. The snow- 
 white cloth was laid with an accurate precision. 
 The trellis of pastry on the surface of the cheese- 
 cake was of a lighter, more elegant structure 
 than usual. The white paper frill concealed the 
 knuckle of the ham with a sweeter, more uncon- 
 scious chastity. Even the obese bowl of furmety in 
 the centre held itself with a kind of stately grace. 
 Jane was dimly conscious of a distinction that fol- 
 lowed the touch of Tamsin. 
 
 The guests also suspected her handiwork. 
 
 " Ah ! " cried the old Isaac Cledworth as he took 
 his seat, " I shall taste the little vinger o' Tamsin 
 in thik cheese-cake. I do know I shall." 
 
 The face of cousin Jane Peters beamed. "Now, 
 Tamsin, really do set out a table tastey, to my 
 mind." 
 
 " I must speak. Work lavished on vain show is 
 little better 'an waste o' time." 
 
 E
 
 50 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 And Tamsin tripped to and fro happy and smiling, 
 giving here and there a last touch, handing to one 
 and passing to another. Yet, although she seemed to 
 be so attentive all the time, her ear was listening 
 for the sound of hoofs in the barton or a step on the 
 flagstones that paved the way from the garden- 
 hatch to the porch. Before the first carving was half 
 completed, and she free to sit down, there came a 
 sharp rat-tat of the iron ring that lifted the front 
 door latch. 
 
 John Scutt shouted at the top of his voice: 
 " Hullo ! Here's a late bird. Better late than never. 
 Ope' the door an' walk in, you slack-twisted lag- 
 about whoever you be." 
 
 To this welcome came no response. It may be 
 that the heartiness of the invitation was drowned 
 in the clatter of knives and forks and the hubbub 
 of talk and laughter. 
 
 " Just run, Tamsin, and see who 'tis." 
 
 " What, Master Philip ? Never! Ho! ho! Lord 
 A'mighty ! Master Philip ! " 
 
 The entrance of Philip was greeted with surprise, 
 then with laughter and finally with something like 
 cheers. 
 
 Philip shook hands with the Scutts, and nodded 
 around the taljle to one after another. 
 
 " How do you do, Cledworth ? Don't get up, 
 Peter Jay. How are you, Miss Peters? How do 
 you do, Isaac? " 
 
 Although he had not seen much of the good folk
 
 THE PARTY 51 
 
 of Eddyford for some years he knew them all, and 
 after a manner was one of themselves. His father, 
 a former rector of Eddyford, a mighty sportsman 
 in his day, and one who farmed his glebe, died when 
 Philip was a youth, leaving his widow and only 
 son but poorly provided for. With difficulty Philip 
 had been articled to the profession he detested. 
 In his mother's opinion it was a necessity of his 
 gentility. She had her way, but a boyhood in 
 the woods and on the moors had been like 
 to prove too strong for her. That Master 
 Philip was a favourite, the chorus of greetings 
 bore evidence. 
 
 " Sit down, Master Philip," cried John Scutt. 
 
 " Here , here's room for another place. Next 
 
 to our Tamsin's empty chair." 
 
 " I am in luck," laughed Philip. " I came on 
 business, Mr. Scutt, and find a feast." 
 
 " Victuals an' drink first. Another knife an' fork 
 Tamsin. That's my religion. A plate and a glass. 
 Tamsin. Then work. Sit down, Master Philip, and 
 make yourself at home." 
 
 " An' sure ! Tamsin's extra posy'll come in after 
 all," said the deep voice of Peter Jay. 
 
 " Posies be for shearers," objected young Isaac 
 in his slow drawl from the other end of the table. 
 
 " Why, you young fool, Master Philip's a lawyer," 
 shouted his father. " All lawyers be shearers. 
 An' in that you'll bear me out. Won't 'ee, Master 
 Philip ? " 
 
 E 2
 
 52 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 This stroke of wit was so well received that Peter 
 Jay ran and brought the posy. 
 
 Then they called aloud for a pin. 
 
 Nobody had a pin. 
 
 "Come, cousin Jane Peters," coaxed John Scutt. 
 
 Thereat everybody took up the joke and insisted 
 that, somewhere concealed upon her person, cousin 
 Jane Peters of Eddy ford must and for certain did 
 possess a pin. This accusation cousin Jane Peters 
 most unblushingly denied, but with such warmth 
 that the old Isaac Cledworth, speaking as tithing- 
 man, declared that, only give him time to procure 
 a search-warrant, he would be bound to pretty 
 quick find that pin. 
 
 "I must speak. To mention the word search- 
 warrant to a lady in the presence of company does 
 and must savour of indelicacy." 
 
 Cousin Jane Peters, in the greatest haste produced 
 a pin of the largest and strongest variety, but only, 
 as she explained, at the imminent risk of the rising 
 of her stomacher. 
 
 "I must speak;" uncle Jeremiah Brook frowned 
 upon cousin Jane Peters severely, "I do like 
 truth." 
 
 Finally they insisted that Tamsin must fasten the 
 posy in. Tamsin's ringers quickly made it fast to 
 the broad lapelle on one side of the goffered front. 
 
 So Philip decorated like the rest became one of 
 the party, and with the good cheer the mirth 
 increased. The hum of conversation which began like
 
 THE PARTY 53 
 
 a swarm of bees grew into a charm of voices as 
 noisy as Netherton pleasure fair. But the ear of 
 old Isaac Cledworth had been quick to note that 
 Master Philip was come on business. All the while 
 his cunning little inquisitive slit of an eye flitted 
 from the face of John Scutt to the young lawyer 
 and back again. Every time there came a lull in 
 the clatter his sharp little tongue popped in a sly 
 word or two. 
 
 " Have another piece o' cheese-cake, Master 
 Philip." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " Ah ! He spoke truth. Master Philip did come 
 'pon business. I do see that." 
 
 And as soon as the laughter died away, he was 
 at it again harping on the same string. 
 
 " Talking o' business now did I hear right, Master 
 Philip, that Hatchbarrow is for sale? " 
 
 Innocence itself could not look more transparent 
 than the old Isaac Cledworth's guile. It deceived 
 even his intimate friends and all the company began 
 to shout at once: 
 
 " Why, 'tis common talk." 
 
 " To be sure 'tes." 
 
 " Hatchbarrow ? For sale for six months and 
 more." 
 
 A frown slowly settled on John Scutt's square 
 face. 
 
 " Ay. So I've a-heard tell," persisted the old 
 Isaac speaking more clearly and deliberately as he
 
 54 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 took note of his host's annoyance. " An' I had a 
 funny dream a rummy dream I do call it o' 
 Hatchbarrow a-sold to one that wouldn' turn out 
 neighbour Scutt." 
 
 " Pack o' nonsense," cried John Scutt. 
 
 " An' I thought to myself like who then ? If 
 not neighbour Scutt his own self " 
 
 " Tomfoolery ! " 
 
 " An' he've a-raked together the ha'pence, we do 
 know an ' ' 
 
 John Scutt shook his head and snorted more 
 loudly than in the barton. Many people take a 
 pride in becoming rich. He certainly showed a 
 most incomprehensible hatred of hearing his money 
 talked about. 
 
 " An' what more likely an' what more pleasant 
 to folk around or a wiser thing or more natural 
 like or more to be commended? An' folk do 
 say " 
 
 " Fools'll say anything." 
 
 " An' yet, neighours " The constable was 
 
 speaking with a most irritating deliberation. " Mr. 
 John Scutt don't say 'No'." 
 
 With an air of plain dealing and closing the matter 
 at once, John Scutt turned abruptly to Philip. 
 
 " They'll believe you, Master Philip, I dare say," 
 cried he. " Have I bought Hatchbarrow ? " 
 
 Philip hesitated. 
 
 " Speak out." 
 
 " No doubt you have, Mr. Scutt. With a quite
 
 THE PARTY 55 
 
 unimportant stipulation, they have taken your 
 offer," was the unexpected reply. 
 
 The cloud departed from John Scutt's coun- 
 tenance. The transaction had been arranged advan- 
 tageously beyond his hopes, for he had quite ex- 
 pected to give more. Yet his dislike of the mention 
 of his riches might have been detected behind the 
 outward carelessness with which he tried to set 
 aside and account for the purchase. 
 
 "Oh, well! Maybe the more fool I. I shall have 
 to find the money to pay for it." 
 
 "Now, as to that, I really must speak. Interest 
 is so bad to pay as rent to my thinking." 
 
 Nobody called in question so sound an economic 
 consideration. Nobody noticed it. Here was news 
 upon which every one present would be able to 
 speak with authority at many a coming market or 
 fair. If any of the neighbours cherished envy in their 
 hearts of John Scutt's remarkable ability as a 
 money-maker this was not the occasion to express 
 it. They were still assisting the mastication of his 
 victuals by frequent draughts of Jane's strongest 
 brew. They raised their glasses. They stood up. 
 A chorus of congratulations arose from both sides 
 of the table. 
 
 " Well, I do wish you an' Jane uck." 
 
 " An' so do I, too." 
 
 " An' many years to enjoy your property." 
 
 " An' increase it, Mr. Scutt." 
 
 Carried away by the excitement, the old Isaac
 
 56 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 Cledworth at last leapt upon his chair in order to 
 do the thing properly and make a speech. For 
 once he cast aside his banter and spoke in plain 
 terms his praise of neighbour Scutt. Where could 
 one be found more worthy to own land? All the 
 company shouted that it was true. Where a heal- 
 thier flock or cleaner grounds than at Hatchbarrow ? 
 Where a neighbour less prone to borrow and more 
 willing to lend? Nowhere upon this earth. En- 
 couraged by the universal acclamations, he finished 
 with the proposal: " Three cheers for Squire Scutt, 
 the founder of the feast coupled wi' the name o' 
 missus, to be sure, all so well Hip-hip-hip- 
 Hoorah!" 
 
 The old oak beams rang as they cheered him three 
 times three. Even Tamsin, who distrusted every- 
 thing that came from the lips of a Cledworth, was 
 pleased. And her father replied, in his rough, abrupt 
 manner, that he thanked them all. He was a man 
 of few words. The best he could say, at the present 
 moment, was that, since they could find no better 
 use for their throats than to hollow, the quicker the 
 place was cleared the better the maidens would be 
 pleased. This was the vein in which she liked her 
 father best. Then she realized and appreciated his 
 downright honest mind and the absence of all 
 silliness and affectation. 
 
 They had finished supper, and at the hint every- 
 body sprang up at once. Men and maids turned 
 to with a will. They shuffled the plates and dishes
 
 THE PARTY 57 
 
 into the larder and backhouse, romped the table and 
 trestles into the milkhouse out of the way and 
 arranged forms and chairs wherever there was space 
 to place them along the kitchen wall. 
 
 John Scutt took a candle from the table. " Come 
 into the parlour, Master Philip," he whispered, and 
 led the way to that little room, rarely entered, where 
 everything spoken was a secret. 
 
 By the time Philip returned the dancing was in 
 full swing. The old folk had tucked themselves 
 away into nooks between the furniture, or were 
 sitting around and within the great open hearth, 
 upon which only a few sticks were left burning for 
 the sake of the kettle. The fiddler was perched on 
 a three-legged milking-stool out of the way in the 
 left-hand corner of the window-seat. Regardless of 
 a sadly disordered stomacher, cousin Jane Peters 
 was hopping lightly on the centre of the floor, with 
 that grim determination not to let her mind wander 
 which she brought to all her religious obser- 
 vances. Shearers and maidens were jigging reels, 
 shuffling and stamping, turning and winding 
 all but Tamsin, who had been busy about the 
 glasses, and the kettle, and the sugar, and the 
 spoons. 
 
 " Come along, Tamsin, before the music stops." 
 
 They had but time to shake a toe and turn, but 
 the weather was warm and the evening young, and 
 the fiddler closed it all too soon. 
 
 The dancers sat round with their backs to the
 
 58 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 wall and fanned themselves or mopped their brows 
 with handkerchiefs. 
 
 A voice shouted, " Young Isaac! " 
 
 At once the cry was repeated from all parts of 
 the room. 
 
 " Young Isaac! " 
 
 " Come on, young Isaac." 
 
 " Sweet moonlight ! " 
 
 Very willingly young Isaac obliged the company. 
 He threw back his head, a little on one side, and 
 fixed his eyes on the brown oak beam that inter- 
 sected the whitewashed ceiling. In rigid earnest, he 
 warbled, literally warbled, in a light tenor voice, 
 a melody of infinite beauty, a sentimental love ballad, 
 chaste and true, beginning with the singing of the 
 nightingales and ending with the ringing of the 
 church bells. 
 
 SWEET MOONLIGHT 
 
 In the moonlight so sweet 
 Two young lovers did meet, 
 Adonijah was the name 
 And Selina of the same. 
 Oh! The merry month of June! 
 Oh! The nightingale's fond tune ! 
 As so early and so late 
 He discourseth to his mate. 
 
 Oh! I love you. 
 
 Oh! I love you. 
 I do do do do.
 
 THE PARTY 59 
 
 And all 
 Until fall 
 
 I'll be true true true true. 
 Hidden in the bushes 
 Where the woodbine pushes, 
 I will nest with you. 
 
 In the moonlight so clear 
 These young lovers so dear, 
 Oh! Their eyes shone as bright 
 As the stars of the night, 
 And like haws and like hips 
 Blushed their cheeks and their lips. 
 Oh ! The gay days of youth ! 
 'Tis no more than the truth, 
 Oh! I love you. 
 Oh! I love you. 
 I do do do do. 
 Every breath 
 Until death 
 
 Shall be true true true true. 
 There's no time to tarry, 
 Come then, let us marry. 
 I will wed with you. 
 
 In the church porch so gay, 
 Of a midsummer day, 
 Full an hour afore noon 
 In that same month of June, 
 Adonijah came there,
 
 60 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 And Selina so fair; 
 And Sir Parson did stand 
 With the book in his hand. 
 Adonij ah ! 
 Adonij ah, 
 
 Where's the ring ring ring ring ? 
 From the page 
 One short stage 
 
 To the fing fing fing ftng 
 Finger of the bride 
 Standing by his side, 
 At their wedding. 
 
 Then came more dancing, followed by another 
 song, a ballad of the fair shepherdess who married 
 the lawyer from the town. At which the lovers, 
 smiling at heart, scarcely dared to look at one 
 another. Then they all asked riddles and told tales. 
 W 7 ith a succession of such simple pleasures the 
 hours passed more quickly than the guests knew. 
 Surely Thomasine was a little too fastidious when 
 she suffered misgivings as to the party. 
 
 " One more turn, Thomasine, and I must go." 
 
 Whilst they danced Thomasine whispered: 
 
 "Father will be certain to see you to your horse." 
 
 "Where shall I find you, dearest? " 
 
 "I will slip out and be waiting for you at the 
 gate." 
 
 "When this dance is over." 
 
 "So soon?"
 
 THE PARTY 61 
 
 " The earlier I start the longer we shall have," he 
 argued. 
 
 Both surprise and opposition greeted the announce- 
 ment that Master Philip must go. But Master 
 Philip was very popular around Eddyford. People 
 said he was always the same always merry and 
 lighthearted. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "So soon? " 
 
 " Not for hours." 
 
 Yet, after all, reasonable folk must listen to 
 reason. Master Philip came on a borrowed horse, 
 the lawyer Marshall's horse, and the lawyer Mar- 
 shall was known to be a very touchy and particular 
 old widow gentleman. A man must act with reason, 
 and more than ever with so sacred a thing as another 
 man's horse. Yes, he must. He must so 
 
 " If stay you can stay. If go you must so. 
 Just light up the lantern, Jane," shouted John 
 Scutt, full of bustle to speed the parting guest, but 
 at the same time secretly eager for one word more 
 about Hatchbarrow. 
 
 So Philip said " Good-bye " all round, shook hands 
 cordially with Jane and Tamsin, and took his de- 
 parture. 
 
 Out of the kitchen was a way into the dairy- 
 house, and Tamsin already had her hand on the 
 latch of the door. 
 
 " Now gentry is gone, I should really suppose 
 there ought to be a chance for a neighbour."
 
 62 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 It was the voice of young Isaac Cledworth by her 
 shoulder, muttering his discontent in her ear. 
 
 " The very next dance, Isaac," replied Tamsin, 
 and turned round to him, all smiles. 
 
 "Come on then," said he, and offered his arm. 
 
 "Tell the fiddler Solinger's Round. I shall be back 
 in a minute." 
 
 She waited until he was in conference with the 
 fiddler, then went out, closed the door behind her 
 and escaped through the dairy-house. She ran 
 across the paved yard and under the few moss- 
 covered old apple trees that the Scutts sometimes 
 proudly called the orchard. The moorland country 
 is later than the vale, *&Rd the half moon, which 
 had just risen clear of the hill, lighted up a paradise 
 of snowy blossoms. One of the trees, blown down 
 in a spring gale, had, nevertheless, covered its head 
 with a white veil which reached to the ground. 
 Tamsin heard a noise in the dairy-house. Some one 
 was there to whom the place was not familiar. 
 She heard his ejaculation as he stumbled against 
 the leg of a trestle. Tamsin quickly hid amongst 
 the branches that formed a sort of bower around 
 her. 
 
 The young Isaac groped his way out into the 
 moonlight stopped, then followed into the orchard 
 and stood under the trees almost within touch of 
 her. Her white frock was nothing visible amongst 
 the apple blossoms. The young Isaac stood per- 
 plexed. He was suspicious and, like all his class,
 
 THE PARTY 63 
 
 inquisitive and prying. Moreover, he was in love 
 and slighted. He strode out of the orchard and 
 into the field beyond. 
 
 Then Tamsin lightly tripped back into the house 
 and, with a laugh, shut the door and turned the key 
 behind her. 
 
 She returned into the kitchen. The dancers had 
 taken partners and the fiddler was tuning up to 
 begin. She pretended to search around in vain, 
 and asked aloud of one and another: 
 
 "Where is Isaac then ? " 
 
 "He was here but a minute agone," they all 
 agreed. 
 
 "He promised to dance with me." 
 
 Tamsin spoke in such an injured tone that cousin 
 Jane Peters became quite sympathetic. 
 
 "Poor maid, then. Where can young Isaac be 
 gone?" 
 
 "I must speak," said Uncle Jeremiah Brook. 
 "To ask a maid to dance and go is not manners." 
 
 She begged them all to be certain to tell Isaac 
 that she should be back in a moment. And so she 
 slipped out by the porch and was free. 

 
 CHAPTER V 
 SWEET MOONLIGHT 
 
 THOMASINE stopped by the garden wall and listened. 
 They were talking close by the stable door. 
 
 "Then, good night, Master Philip." 
 
 "Goodnight, Mr. Scutt." 
 
 She hurried to the shadow by the lilac bushes, 
 lest ,she might meet her father on his way back to 
 the house. 
 
 "Oh! By-the-by! Just one word. One moment, 
 Master Philip." 
 
 Her father ran a few steps. 
 
 Then again a murmur of confidential discussion 
 in the corner by the entrance to the barton. 
 
 To this child of Hatchbarrow every stone and 
 every bush were familiar. She climbed over where 
 the coping had fallen from the old wall, passed 
 behind the gloomy faggot-pile and clambered 
 through a gap in the beech hedge. No one saw her. 
 Everything was still. 
 
 After all, she had to wait for Philip at the gate. 
 Her father had so much to say to him about the 
 purchase of the farm. 
 
 The open moor lay around them, lonely, dark
 
 SWEET MOONLIGHT 65 
 
 and mysterious even on the side of the slope that 
 lay towards the moonlight, which cast shadows from 
 the gorse across the track. Sprinkled on the hillside 
 were misshapen blackthorn bushes. Not even a wild 
 pony moved. The unceasing churning of a night j ar 
 in the heather scarcely seemed to break the silence, 
 but now and then might be heard the melancholy 
 bleating of a distant sheep. 
 
 Their time was very short. This thorny life is 
 beset with painful, importunate facts which cry 
 aloud for recognition. It was lawyer Marshall's 
 horse. 
 
 " Oh ! When shall I see you again ? " 
 
 The words were more of a sigh than a question. 
 
 "The distance is too far for me to get here in 
 time on foot." 
 
 " Oh ! If you could, Philip ! " 
 
 "The house would be locked up." 
 
 " But if I knew when " 
 
 "I will, Thomasine dearest. I will " 
 
 " But no. I could not let you. It would be six- 
 teen miles here and back. And you would be out 
 all night." 
 
 "That is nothing." 
 
 "You would lose your rest." 
 
 " What would that matter, love ? If only we had 
 seen each other." 
 
 "No. It is not possible, Philip dear. Think of 
 some other way. Some better way, but soon very 
 
 soon " 
 
 F
 
 66 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " Very soon, Thomasine, dear. I shall make 
 errands out of this business, you may be sure. We 
 shall see each other almost at once." 
 
 " Do, Philip. Do, if you can." 
 
 " Then, we must not forget, darling, the glorious 
 seafog season will come, too." 
 
 " Not till after the haymaking, Philip." 
 
 " But that is now, dear." 
 
 " And haymaking may be wet and long " 
 
 " Sweetheart, it shall not be long." 
 
 " But the almanac this year says it will." 
 
 " Take courage, Thomasine, dearest. I will very 
 soon claim you. Believe me, it is better to wait 
 just a little. I know my mother. She will say 
 something in excitement and stick to it in cold blood. 
 But if we wait it will soon be right." 
 
 " I am willing to wait, Philip." 
 
 " But I am not, Thomasine." 
 
 " If only we could see each other, then I should 
 be oh! so happy." 
 
 " But we can trust each other, dear." 
 
 " For ever." 
 
 " Yes. For ever." 
 
 " Oh, Philip ! If ever anything should make you 
 change, I should I should " 
 
 The sentence was never completed, for he smoth- 
 ered the word in kisses and assurances that every- 
 thing must come right was right, indeed, since 
 they loved so well. Still they lingered a minute. 
 Yet part they must.
 
 SWEET MOONLIGHT 67 
 
 They heard voices in the barton. In the month of 
 June the morning begins early and work begins with 
 the morning. The early birds amongst the revellers 
 were beginning to depart. 
 
 " Let it be next week," pleaded Thomasine. 
 
 " Yes. Next week." 
 
 " Good-bye, dearest." 
 
 " Good-bye." 
 
 She stood watching as he rode away. She could 
 hear the thud of the horse long after he was lost 
 in the gloom of the hillside. But she also must 
 hasten. 
 
 She turned and walked quickly towards the house. 
 
 The departing guests drew near, youth which 
 wished for time to loiter, and elderly folk who had 
 already had enough. Some of those who came on 
 foot, now returning to the village in a party, were 
 already halfway down the lane. They were talking 
 about her. 
 
 "An' Tamsin was pinched in her pride. I do 
 know she was. That was why she never came back." 
 
 " I must speak. Tamsin's pride is but the out- 
 come o* John and Jane's folly." 
 
 Behind came the parcel of maidens, now with a 
 sprinkling of men. They were singing a catch to 
 shorten the road. 
 
 If Tom kissed Tilly and Abe loved Ann, 
 If Little Billy Bragg was Dorothy's man, 
 Then who was there left to walk out Fan? 
 
 F 2
 
 68 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 Though Tom kissed Tilly and Abe loved Ann, 
 And little Billy Bragg was Dorothy's man, 
 There were three merry men to walk out Fan. 
 
 Tamsin clambered over a gate, and, having 
 crossed a field, entered the garden on one side of 
 the house. Nobody saw her, so far as she knew. 
 When she got indoors young Isaac Cledworth was 
 not in the kitchen. Both her father and mother 
 were out wishing goodbye to the guests.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 THE END OF THE PARTY 
 
 DURING Thomasine's absence all quiet, orderly folk 
 had departed. Only men remained, and they, 
 mostly shearers, had many of them begun the even- 
 ing in a condition of hilarious mirth. 
 
 The spirit of the party had completely changed. 
 It was just this fag-end of the night which Thoma- 
 sine always dreaded. 
 
 A scent of brandy pervaded the whole place 
 of good brandy, as any competent judge might have 
 declared. For, now and then, a few tubs could be 
 run upon the coast, and every farmhouse knew the 
 way to obtain a little moonshine. The kettle was 
 steaming away. Every shearer grasped a steaming 
 glass in his hand and stirred and sipped, and sipped 
 and stirred every one, except the old Isaac Cled- 
 worth. The old Isaac was at that moment as de- 
 pendent upon others for his liquid nourishment as 
 an infant put out to nurse. 
 
 They had packed the little man comfortably into 
 a flour sack, and tied it up around the neck so that 
 the mouth of the sack, elegantly turned down under 
 the chin, might be as handsome as an old-world
 
 70 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 courtier's ruff. They had managed to hang the 
 old Isaac to the large iron crook in the centre of the 
 oaken beam that crossed the middle of the kitchen 
 ceiling, to which, in days gone by, after pig- 
 killing, many a carcase had been hung, until, under 
 the influence of Tamsin, a new crook was set up in 
 the backhouse. There hung the tithing-man of the 
 parish of Eddyford in his flour sack as snugly as a 
 chrysalis in a cocoon. 
 
 " Three cheers for Squire Scutt ! " 
 
 The old Isaac was still merry. When left to 
 himself he did nothing but call for cheers. 
 
 They had made him drunk. 
 
 To make Isaac Cledworth, the tithing-man, drunk 
 was the most popular joke of the neighbourhood. It 
 was a good joke when they elected him tithing-man, 
 a post for which he was chiefly qualified by a frailty 
 that dared not be severe. But that was only the 
 second best. They had filled his glass when he was 
 not looking and put spirit in the hot water jug. They 
 had drunk his health one after another all round 
 the party without giving him a moment's rest to 
 draw breath. And all this was done in the interests 
 of science. For the old Isaac when drunk presented 
 a very interesting phenomenon. Good liquor went 
 straight to his legs those little legs in lambs' wool 
 hose and breeches with the three brass buttons at the 
 knee. But as to his head a man could treat old Isaac 
 downright handsomely, and, after all, not get the 
 better of him in a deal. So when the old Isaac, in a
 
 THE END OF THE PARTY 71 
 
 too ambitious attempt to dance a hornpipe, sprawled 
 on the floor, out of considerate kindness and for fear 
 he might fall down and injure himself, they had 
 hung him up to the beam. Everybody said it would 
 be a wonderful handy way to carry him home, too 
 in a sack. 
 
 And all the while the old Isaac kept his intellect 
 clear. 
 
 " Three more cheers for Squire Scutt." 
 
 " Shut up ! " cried the company. 
 
 "I be," replied the old Isaac. " Three more 
 cheers " 
 
 He was far too appreciative of the attention 
 shown him to feel resentment. The only way to 
 silence Isaac's mirth and keep him from cheering, 
 was for one of the company to stand before him, 
 ready, as soon as he opened his mouth, to administer 
 refreshment with a spoon. 
 
 At the moment when this was being done the 
 young Isaac came in. 
 
 Something must have crossed him, for he was 
 evidently much out of temper. He glanced at his 
 father and then scowled on the company around. 
 
 "Who did that?" 
 
 Nobody answered. At another time the young 
 Isaac might have laughed, but that night he was in 
 no humour for jesting. 
 
 " Three more cheers " 
 
 " If I knew who did that," said he, " I'd twist his 
 neck."
 
 72 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 He quickly unhitched his parent from the meat- 
 hook, chucked him down upon the stone floor, 
 loosened him at the neck and unceremoniously 
 shook him out of the flour sack, from head to foot 
 as white as a miller. 
 
 Tamsin fled.
 
 73 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 JOHN AND JANE 
 
 THE grey morning light was creeping over the 
 hills and the stars were beginning to dim before 
 the last of the revellers departed. John Scutt and 
 Jane barred the door behind them and walked back 
 into the kitchen together. 
 
 "They be gone. Thank God!" sighed Jane. 
 
 The wooden shutters were still shut. The dark 
 oaken beams, the dresser with no crockery on its 
 shelves, the high-backed settle, set back against the 
 wall to give more room for the dancing, gave a 
 sombre appearance to the house now that the mirth 
 was gone and most of the candles had burnt out. 
 Within doors there was no sign of coming day except 
 the faint light which fell upon the hearth through 
 the great chimney open to the sky. The fire, which 
 had boiled the kettle for the parting grog, with an 
 uncertain flicker did its best to keep alive, but the 
 embers were buried in grey ash. John Scutt sat 
 down in the corner. Jane moved slowly to and fro 
 setting things straight. 
 
 "Tamsina-bed? " 
 
 " I sent her on," answered Jane. " She came
 
 74 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 down by now when the place was a bit quiet. She 
 was none too willing to go. But there's no need 
 for her to slave an' drag her hands abroad. I can 
 do it." 
 
 Suiting the action to the word, Jane raised an 
 end of the heavy settle with one hand and lifted it 
 forward as easily as if she were moving an empty 
 pail. 
 
 " But that's enough for to-night. There'll be 
 no night at all else. An' 'tis a rest to close your 
 eyes if but for a half hour." 
 
 Yet Jane did not go. She sat down on the settle 
 itself, stiff and angular in her black silk, with her 
 brown hands against her sides and elbows raised, 
 her favourite attitude in moments of thought. Her 
 eyes were fixed on John, but she did not speak. She 
 sat as if waiting for him. He rose, poured brandy 
 into a glass and filled it with water from the kettle 
 hanging on the chimney-crook over the fire 
 and went back into the corner. But he held his 
 tongue. 
 
 Jane waited. At last she could hold her peace 
 no longer. 
 
 " So, John, we've won our wish," said she, with 
 one of those deep sighs with which Jane was a-wont 
 to receive events the most satisfactory. 
 
 " You don't seem so terrible joyful, Jane, I must 
 say." 
 
 " I do think two ways, an' that's gospel," said 
 Jane, with a shake of the head. " Now an' again
 
 JOHN AND JANE 75 
 
 I do wonder how 'tis all going to turn out in the 
 end." 
 
 John looked at her angrily. 
 
 " You be little better 'an a old crow," said he, 
 with a short laugh. " Good or bad all your talk is 
 croaking." 
 
 " I do mean in bringing our Tamsin up so fine. 
 There was a time years agone, when folk did take 
 to the child, when I did seem to think the finger o' 
 the Almighty was in it. But now I ben't so sure. 
 An' maybe wi' her visits to gentry she'll come to 
 look too high an' be left by herself," she explained 
 quickly. 
 
 " Well ! If her mind is too high, who held wi' it 
 all?" 
 
 " We be poor mortals all. Bad is our best. 
 Who can tell ? " 
 
 "John! Tis clear as day. She's all eyes for 
 Master Philip. But la! He did scarce look our 
 way. Though mind he did eye her too more 'an 
 once an' more 'an twice. But if our Tamsin should 
 catch a mind to he an' he he not come forward, 
 so to speak, our Tamsin is not one to overcome a 
 thing." 
 
 "What do 'ee mean, Jane? " he asked, impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 " She's so nice an' so naish, an' so tender-like 
 an' so delicate in mind an' ways. She can't throw 
 a thought off. 'Tis there an' there must bide. 
 Well, now, look here. Tis but a week agone a
 
 76 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 rat got at the roll o' butter. Nothing. Just a 
 tooth-mark and a line where he had a-touched wi' 
 his tail. Do you think our Tamsin could so much 
 as look at the rest o' it? Not she. No. Scrape 
 it how you would. Not a bit o' it not o' the whole 
 half pound, nor pastry neither. No, John, our 
 Tamsin can't forget. An' that's how she'll be if 
 she do set her heart on a man. Why, when I was 
 a maid and John Frost went off an' wed wi' Jinny 
 Croft, night an' day I cried my eyes out, for a week. 
 But la! I laughed off to church wi' you 'ithin six 
 months. I'm thinking if our Tamsin should be 
 crossed she may bury her thoughts in a coffin o' 
 silence, but she'll go to her grave a maid." 
 
 " 'Nation seize the woman. You do grow lean 
 wi' your fears, you do. What have 'ee had, 
 Jane? Just a thimbleful too much o' your own 
 brew." 
 
 Jane gave no heed to his foolery, but with a 
 mournful shake of the head went on. 
 
 " Though our Tamsin may be a bit off hand wi' 
 some o' the neighbours, this I will say she do love 
 her parents." 
 
 " Why not ? " interrupted John. 
 
 " If she do say a thing, John, say about your 
 clothes or to warn 'ee not to say ' they be ' an' ' they 
 was,' why, 'tis half in fun an'' wi' a smile. She do 
 believe in we, John. If her schoolen did make her 
 look down 'pon her home, I I never couldn't bear 
 it. But schoolen have only raised our Tamsin. Oh,
 
 JOHN AND JANE 77 
 
 John ! John ! If she should ever feel shame of her 
 father an' mother 
 
 " Shut up, Jane. You do dwally." 
 
 " Oh, John ! If she should ever see us as we 
 truly be! That's what I do fear. Day an' night 
 I do fear it." 
 
 " She've a-got eyes in her head, I believe." 
 
 " But as we truly be, John. As in our hearts we 
 do know we truly be." 
 
 " An' what be we worse than the rest ? " 
 
 " Sinners all. We be but woeful sinners one an' 
 all. So have it ever a-been. So 'tis. An' so must 
 be. That we do know. But our Tamsin do look 
 'pon all about her wi' pure eyes that don't see ah 1 ." 
 
 " An' won't never see no different. So shut up." 
 
 John was getting crisp in his temper. This sort 
 of talk about sinners he never could abide. There 
 could be no more need to prate about sins than to 
 point out the faults in your own horse. 
 
 Jane was silent for a moment, then almost 
 apologetic. 
 
 " I suppose 'tis being the only one. Do make me 
 so fearful. An' our Tamsin is everywhere so much 
 praised. 'Tis terr'ble unlucky to be so much 
 praised. I do fear in my heart we shall lost her. 
 La! I do seem that if she should marry and 
 go the light 'ud be gone from house. If we 
 had a-bred her up like ourselves she might ha' 
 stayed near home, an' one of ourselves. I can't 
 seem to see our Tamsin away in a town, nohow
 
 78 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 whatsoever. Is the money ready for Hatchbarrow, 
 John? " 
 
 " Very near." 
 
 " All o' it?" 
 
 " Soon wiU." 
 
 " When I saw Master Philip look there came 
 in the very inmost thoughts o' my soul a hope, an' 
 then a fear to hunt the hope away so quick as 
 a hawk round a rick after a linnet." 
 
 " Well, cheer up, Jane. Let her go into Netherton- 
 town. That's the best chance for her. There'll be 
 a few seafogs afore long, please God." 
 
 Thus admonished Jane did as she was bid, dis- 
 missed her sins and her melancholy and took once 
 more a practical view of the affairs of life. 
 
 " I suppose, John, that Hatchbarrow coming all 
 to one, would be more than many gentry can leave 
 to a maid where there's many ? " 
 
 " No fear. More 'an Passon Pilton ever had of 
 his own outside the living to will away." 
 
 " More 'an his widow can have, maybe ? " 
 
 John Scutt gave a long whistle, then laughed out- 
 right. 
 
 " Massy 'pon us, Jane! Just think of Mother 
 Pilton's face if she could hear what you've a-been 
 telling up. Ha! ha! How the chin 'ud stick out 
 so sharp as the point of a new moon." 
 
 "Ha! ha!" laughed Jane. "An' a nose like 
 the back of a reap hook. Tis said she's not well 
 off."
 
 JOHN AND JANE 79 
 
 " Poor as a crow." 
 
 " An' proud as Lucifer, I'll warrant. How she 
 did use to manage the parish to be sure. We was 
 but as the dirt under her feet. Do 'ee mind ? " 
 
 " Ay, all in it, but the old passon hisself. But she 
 can't manage Master Philip, I'll bet a guinea. Too 
 much mind of his own too much a chip o' the old 
 block." 
 
 Jane laughed again. Some of the great people 
 of this world, who take themselves so seriously, 
 might be surprised could they know how the respect- 
 ful humble forget all deference when they talk of 
 them behind their backs. 
 
 After all, the night ended quite merrily, although 
 once more Jane sighed. 
 
 " Well ! if we don't make haste, there'll be scarce 
 time to change my things, much more get a wink 
 o' sleep, afore milking." 
 
 She turned up her stiff silk skirt, leant over the 
 hearth and raked up the embers into a heap with 
 the ashes over them. She took two kindling sticks, 
 one in each hand, and drew two hearts and a " criss- 
 cross " on the mound. 
 
 When Jane made this sign on the sponge in baking, 
 or the mash in brewing, or to ensure the future of a 
 newly sown onion bed, she did it with her forefingers. 
 But at bedtime ashes still were burning hot. She 
 made use of both sticks for each symbol, placing 
 them together at the top of the heart and bringing 
 them round to meet below at the point. The two
 
 80 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 strokes of the " criss-cross " she made simultaneously, 
 the down stroke with the right and the cross stroke 
 with the left hand. She was religiously particular 
 about these details. Jane Scutt never failed to 
 perform this ceremony before leaving the hearth for 
 the night. It was a sure spell to keep away the 
 pixies and everything unlucky, and Jane's mind 
 suffered much from the anticipation of ill luck. 
 
 This achieved she went comforted to bed. 
 
 And all the while, in the room overhead, Tamsin, 
 too excited to sleep, was also thinking of Philip and 
 of Mrs. Pilton and of the purchase of Hatchbarrow, 
 and of everything, in fact, that might make or mar 
 the course of that true love which did not promise 
 to run too smoothly.
 
 BOOK II. RETROSPECTION
 
 CHAPTER I 
 RETROSPECTION 
 
 MORNING grew. A soft light permeated every nook 
 and corner of the room with its window over the 
 porch. When the sun rose above the hill-top, a 
 narrow ray peered aslant through the leaded 
 panes, cast a gleam upon the floor and an 
 upright line upon the whitewashed wall. Imper- 
 ceptibly it moved and broadened, lighted the edge 
 of a gilt picture-frame and read the titles on the 
 backs of volumes in the low bookcase underneath. 
 Perchance at first it had but come to peep and then, 
 filled with astonishment, was enboldened to stay 
 and make an inventory. 
 
 The room of Tamsin was surely the most sur- 
 prising ever seen under the plain thatched roof of a 
 moorland homestead. 
 
 The walls were half covered with sketches in 
 water-colour sketches of the moor, of the river, 
 of quaint village nooks in Eddyford, with two, 
 moreover, of a bright-haired child, whom the most 
 casual acquaintance of Tamsin might have identi- 
 fied at a glance. There was no fireplace, but in 
 one of the nooks formed by a projecting chimney 
 
 G 2
 
 84 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 stood a pair of globes. There were two bookcases 
 filled with books not the mere chance collection 
 that one finds in houses where people do not read, 
 but some of them daintily bound and others almost 
 new. There were pieces of furniture from a region 
 unexplored by the elder Scutts and indicating a 
 culture unsuspected and remote. 
 
 In houses like Hatchbarrow at that time the fur- 
 niture was mostly of oak, ancient, plain and digni- 
 fied, some of it built in the days of the Tudors. Now 
 and then it was handsome. Jane had a coffer very 
 richly carved. The carving was rarely to be seen, 
 because she kept the front turned towards the foot 
 of the bed. Not from humility, for Jane was proud 
 to know the carving there, but for the better security 
 of the keyhole. Jane kept things in that chest 
 the sort of things that make a woman of a sighing 
 temperament dream of robbers. Whilst a robber 
 was turning the chest to get at the keyhole she or 
 John was to spring out of bed and knock him on 
 the head with an ashen cudgel kept ready to hand 
 under the valance. 
 
 But Tamsin's furniture bore no relation to the 
 life of the Scutts. There was a mahogany writing 
 table and a set of mahogany chairs so light and 
 elegant that they contrasted strangely with the 
 oaken bedstead and washstand of her childhood, 
 which kept them company. 
 
 There was much to excite the imagination in this 
 room, with its window over the porch.
 
 RETROSPECTION 85 
 
 When Tamsin, in obedience to her mother, went 
 upstairs morning had already broken. She sat 
 down in a ferment of thought and emotions. As to 
 going to bed, she was never more wide-awake. That 
 first prying ray of sunlight found her still in her 
 white frock and seated before the writing table. 
 Tamsin was no scribe, and neither pens, ink nor 
 paper were before her. Her elbows were on the 
 table. Her head rested upon her hands. The 
 unexpected occurrences of yesterday kept her heart 
 beating and her head in a whirl. The coming of 
 Philip, his kisses and the joy of his love, the know- 
 ledge that the terrible Mrs. Pilton had been told 
 that ogre in the background, haunting like a super- 
 stition, and who was indeed a superstition since she 
 had no power whatever when withstood even the 
 purchase of Hatchbarrow all these things rushed 
 through her mind, jostling each other into endless 
 and fantastic confusion. 
 
 In a rapture of love, she called upon Philip. The 
 next moment she was in Nether ton Street. Mrs. 
 Pilton, whose impressive personality had been 
 familiar to her from earliest childhood, stately and 
 severe, was advancing towards her on the pavement. 
 She felt her cheeks tingle in dread of the encounter. 
 Not that she was wanting in courage. At the 
 merest slight she would have fought for herself 
 and her own. The sensibility of Thomasine 
 conjured up fears beyond the ills that life 
 has power to inflict. She lived much in her
 
 86 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 imagination. Happily her visions were innocent 
 and pure. 
 
 Thomasine was very much alone. 
 
 She possessed no friend in the world to whom she 
 could discover her heart and soul. 
 
 One there had been so simple and kind, that even 
 as a child, Tamsin had been fearless in the presence 
 of so transparent a simplicity. But that one had 
 left her. To her she would have talked, and even 
 amidst this pageant of illusions the memory of that 
 loved countenance, so kind, so peaceful in its quiet 
 self-possession, brought calm. Slowly the heated 
 fancies melted away and Thomasine began to think . 
 of things as they were. 
 
 Philip had never before spoken of going abroad. 
 
 That interview with his mother must have been 
 stormy indeed, since it could make him wish to 
 change the course of his life. To be sure he had 
 always disliked law. 
 
 Why should he not turn to farming here ? The 
 suggestion became more attractive the more closely 
 she examined it. Surely, if her father could save 
 money to buy Hatchbarrow, he could teach Philip 
 how to succeed. Thomasine wished she might 
 venture to discuss it with her father. But no! 
 That was impossible. To ask Philip if she might 
 tell her parents would look like want of trust in 
 him. Her father would do much rather than let 
 her go. He would help if Philip's money were not 
 enough. Surely there could be no need to go. She
 
 RETROSPECTION 87 
 
 loved this moorland country, and so did Philip. And 
 "abroad" was so terribly far away. 
 
 Thomasine felt very much alone. To possess 
 a secret and truly keep it is itself a loneliness. 
 
 She rose, went to the window and looked out upon 
 the garden and the barton, where she had run 
 about and played as a child. Nobody was moving 
 as yet. There was nothing to capture the attention 
 or distract. And lo ! an incident of the past came 
 vividly back to her mind. With all its details as it 
 happened, but with its full significance understood, 
 it came and passed as rapidly as a dream. 
 
 Of an April morning, when the japonica between 
 the window and the porch was clad in crimson and 
 bees were all at work in the smile of early spring, 
 there came a stranger rapping on the hobnailed 
 open door. A bareheaded child watched from a 
 little garden path behind the daffodils. The lady 
 was laden, like a gipsy woman, with many unknown 
 and perplexing things. She knocked again. That 
 was usual at Hatchbarrow. Few strangers came, 
 and the door was open to let in sun and air. People 
 who understood walked round to the back. The 
 child had time to observe. This was a funny lady 
 all in black of a week-day. At last her mother came 
 to the door. 
 
 The child listened. 
 
 " Mrs. Scutt ? " 
 
 " My name is Scutt."
 
 88 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " My name is Airdrie. I have taken the cottage 
 by the bridge at Eddyford but I dare say you may 
 have heard " 
 
 " Well now," replied Mrs. Scutt, in a tone of un- 
 willing concession after searching her memory to 
 make quite sure. " I did hear say in the parish that 
 a lady had a-tookt the little house at the town's 
 end." 
 
 In fact, coming out of Eddyford church of a 
 Sunday for weeks past, Mrs. Scutt had revelled in 
 every detail as to the letting and doing up of that 
 cottage a dozen times repeated. Two pounds a 
 year rise in the rent very high four new steps 
 in the staircase an' not afore 'tis time thatcher 
 to make good the roof an' want it too paper 
 for the parlour walls all the way from Exeter, and 
 a red carpet in the downstair room. But with a 
 " foreigner " one must always exercise a prudent 
 reserve. 
 
 " I came to ask if I might go into the farmyard 
 to make some sketches? " 
 
 " In the barton ? Oh ! For certain sure " 
 
 " And I shall not be in the way ? " 
 
 " Not one mossel-bit." 
 
 " Nor do any harm ? " 
 
 " No harm in the world. Why, there's nothing 
 there but the fowls, the geese, and the old gander. 
 Oh no ! Come this way. Tis shorter. An' not so 
 much mud " 
 
 Still talking thus hospitably, Mrs. Scutt led
 
 RETROSPECTION 89 
 
 the way all along the front of the house by the bee- 
 butts to the little gate, and they passed quickly out 
 of sight. 
 
 The child remainded standing by the daffodils, 
 overawed by the knowledge that an unseen stranger 
 was in the barton. Not until long after all was quiet 
 did she find courage to creep up to the garden- 
 hatch and peer between the upright pales. 
 
 Wonder of wonders ! 
 
 The lady, such a very funny lady, with a long thin 
 face, and round gold spectacles on her nose, and a 
 bonnet with such a wide brim, and a great big bow 
 tied under the chin, seated on a great X for Xerxes 
 out of the Alphabet book, was washing and scrubbing 
 a dirty piece of paper with a beautiful brush. The 
 child longed to run closer and look. But she felt 
 shy. Moreover, the gander with the old goose and 
 the yellow goslings were just on the other side of the 
 garden-hatch and the child was at war with all full- 
 grown geese, although she loved the goslings. She 
 ran away through the house into the back garden, 
 where red hairy palmers used to live on a gooseberry 
 bush and beautiful long sticks were stuck up in the 
 ground in a row. There she armed herself, ran 
 between the mows away from the stones and sting- 
 ing nettles in the corner where the rats lived, and so, 
 bean-stalk in hand she came into the barton on 
 the other side and stood by the pound house, 
 where sometimes the horse went round and round. 
 There she stood and stared.
 
 90 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 Jane Scutt, when afterwards talking the matter 
 over in private, estimated the age of the new-comer 
 as " somewhere pretty handy about three score." 
 but in the eyes of the child, this appeared to be 
 a very old lady with hair, the colour of the tail 
 of old " Snowball " the cart mare. She had a 
 wonderful brown mark on her chin with hairs 
 growing on it like the long grass in the middle of 
 the round flower knot. 
 
 The funny lady looked up. Then beckoned with 
 her finger. 
 
 "Come along, little marigold and forget-me- 
 nots." 
 
 The child took three steps forward. 
 
 " Come and tell me your name." 
 
 " Tamsin." 
 
 " And where did you come from ? " 
 
 " Out o' back-house." 
 
 " I dare say. But how did you get here at all 
 you little golden-haired infant princess straight 
 out of the Mabinogion ? Eh?" 
 
 " Straight - out - of - the - Mabble - obble -lorn," 
 repeated the child, beginning with slow distinct 
 articulation, but soon getting lost. 
 
 : ' You know it, do you ? Then where did you 
 come from ? " 
 
 The funny lady looked into the child's face so long, 
 and with such close attention, that at last Tamsin 
 was driven to hazard a guess. 
 
 " Heabem."
 
 RETROSPECTION 91 
 
 "Little soul!" 
 
 The funny lady smiled so sweetly on Tamsin, 
 and said the words with such gentle kindness that 
 the child's confidence was won. Then, without a 
 moment to lose, she went on busily brushing the 
 dirty paper that would not become clean. 
 
 " I could do that," said the child. 
 
 " Tamsin, I verily believe you could." 
 
 " I could do that," repeated Tamsin, " all so well 
 as you if I had that little brush to keep." 
 
 " Well ! If I give you the little brush to keep 
 how long will you stand quite still? " 
 
 " All day," said the child. 
 
 " Well, Tamsin, if you can stand still, over by the 
 geese, whilst I tell you a story, when it is finished, 
 I'll give you the little brush to keep ! " 
 
 Tamsin stood still, but without understanding 
 exactly what was meant. She had never been told 
 a story. 
 
 " Once upon a time, there was a little girl, just 
 as big as Tamsin Scutt, and she wore a beautiful 
 red cloak " 
 
 The old gander knew that the child was at war 
 with the geese. He waddled forward, stretched 
 out his long snake neck and hissed. But the child 
 stood still. He advanced still closer until his yellow 
 bill almost touched the little pink leg between the 
 sock and the knee. The child remained still. The 
 gander was lost in wonder. He had never in his life 
 known anything so strange. Full of thought, he
 
 92 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 waddled back, gabbled the news into the ear of the 
 mother of the goslings, and came no more. And 
 the story went on from improvised wonder to 
 wonder, such as no child, princess, or otherwise, 
 ever heard before or since. The blue eyes opened 
 wider and wider. The little red lips parted, but 
 Tamsin had nothing to say. Without knowing it, 
 she stood still until at last the story came to an end, 
 just as her mother came to the garden-hatch and 
 called 
 
 " Tamsin ! Tamsin, you little mommet, where 
 be?" 
 
 "My blessed heart!" exclaimed Jane, and 
 threw up both her arms in admiration. " If you 
 ha'n't a-tookt off our Tamsin to the life. I should 
 know her if I did meet wi' it miles away, by the 
 little old washed-out blue pinny wi' the strent." 
 
 The artist was very pleased to hear this, and they 
 all laughed together at the " strent." In order to 
 take a peep at herself in a picture Tamsin had 
 drawn quite close to the funny lady. When they had 
 all laughed their laughs out, thinking of the brush 
 to keep, she shyly hid her face in the stranger's lap. 
 Presently a hand gently stroked the little golden 
 head, and once more softly spoken Tamsin heard 
 the words: 
 
 "Little soul!" 
 
 From that day the little soul possessed a friend. 
 The sketch was amongst the pictures hanging on 
 the wall of Tamsin's room.
 
 RETROSPECTION 93 
 
 Jane Scutt had been most anxious to buy it. 
 
 " Oh ay ! " said she. " Tis our Tamsin sure 
 enough. An' didn't take so wonderful long to do, 
 nother. I suppose you do sell your pictures now, 
 I'll find a crown for he, I will sure, because 'tis our 
 Tamsin. That is if a crown '11 buy 'un. Ay. I'll 
 give 'ee a crown-piece." 
 
 At this the funny lady laughed most heartily, but 
 explained that the picture was not for sale. 
 
 Jane was quite used to that sort of tale, one of 
 the most familiar pretexts for raising the price ever 
 practised in moorland horse dealing. 
 
 " Well, three half-crowns then. I should rob my- 
 self if I did say a penny more than three half- 
 crowns." 
 
 Jane could not understand why an offer evidently 
 received with exuberant pleasure should meet with 
 refusal. 
 
 " I couldn't spring no higher not my own self," 
 she reflected, " but John may be in any minute, an' 
 if he's agreeable to put out half a sovereign, I 
 shan't say nothing to put no obstacle in his way." 
 
 The lady showed no sign of yielding to temptation, 
 but the mother of Tamsin did not on that account 
 give up hope. Transactions of magnitude cannot 
 be arranged all of a moment. Nor did she become 
 silent. Mrs. Airdrie went busily on with her work. 
 All the while Jane Scutt attentively watched and 
 talked. In those early days she could talk by the 
 hour about Tamsin. Little Tamsin stood by and
 
 94 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 drank in every word. Many a time in after years 
 did she laugh at the recollection of the quaint scraps 
 of information which her mother imparted with such 
 a serious simplicity. 
 
 " Have you a large family, Mrs. Scutt? " 
 
 " Only this one. We never thought to see she. 
 Fifteen years a wife afore the little maid corned to 
 take a peep at us. An' mother haint a-provided 'ee 
 wi' no company. Have she, Tamsin? " 
 
 " I never had a child," said Mrs. Airdrie sorrow- 
 fully, without looking up from her work. 
 
 " Tis a awesome thing at times to have but one," 
 explained the mother of Tamsin. "I do verily 
 tremble at times. I do. There's that about Tamsin 
 now and again to make a mother o' one quake. I 
 do wonder sometimes whether or no she is made for 
 this world, an' whether she'll ever bide to be 
 reared up. I do truly fear she can't be healthy. Our 
 Tamsin is so wonderful nice and delicate in her mind 
 like." 
 
 " How so ? " inquired the lady. 
 
 " Well she is. A body couldn't never think. Why 
 for days after our Tamsin first took heed to watch 
 the milking, you couldn' get she to touch o' milk. 
 Coax or threaten, not a drop. I had to comfort 
 her in the end, she shouldn' never have nasty 
 cow's milk, but only milk out o' the jug. Mother 
 did. Didn' mother, Tamsin ? " 
 
 " Poor little soul! " interjected the lady. 
 
 " Now I'll tell 'ee true. Where there's but one an'
 
 RETROSPECTION 95 
 
 no neighbours handy, a mother must look for any 
 little thing to amuse a chile an' keep her little mind 
 employed. Besides a child must learn by what she 
 do see, an' by time she's old enough to do she do know. 
 Now back in the cold weather I said to Tamsin, I 
 said ' Father do mean to kill a pig, now you go out 
 an' watch, an' if you be a good little maid, when he 
 do scald un he'll let you help un scrape. Why 'tis 
 the joy o' any young chile's life to help scrape a 
 pig. Twas mine I do know. Not she! No sooner 
 did they haul poor chuckey up an' he did squealey 
 afore the knife was anywhere a-nighst to stick un, 
 mind than Tamsin must run into house, like a 
 rabbit into a hole, and scream herself black in the 
 face." 
 
 Little Tamsin thought the funny lady screwed up 
 her face as if something was hurting her. 
 
 " An' now here's a funny thing to see the tasty 
 victuals our Tamsin can't never a-bear. Show 
 her black pudding. She do turn from it. Whitepot 
 I won't say. Well say a little bit about so big as a 
 candle end. No more. If so much. Never. Not that. 
 Notlins! She never won't touch o' 'em. Nor 
 chitlins. Nor liver. Nor lights. Nor tripe. Do 
 really make a mother's mind wonder an' fear to 
 think o' it. Because 'tis not to say that our 
 Tamsin's a born fool. Tis not. She's most wonderful 
 quick to learn. Tell her but once, she do mind. An' 
 she'll play an' talk to herself morn to night all the 
 day through. She do know all her letters m ABC
 
 96 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 book. That she do. Everyone an' point 'em out 
 true, you can't puzzle her. Oh! I tell 'ee, there's 
 times 'tis a awesome thing to be the mother of 
 a only one. Zo 'tis." 
 
 Mrs. Airdrie listened for the most part with smiling 
 attention, sometimes casting a look of kindness 
 upon the child which Thomasine long afterwards 
 remembered. The mother of Tamsin could have 
 spoken of many more wonders, if her husband had 
 not returned to bring her mind back to serious 
 business. 
 
 She at once explained the magnitude of her 
 conditional offer. 
 
 " Tis a goodish bit o' money," hesitated John. 
 " I have a-been offered a picture ready framed 
 an' all for less. Still! I shouldn't so very much 
 mind, not if missus do wish." 
 
 Having thus signified his willingness to run to ten 
 shillings, he gazed attentively at the picture, and 
 at once proved himself a frank and discriminating 
 critic. * 
 
 He pointed at Tamsin herself standing there in 
 the sunlight. 
 
 " Now, look at the little maid's head how you 
 will, the hair is all one colour, so even as a field 
 o' barley goose-necked and fit to reap. There 
 idden no stroke o' white straight along one side 
 o' the crown same as you've a-tookt off. At the 
 chile's age, 'tis not to be expected neither bald 
 nor grey. But you've a-got it paper white."
 
 RETROSPECTION 97 
 
 He touched the drawing with the tip of his 
 ground-ash stick, and proved the truth of his 
 assertion beyond a doubt. It was impossible for the 
 artist to offer one syllable in self defence. When 
 talking the matter over years later, John Scutt 
 invariably declared "An' she, her own self, couldn' 
 say no ways different." 
 
 He was very much taken with such reasonable 
 quiet acceptance of reproof. It encouraged him to 
 push the deal. From the depths of his breeches 
 pocket he drew a small leathern bag, took out half 
 a sovereign and held out the tempting coin on the 
 palm of his hand. 
 
 " There. John Scutt's so good as his word, an' 
 there's the ten shilling piece. Now 'twon't take 'ee 
 more 'an half a minute. You just yaller the chile's 
 head. The money's yours, an' missus, I don't 
 doubt, 'ull bring 'ee in a dozen o' fresh eggs next 
 time she do make a journey so far as Eddyford 
 town's end." 
 
 In small deals John had often found a hesitating 
 seller grasp at once at the sight of the colour of 
 ready money. 
 
 He was disappointed. 
 
 " I do not think the drawing is quite satisfactory," 
 replied Mrs. Airdrie with quiet modesty. 
 
 To be sure, the finding of fault does sometimes 
 make a seller shy. John felt that encouragement 
 was needed. 
 
 " There's nothing in this world wrong about un 
 
 H
 
 98 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 except 'tis that. Just yaller the little head o' her 
 an' I don't doubt missus 'ull throw in a nice tender 
 pullet along wi' the dozen o' eggs." 
 
 " But I could not part with the picture. I want 
 to keep it for a study." 
 
 " An' a half pound o' fresh butter." 
 
 "It is very good of you, but really " 
 
 " An' a cup o' nice thick cream. I don't doubt 
 but what missus " 
 
 But Tamsin's mother hastened to intervene. John 
 was talking a pretty deal too fast. If not stopped 
 there was no saying where he might go to. Cash in 
 the bag was, and should be always under the control 
 of the man ; but pullets, eggs, butter, cream, and all 
 such produce were entirely for her to dispose of. 
 
 " I wouldn' go the value of a varden vurder 
 'an that," she said gravely but with firmness. 
 
 " It's really not for sale," said the artist. 
 
 That was the end of the commercial side of it. 
 The deal fell through. But Mrs. Airdrie had spent her 
 life in a land of imagination and ideals. The bright 
 little face by her side charmed her. Expectant 
 longing for the little brush at that moment lighted 
 it into a finer spirituality. She divined in the child 
 a sensibility miserably out of place in those rough 
 surroundings however unaffected and honest. She 
 looked with pity on the little Tamsin, as happy a 
 child nevertheless, as any that ran about under the 
 sun. She coveted such a little soul to teach it 
 to watch over it to love it
 
 RETROSPECTION 99 
 
 " Tamsin must come to Eddy ford and spend the 
 day with me," said she. " Then I will make a little 
 drawing on purpose, and she shall bring it home 
 as a present." 
 
 The invitation filled the heart of Jane Scutt with 
 pride. The day was fixed without difficulty. Thus, 
 quite in infancy began those visits to gentry which 
 so greatly influenced the development and future of 
 Thomasine Scutt. 
 
 The strange lady, who thus drifted into Hatch- 
 barrow Barton that spring morning and anchored 
 for the day, was the widow of a poet of whom the 
 world has scarcely heard. He won little applause. 
 His reward was the love of those who knew him 
 and admired his work. Just a line or two in the 
 corner of a journal when he passed away then 
 silence. Yet who can say how far a poet's influence 
 may extend ? Who shall dare to set a limit upon 
 the power of any thought that ever yet found 
 expression ? All his books held a place on Thomas- 
 ine's sunlit shelf, and she, the daughter of unin- 
 structed laborious parents, had learnt many of his 
 poems by heart. 
 
 And if sincere work is rarely wasted, neither is 
 the starvation of a soul through want of oppor- 
 tunity so frequent a tragedy as one might be 
 tempted to suppose. Help arrives by unknown 
 paths to those who are ready. It is the readiness that 
 is the essential requirement, and finest music 
 
 H 2
 
 ioo THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 discoursing to a crowd must pass unheeded by all 
 but the recipient ear. Creatures of a kind recognize 
 their kinship when they meet in the wilderness, and 
 pass others without attention. Had little Tamsin 
 been a mere child of the barton, she might have 
 been given a penny to run back into the garden out 
 of the way. 
 
 Very shortly after the death of her husband 
 Mrs. Airdrie determined to leave London. She 
 remembered the moorland country, which some 
 years ago they had visited together, and returned 
 to look at it once more. Late in the summer she 
 paid her second visit to Eddyford when the moor 
 was a feast of colour. The purple of the heather 
 was passing into brown, and yellow was spreading 
 amongst the bracken on the hillside. The sparkling 
 river, the soft white mist that hung over it of an 
 evening, the blue distance with sometimes a glimpse 
 of the sea and the quaint old homesteads that 
 sprinkled the solitudes were all in the spirit of her 
 art of water-colour painting, by which she hoped 
 to add a very simple luxury to a scarcely sufficient 
 income. The little house at the town's end was 
 vacant. It offered the simplicity and quietude for 
 which she longed. She had none but herself to 
 provide for. Her means would just enable her to 
 live in frugal comfort in such a village as Eddyford. 
 Without hesitation she took the cottage and 
 arranged that those numerous repairs should be 
 put in hand at once, so that everything might
 
 RETROSPECTION 101 
 
 be got ready for her to enter early in the following 
 spring. 
 
 She came at Ladyday and had been settled in it 
 little more than a week, when her exploration of 
 the neighbourhood brought her to the door of the 
 solitary homestead which offered such a striking 
 landmark to every part of the moor. 
 
 Oh ! That first occasion upon which our Tamsin 
 went out to spend the day ! 
 
 Jane meant her to be fine then and no mistake. 
 Thomasine remembered well how she was brushed, 
 combed, scrubbed, her hair tortured into ringlets 
 around her mother's finger after having been tied 
 up in rags all the night through. She wore the 
 little white frock made for the last Whitsuntide, and 
 by that time full short, and listened with awe 
 to her mother's parting admonitions impressively 
 delivered. " Now be a good little maid, mind, and 
 be sure you do always say ' Thank you kindly ' 
 when a thing is handed, an' not eat too much figgy 
 cake to make yourself bad, an', whatever else you 
 do do, mind to pull up your socks." Then she was 
 hoisted up into the high two-wheeled cart for her 
 father to " drop her to Eddy ford," on his way to 
 Netherton-town. 
 
 What a day the child spent ! 
 
 It was a visit to fairyland, and the little Tamsin 
 soon made herself at home. Mrs. Airdrie told story 
 after story, each more beautiful than the last. The
 
 102 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 child soon lost all fear of the elderly lady solemnly 
 attired in black. The oval face between the smooth 
 grey hair was always smiling and kind, and Tamsin 
 asked question after question. But when by chance 
 it came to the brownies and the doing of the kitchen 
 work, Tamsin knew exactly where she was. Then 
 she could instruct. , 
 
 " That's the pixies," cried the child. 
 
 " Yes, the pixies." 
 
 Tamsin told all the stories after that stories 
 never meant for her ear, but which she had heard 
 many a time sitting in silence, her basin in her lap, 
 on her little footstool, on one side of the Hatch- 
 barrow hearth. Her parents never varied, and she 
 could repeat them nearly word for word. 
 
 " Peter Jay, the sexton, he were a-catched by 
 the pixies one time out by Conygar Wood. That was 
 after old Abraham Jay's funeral. Old Abraham 
 Jay did well an' left money. There was nothing 
 wanting to show respect at old Abraham Jay's 
 funeral. The men drinkt twice so much at old 
 Abraham Jay's funeral as all what was put out at 
 his brother John Jay's funeral. Though John Jay 
 was one very well liked, John Jay did not do so well 
 in life as what Abraham Jay did. Peter Jay, the 
 sexton, couldn' get drunk to John Jay's funeral; 
 but he stopped last to Abraham Jay's funeral, 
 because to be sure, Abraham Jay when he died, 
 left Peter Jay, the sexton, up two hundred pound, 
 an' a copper kettle, an' his old mare, an' all the bed-
 
 RETROSPECTION 103 
 
 linen. Peter Jay wouldn' ride home the old mare, 
 not that dark night an all, because they wouldn' let 
 un. But he said he might so well carr' on the copper 
 kettle. An' somehow or another, they little pixies 
 led Peter Jay into Conygar Wood, up a mile an' a 
 half out of his road, an' there he tumbled down. 
 An' they little pixies did jump all roun' and did 
 pinch Peter Jay till he did hollar an' blare downright 
 proper. There was they what heard it, what wasn't 
 so foolish as to go up there that time o' night. 
 An' Peter Jay couldn' kick the pixies, because they 
 was so wonderful dapper to hop out o' the way. 
 An' come morning, somebody found Peter Jay, wi' 
 his coat off, all a-lying down along straight in a bed 
 o' sting-nettles, sweet asleep, wi' his head on a 
 emmet heap. But they little pixies at the going off 
 must ha' led Peter Jay, the sexton, all out round 
 like for miles. For the father o' the old Isaac Cled- 
 worth, then alive, found the copper kettle, up a 
 week on, up on Eddyford common and smith, he 
 made a poorish job to knock out where he was 
 most terrible a-bulged in to one side, all across, 
 handle to spout." 
 
 Oh ! Tamsin was a listener to some purpose, 
 though nobody at Hatchbarrow had ever found out 
 that the child's ears were so alert. She could have 
 told half the familiar lore of the moorland. And 
 whilst she talked, her eyes became so big with 
 wonder, that Mrs. Airdrie stopped to look at them. 
 They looked so frank and real between the
 
 104 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 little rows of tight artificial ringlets. Mrs. Airdrie 
 laughed as she painted the company ringlets. And 
 yet something in Tamsin's eyes, remote possibilities 
 lying in the very depths of them, made her feel 
 sad. 
 
 The child went on unasked. 
 
 " There's witches too all so well as pixies. 
 There's they about do say the old aunt Titcomb 
 is a witch. Mother, she don't feel all so sure about 
 that. When a toad do crawl into house that's a 
 witch. You must take the toad up in the shovel 
 or wi' the tongs an' drop un into fire. Then the old 
 witch can't do no more harm. If you don't do that 
 the witch 'ull sure to witch 'ee. She'll come an' 
 ride 'pon your chest every night o' your life so 
 as your sleep is no good to 'ee. But witches can't 
 come and hag-ride 'pon good little girls, if they 
 do never forget to kneel down an' say their prayers 
 afore they do jump into bed. 
 
 ' Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, 
 Bless the bed that I lie on. 
 Six angels about my bed, 
 Two to foot an' two to head, 
 An' two to carr' me when I be dead.' 
 
 When a little maid do say her prayers, the good 
 angels do bide by your bed all night, an' they won't 
 let she witch 'ee, not then, and if you should chance 
 to die they do carr' the little maid straight off to 
 Heabem."
 
 RETROSPECTION 105 
 
 The thought of the horrid cruelty, which the child 
 surely must have seen practised at the homestead 
 to speak of it so innocently, had scarcely time to 
 inflict a shudder upon Mrs. Airdrie, before it was 
 dispelled by the child's implicit trust in the power 
 of that quaint little prayer and the care of the good 
 angels. From habit, and in complete simplicity, 
 Tamsin had put her hands together and looked up 
 as if praying in real earnest. 
 
 " Come here, little soul. Can you read? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Tamsin with confidence. 
 
 Mrs. Airdrie stretched out her hand and took a 
 book from the shelf. 
 
 " Girt A. An' that's girt B." 
 
 Tamsin met with these old acquaintances on a 
 new page with pleasure, but her only idea of reading 
 was to identify individual letters, and she seemed 
 to know the whole household of them. 
 
 " Would you like to learn ? " 
 
 The answer was a prompt affirmative. 
 
 " Would you like me to teach you? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " WeU. We will see about it." 
 
 The day passed very happily. Tamsin did not 
 undergo the temptation of fat figgy cake, but it is 
 to be feared the child was horribly neglectful of 
 her socks. Long before John Scutt called on his 
 way from market the presentation sketch was 
 not only finished but dry. 
 
 On his homeward way down the village street
 
 106 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 he pulled up many times to show how this here 
 Mrs. Airdrie had a-tookt off our Tamsin. Sitting 
 in his two- wheeled cart, he held the picture close 
 beside the child's head and pointed with the handle 
 of the whip to prove that the colour of the hair, 
 verily and truly, was now so near as a touch to a 
 dead-match. 
 
 Everybody agreed that the picture was " the 
 very moral o' Tamsin, eyes an' all." Everybody 
 seemed surprised at the completeness of the work. 
 In point of fact, and this was the greatest wonder of 
 all, nothing of really vital importance to the face 
 had been omitted. 
 
 " There's her little mouth wi' the little pinch in 
 the corner an' no mistake," said Peter Jay. 
 
 " My blessed life! The lady have a-put Tamsin's 
 little sharp-topped nose then, sure 'nough," cried 
 cousin Jane Peters. 
 
 Isaac Cledworth, not yet " old " since " the 
 little Isaac " was at that time too immature for 
 public notice, declared that look it over like a man 
 might a horse or a bullock, and, one after another, 
 take point by point like, no man living could find 
 anything left out. 
 
 The possession of such a treasure, not only filled 
 the Scutts with pride, but inspired confidence in 
 a stranger whom the parish of Eddyford suspected 
 of eccentricity and still regarded with doubt. Jane 
 readily acceded to the suggestion that Tamsin 
 should go to Mrs. Airdrie to be taught, and as longer
 
 RETROSPECTION 107 
 
 days and warmer weather were now to be expected, 
 it was agreed that the education of Tamsin should 
 begin at once. 
 
 Oh! Those early days how happy they were. 
 The lessons were so brief, and Tamsin found them 
 so easy. She very quickly learnt to read quite well. 
 They went out upon the moor together, and Tamsin 
 spelling out the long words, read aloud, whilst Mrs. 
 Airdrie sketched. 
 
 Legends, poems, the old Hebrew stories, and 
 sometimes the too excellent tales of those days so 
 full of little prigs, in which one child was made 
 to be so incomprehensibly wicked in order that all 
 the others might be taught to become so intoler- 
 ably good. 
 
 They read something of every sort. But the 
 Arthurian tales pleased Tamsin the most, with 
 the pictures of the knights on horseback all so gay 
 and bold. She loved to hear how the queen rode out 
 on the hill to watch the hunting. For had not 
 Tamsin's mother taken her last autumn to the 
 Beacon Head to see the great red stag and the 
 hounds and all the ladies and gentlemen gallop by. 
 
 On other days they searched for rare plants on 
 the moor, Tamsin being shown in the botany book 
 the pictures of the flowers she must look for. Since 
 there was no scheme, no examination, and no end 
 in view, except to learn the thing and think about 
 it for its own sake, in the warm sympathy and
 
 io8 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 simple directness of her kind friend, unconsciously 
 the mind of Tamsin expanded without care or 
 weariness, as naturally as her body grew in the 
 sunshine and fresh breezes of the moor. 
 
 After Tamsin could read quite well and was just 
 a little proud of it, she found one day on Mrs. Air- 
 drie's table an open book. She took it up and tried 
 to read. She knit her brows and tried to spell. 
 
 Horrible nightmare! She could make no sense 
 of anything. 
 
 Tamsin was almost in tears. 
 
 That morning Mrs. Airdrie talked to her of other 
 climes, of nations over the seas with other manners 
 and other names for everything. From that day 
 they began to play a little game of asking each other 
 the names of familiar objects in French. Mrs. 
 Airdrie noticed that Tamsin very rarely forgot. 
 So they went on to phrases, and at last could talk 
 together quite easily, and as Tamsin had never 
 been puzzled with the grammar, she made but 
 few grammatical mistakes. 
 
 During the winter months, when the journeys to 
 and fro were difficult, the child paid long visits to the 
 little house at Eddyford town's end. They were 
 often kept indoors by the rain. Sometimes for more 
 than a month together the moor might be covered 
 deep in snow. Without horses and taking no inter- 
 est in sport, Mrs. Airdrie had made no acquaintances 
 in the neighbourhood and little Tamsin was her 
 only companion. Now and then, when the ground
 
 RETROSPECTION 109 
 
 was frost-bound and hunting impossible, Mrs. 
 Pilton took the opportunity to pay a little attention 
 to her husband's parishioners. Thomasine well 
 remembered the conversation on one of these occa- 
 sions. 
 
 The afternoon was cold and the sky hidden be- 
 hind heavy clouds. Large flakes of snow went drifting 
 and whirling across the window-panes. It was too 
 dark to work, too early to light the lamp. The 
 easel had been put out of the way in a corner. A 
 bright fire of turf and logs was blazing on the dogs. 
 It was one of those hours which they both loved. 
 Mrs. Airdrie would sit knitting whilst Thomasine 
 read aloud as long as there was light enough to see. 
 Then Mrs. Airdrie talked to the child of what had 
 been read. Thomasine at this time was twelve 
 years of age. 
 
 " To love everybody, no matter whether they be 
 rich or poor, beautiful or ugly, simply because they 
 are human beings like one's self to help everybody 
 who needs help never to be unkind because another 
 is unkind to you never to be harsh or cruel to any 
 living creature, but always gentle and helpful and 
 kind that is the greatest wisdom that has ever 
 been taught. To forgive everything, even unfair- 
 ness, Thomasine, and forget it at once it is very 
 difficult to understand and believe and many people 
 call it folly. Nobody who is vain and proud ever 
 can believe it because pride always wants to separate
 
 no THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 itself from others, either by riches, or by fame, or 
 perhaps by getting power. What you do, you must 
 do well, your very best, but for itself and not for these 
 rewards. And you need have no fear. If you can 
 find this great love you can never want, because 
 man's real wants are so few. If you can see this 
 truth, you will always be free " 
 
 A sharp rat-tat, on the brass knocker which 
 adorned the front door of the little house at Eddy- 
 ford town's end, put a sudden end to this instruction. 
 The child drew a deep sigh, for she was listening 
 most intently. 
 
 A minute later Mrs. Pilton entered, bringing with 
 her a gust of the cold winter air. 
 
 Not over tall and rather thin than stout, she was 
 a personage in Eddyford, and in the imagination of 
 Tamsin appeared to fill the whole parish. She came 
 smiling, talkative, determined to be pleasant and 
 quite unconscious of the slightly patronizing air 
 with which she bestowed her company upon a lady, 
 whom she never met anywhere and of whose 
 existence nobody seemed to know. Overawed by 
 her presence, Tamsin was about to go. 
 
 " Restez Id,. Vous aurez froid sans feu," whispered 
 Mrs. Airdrie. 
 
 ' You need not go, Tamsin," agreed Mrs. Pilton, 
 benignly. 
 
 Then she sat down to talk. Mrs. Pilton was a 
 great talker, and most of all prided herself that she 
 always spoke out her mind. She asserted this
 
 RETROSPECTION in 
 
 constantly, so there could be no doubt about it. 
 Such frankness made her very popular amongst her 
 friends, because everybody awaited her attack upon 
 somebody else. It may explain also why John and 
 Jane Scutt always remembered her by the nose like 
 a reaphook and the chin like the point of a new 
 moon. 
 
 Salutations and amenities having been exchanged, 
 Mrs. Pilton turned to Tamsin. 
 
 " Well, Tamsin Scutt. You may think yourself 
 a very lucky little girl that anyone should take the 
 trouble to teach you. I hope you are grateful. 
 Though, I must say, you will be the first grateful 
 person born in Eddy ford, if you should prove to be. 
 Gratitude is not indigenous here, Mrs. Airdrie. 
 And that Mrs. Airdrie in her kindness will not spoil 
 you and fill your mind with false ideas. Though 
 sometimes I fear it." She shook her head and 
 turned again to Mrs. Airdrie. " You know, I 
 always speak out my mind." 
 
 "But why suspect me of false ideas? " smiled 
 Mrs. Airdrie. 
 
 "Not you, my dear Mrs. Airdrie. Perfectly 
 correct ideas become false when they get out of 
 place. I always speak out my mind. I am not in 
 favour of much education for the lower orders. 
 What can they, in their station of life, possibly 
 require? To read, so that they may read their 
 Bibles and Prayer Books, of course. To add, sub- 
 tract, multiply and divide, so that they may cast
 
 ii2 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 their simple accounts. To write, so that they may 
 send a letter if it should happen to be necessary. 
 More than this, believe me, is positively injurious." 
 
 " But knowledge surely can never do an injury." 
 
 " By altogether upsetting the mind." Mrs. Pilton 
 raised both hands in expostulation. " And now we 
 are upon the subject, my dear Mrs. Airdrie 
 French ! They tell me this child can jabber French. 
 Of what use can French possibly be to little Tamsin 
 Scutt, a farmer's girl ? Unless, of course, Tamsin's 
 parents intend her to go into service. In which 
 case, if Tamsin should be a lady's maid, and it seems 
 to me she may grow up to be personally suited for 
 such a situation, her ability to speak French might 
 indeed sometimes prove quite serviceable to her 
 mistress." 
 
 Thomasine remembered that Mrs. Airdrie laughed. 
 
 " The child is quick," she explained. " She has 
 learnt a little French as a pastime." 
 
 " Believe me, my dear Mrs. Airdrie, simple country 
 people have no need for pastimes. They lead the 
 healthiest lives much in the open air. They have 
 work. They have rest. What more can people in 
 their most enviable position desire ? " 
 
 " There must, I fear, be instances of mental and 
 spiritual starvation." 
 
 " All their spiritual needs, my dear Mrs. Air- 
 drie, are provided for by the church. Mental needs 
 they can have none, unless we implant them. No, 
 believe me, people are never so happy as when they
 
 RETROSPECTION 113 
 
 keep, or are most carefully kept, in their proper 
 places. And I fear from what I hear in the village 
 I always speak out my mind that Tamsin may be 
 receiving a little more attention than can be good for 
 one in her position." 
 
 " Well, Tamsin, let us hope no harm will come to 
 you by my instrumentality," said Mrs. Airdrie, and 
 smiled kindly upon the child. 
 
 " Unless of course " added Mrs. Pilton, very 
 slowly and distinctly, " you intend to do something 
 for Tamsin." 
 
 Having warmly praised a drawing on the easel, 
 and in the same breath explained that she knew 
 nothing whatever about painting, Mrs. Pilton pre- 
 sently withdrew. 
 
 Little Tamsin, listening from her corner, appre- 
 hended that Mrs. Airdrie had suffered rebuke from 
 the great Mrs. Pilton. And Mrs. Airdrie, as was 
 but natural, appeared to be depressed in conse- 
 quence. There was no more reading that after- 
 noon and no more talk. Long after the lamp was 
 lighted, Mrs. Airdrie sat thoughtful and silent, 
 watching the flames. 
 
 Then followed a time during which the child was 
 conscious of being the subject of secret discussion. 
 
 About a week after Mrs. Pilton's visit, of a Sunday 
 afternoon because her father would be at leisure, 
 Mrs. Airdrie walked across to Hatchbarrow and 
 talked in the parlour, a room held sacred to the most 
 
 i
 
 H4 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 important occasions, for a whole hour with the 
 parents of Tamsin. What was then said Tamsin 
 was never plainly told. Perhaps her parents them- 
 selves did not clearly understand. But very soon 
 afterwards she was told that she was to go to the 
 boarding-school, and her heart trembled at the 
 thought. On the eve of her departure, Mrs. Airdrie 
 implored her to make the most of her opportunities, 
 and Thomasine worked and learnt, partly because 
 she loved books and found no difficulty in learning, 
 but still more to please the kind friend who was so 
 good to her. 
 
 In due course followed successes, prizes and 
 approbation. The parents of Tamsin looked upon 
 their child as a prodigy. 
 
 During those years of school Hatchbarrow became 
 full of mysterious expectations of great things in 
 store for " our Tamsin." Thomasine was quick to 
 detect the unexpressed belief that Mrs. Airdrie 
 would some day " leave our Tamsin money." 
 Nothing was said of this openly or abroad, for 
 Eddyford folk are -envious and already laughed at 
 the schooling. Moreover, about anything concern- 
 ing money the Scutts were secrecy itself. 
 
 During the holidays her mother was for ever 
 whispering some little admonition in Tamsin's ear. 
 
 " Whatever you do do, do 'ee have a care not to 
 do nothing to affront her," or, " If she should ever 
 speak sharp, don't 'ee never answer back, mind." 
 And when Tamsin declared that Mrs. Airdrie never
 
 RETROSPECTION 115 
 
 did so, her mother became more deeply mysterious. 
 " Then mind to keep your eye 'pon her countenance, 
 chile, to see whether she do take a thing favourable 
 or no." 
 
 Mrs. Airdrie's name was rarely mentioned. It 
 had given place to an impressive " her " or " she." 
 
 Tamsin remembered how her father would sit in 
 his chair of an evening and make strange calculations 
 based on " her " necessary expenditure, rent, taxes, 
 service and housekeeping, seeking to arrive at some 
 conclusion as to what the least " she " could have 
 must be. 
 
 " An' she's not the one to lay out every penny, 
 I'll be bound," he reflected. 
 
 And a moment later 
 
 " Besides, she can't go to Lunnon twice a year, 
 same as she do, without money. There's the 
 journey two ways, an' Lunnon dear as fire." 
 
 By the term " money " used without qualification 
 Tamsin's father always meant " wealth." 
 
 Although Thomasine was awake to these hopes, 
 she was young and light-hearted, and they occupied 
 small place in her mind. As she grew and learnt, 
 the sympathy between her and her solitary friend 
 became always more deep. As her understanding 
 increased their love became more intimate. With 
 a touch of jealousy, Jane Scutt sometimes spoke 
 of " she " in a tone almost slighting. " Make 
 haste, then. Go on. Run on in and see 
 your second mother," was the farewell with which 
 
 I 2
 
 n6 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 she often dismissed Thomasine for Eddyford 
 town's end. 
 
 Thus the time passed, alternating between school 
 and holiday, but yielding no incident that left any 
 deep impression on the mind of Thomasine, until 
 about three years before, of an Easter, she came 
 home to Hatchbarrow. 
 
 The festival was late that season. The daffodils 
 and the japonica were again in full flower, and 
 another brood of goslings ran at the tail of the old 
 goose in the barton. She spent the Sunday in 
 Eddyford with Mrs. Airdrie, and after morning 
 church they took a steep winding path through a 
 wood on the coombe-side to climb to the moor on 
 the top. 
 
 They walked very slowly, and at the first turn of 
 the path they stopped. 
 
 " Give me your arm, child. You will very soon 
 be a woman now. Why, you are as tall as I, Thomas- 
 ine." 
 
 The buds were everywhere breaking into green 
 leaf. Only those on the ash remained black and 
 winter bound, and they glistened on their shining 
 twigs silver-edged in the light. Many of the singing 
 birds had returned. 
 
 " The chiff-chaff ! Stop again, Thomasine ! That 
 must be our old friend of last summer come back to 
 the same place." 
 
 It seemed to her that Mrs. Airdrie made excuses
 
 RETROSPECTION 117 
 
 both to stop and to prolong the pauses. When at 
 last they reached the moor she sat down to rest on 
 the dry heather overhanging a bank. She was 
 breathless with the climb, and some minutes elapsed 
 before she could speak. 
 
 " I am not sure, Thomasine, that I shall be able 
 to live much longer in Eddyford. I have not been 
 strong this winter. You know I have just been 
 away. I wanted to get advice. My friends wish 
 me to go back to London. They say this country 
 cannot suit me. I fear I shall have to obey." 
 
 Thomasine remembered with shame her inability 
 to make any reply. At first, too overcome with the 
 fear of losing her friend, she scarcely realized that 
 Mrs. Airdrie was speaking of her health. Then she 
 tried to express her sorrow, but stammered and 
 could not. It seemed so unkind, so unfeeling, 
 to find herself thus altogether tongue-tied. Even 
 that morning she blushed at the recollection of it. 
 
 Mrs. Airdrie understood, took her hand, warmly 
 pressed it and held it in her own. 
 
 Presently, in a voice low and sweet, she began to 
 speak. There was in her manner an earnestness so 
 impressive, an affection so profound, that Thomasine 
 listened spellbound. 
 
 " I have been thinking of you very much of late. 
 Surely it can never be possible that your life may be 
 the less happy for having met me! The thought 
 troubles me. Believe me, Thomasine, though it is 
 difficult to believe it, all happiness comes from
 
 n8 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 within. Neither wealth nor fame nor anything 
 material can bring it, though the whole world 
 around you should be under the delusion that it 
 can. I have seen it for myself. There are two things 
 worth having, child a simple mind and righteous- 
 ness. With these there is nothing can do you any 
 real harm. They are wings to surmount any mis- 
 fortune or disappointment that life can bring. A 
 simple mind suffers no self-deceit. And right doing 
 cannot inflict real ill upon you, if it should demand 
 everything that you have. I have been rich and full 
 of wants, and very, very poor and contented. But 
 all this is a hard lesson and takes a life-time to 
 learn." 
 
 Mrs. Airdrie paused. Emotion had rendered her 
 more breathless than climbing the steep hill. With 
 the tip of her umbrella she described little circles in 
 the sand of the wayside gutter. 
 
 " You might have been happy if I had never seen 
 you, or had left you as you were. The life is simple 
 and honest. But your little mind was so quick. 
 It charmed me and won my heart. From the 
 moment when you prattled about pixies and witches 
 and the toad, I could not leave you without help. 
 When you come home next time you will leave 
 school. You will have to decide on the future. 
 Under any circumstances, first of all I hope to take 
 you with me to London. We will talk to my 
 friends about something for you to do. If you 
 choose it, Thomasine, we will carefully prepare for
 
 RETROSPECTION 119 
 
 it, so that you may do it well. If I go back there, 
 you will be like a daughter to me. If you remain 
 here, still your happiness is in your own hands. 
 Only with simplicity do what is right and you will 
 find it within yourself. Whenever you do wrong 
 sooner or later you will suffer ' In the house of the 
 righteous is much treasure : but in the revenues of the 
 wicked is trouble.' Do right and what you have 
 learnt will be a joy and a resource to you. Other- 
 wise, after all our talks, you will only have piled up 
 a little heap of knowledge without increase of under- 
 standing." 
 
 She had become very emphatic. She drew Tho- 
 masine towards her and kissed her. Thomasine 
 noticed the strange blue colour of her lips. 
 
 Then she rose from their seat on the heather. 
 
 " Come. We must be getting on. You must be 
 hungry, child." 
 
 They returned through the wood by the way they 
 had come. No more was said of the future. Mrs 
 Airdrie regained the quiet cheerfulness which was 
 habitual with her. They were happy together all 
 the afternoon, and in the evening Thomasine went 
 back to Hatchbarrow. 
 
 The plan for Thomasine's life was never con- 
 sidered, and some time before the summer holidays 
 Mrs Airdrie had left Eddyford. 
 
 Just as the soft twilight came creeping over the 
 hills at the end of a sweet day in May, she
 
 120 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 returned from a sketching excursion, sat down to 
 rest in her easy chair and dropped into the sleep 
 from which none ever awakes. 
 
 She had no property only a small income which 
 passed away at her death. She had no debts. A 
 short will left all her effects to Thomasine. The legacy 
 consisted only of books, drawings and furniture. 
 
 With tender sentiment, Thomasine had sought, as 
 far as possible, to arrange her room on the pattern 
 of the sitting-room in the little house at Eddyford 
 town's end, where she had spent so many happy 
 hours. Thus came this little oasis of culture under 
 a roof beneath which the life was almost primitive. 
 It was even more alone than Hatchbarrow sur- 
 rounded by its moors. 
 
 Very soon after the death of Mrs. Airdrie began 
 Thomasine' s love for Philip at first, a secret that 
 she almost feared to admit to her own heart. Then 
 came the joy of his avowal, and the promises made in 
 the little street of Netherton town. 
 
 Now another step was taken. 
 
 " Mrs. Pilton will never give consent," she said 
 aloud. 
 
 Thus her mind was brought home from its wander- 
 ings to the place from which it had started. What- 
 ever was good for Philip that she must do. She 
 loved him far too well to have any doubt as to that. 
 But to leave the old people, and cross unknown seas, 
 even with Philip, was to mingle sadness in the cup 
 of love.
 
 RETROSPECTION 121 
 
 The more she looked at it, the more reasonable 
 appeared her idea that Philip might farm under her 
 father's guidance. Old Parson Pilton farmed. 
 Why not his son? Thomasine decided that, by 
 the exercise of a very deep diplomacy, she might 
 find out what sort of figure a gentleman farmer 
 appeared in her father's mind, without in the very 
 slightest degree awakening his suspicion. There 
 could be no breach of faith in that. No harm 
 could come of that. 
 
 " But Mrs. Pilton will never give consent," she 
 repeated more emphatically than before.
 
 BOOK III. THE REVENUE OF DOUBTS 
 AND FEARS
 
 125 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THOMASINE'S DIPLOMACY 
 
 HAYMAKING came and passed with only a sprinkle 
 of rain, and John Scutt insisted, to the annoyance 
 of Jane, that the almanac, though now and then 
 right, was more often a liar. 
 
 Philip rode over on business more than once during 
 haymaking and, as any townsman is glad to do, 
 stayed to help save the hay. 
 
 Once he arrived of an evening on foot, on a legal 
 errand so unconvincing, that John and Jane winked 
 at each other huge winks, terrible convulsions, 
 almost as disturbing as earthquakes, and then, with 
 excuses obvious as the winks, went out and left the 
 young people together. 
 
 But nothing fresh happened. 'There was only 
 the old tale to tell. 
 
 They did not speak of Mrs. Pilton, but the argu- 
 ments of Thomasine caused Philip to see that farm- 
 ing in England might be not altogether a bad 
 thing. 
 
 In the matter so near to her heart as the settlement 
 of Philip as a farmer somewhere near Hatchbarrow, 
 Tamsin made up her mind to act with the deepest
 
 126 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 subtlety. She must watch for a moment when 
 weather had been lucky and the day's work had 
 gone well. Then, of a leisure evening, with her 
 father in the best of spirits, she could bring round 
 the talk to farming and, without mention of Philip's 
 name, or awakening any suspicion whatever, learn 
 all that she wanted to know. 
 
 At last came harvest, the most glorious harvest 
 in the memory of Eddyford, with a sun as bright 
 as summer. 
 
 All day long heavy loads came creaking home 
 to the mow-barton. Ruddy cornfields changed 
 to pale stubble, and one after another the stacks 
 arose on the other side of the garden wall. John 
 Scutt had got hold of the thatcher. That was 
 a source of great delight to him. It was a busy 
 season, with everybody's work coming at once, and 
 he might have had to wait. Now somebody else 
 was waiting, which was a far better arrangement. 
 John Scutt was greatly pleased with himself in this 
 matter of the thatcher. When he went out and 
 when he came in, sure enough, there was the 
 thatcher, perched up upon his ladder against the 
 yellow straw. Getting served first is the sort of 
 triumph to make a man proud. 
 
 Yet Tamsin waited long. More than one oppor- 
 tunity did she allow to pass before she found courage 
 to speak even secretly of a matter so close to her 
 heart. 
 
 There came a quiet afternoon in the work at
 
 THOMASINE'S DIPLOMACY 127 
 
 Hatchbarrow. The last piece of wheat had been 
 cut and the sheaves, set up in stitch, stood in even 
 rows across the square field on the hillside, only 
 waiting for to-morrow.. Hatchbarrow teams were 
 away, " lending a hand to neighbour Cledworth," 
 who was " a bit behind to year." But John Scutt 
 had stayed at home, and whilst he set ready the 
 vacant staddles for the last stack before Harvest- 
 home, he carried on a running talk at the top of his 
 voice with thatcher Joyce mounted on the ridge of 
 the new-made mow close by. 
 
 " A mow more to year than ever afore I covered 
 to Hatchbarrow in all my life," cried thatcher 
 Joyce. 
 
 " Do want un, too," John Scutt affected to 
 grumble, though his face was glad, " to make up 
 for two years agone when the sheaves stood out an' 
 rotted in the rain." 
 
 Thatcher Joyce was not a scholar. He was only 
 a grey-headed man of gifts. Everybody around 
 Eddyford admired to hear him " discoose," by 
 which was meant talk at length with some sense 
 at the back of it. 
 
 Thus wisdom came shouted from the top of a 
 stack. 
 
 " Now what I do say is this. Bad years mus' 
 come. Zo tes. Zo 't have ever a-been. Zo ever 
 shall be. Such the plan from creation to the end 
 of the wordle. Now, mark me ! What I do say is 
 this. Catch hold when you can. What God
 
 128 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 A'mighty don't send man can't have. But when God 
 A'mighty out o' his Heabem above do pour out the 
 hand o' plenty, let man stand by below to hold up 
 the bucket ready. Missed is lost. Past is gone. 
 If not garnered never called back. But this 
 I will say, Mr. John Scutt don't let much slip that 
 his fist can close upon." 
 
 Tamsin in the garden, picking her lavender, 
 saw the thatcher on high thrust in a spar and 
 hammer it home with uncommon vigour, as if he 
 were clinching his argument. 
 
 She stood up to listen, for she liked his talk. 
 
 " I can't a'bear to see waste never couldn't," 
 cried her father. 
 
 " No man need bend his back to pick up what 
 you do let drop, John Scutt. An' yet folk do won- 
 der at your wealth. But Lord ! Other things besides 
 kittens be born blind. An' there's staid folk in this 
 parish, to my mind, wi' their eyes not yet open to 
 sense." 
 
 " There's some most terrible slack-twisted farm- 
 ing about, I do allow," agreed her father. 
 
 " Now what I do say is this. Life is all o' one 
 piece like, take it all drough. The slacker the man 
 to work the slacker the tongue to grumble. 'Tis a 
 hard world for the lazy, look at it how you will, 
 for they alone have a-got eyes to mark where the 
 faults do truly lie. Oh ! Ay ! they be the grumblers 
 in good right. 'Tis none but they have a-got time 
 to look into the shortcomings o' God A'mighty
 
 THOMASINE'S DIPLOMACY 129 
 
 proper well. Now what I do say is this. There's 
 one above. Mus' be. We be below. Who can 
 doubt it. An' times an' seasons be the same for all 
 mankind." 
 
 In that old dogmatic manner of his, which left 
 nothing more to be said, John Scutt summed up 
 the whole matter. 
 
 " A man can do well enough at the farming if 
 he do only take advantage o' the weather, act wi' 
 sense an' work." 
 
 Here, then, was her father giving an opinion un- 
 asked to the question she feared to put. If she 
 could but catch him now, before the thought was 
 gone, it would be his, not hers. Tamsin dropped 
 her lavender, laid her scissors on the window-sill 
 as she passed, and ran towards the mow-barton. 
 
 At the gate she almost bounced into her father 
 coming away. He was smiling and very pleased. 
 The stacks, thatcher's appreciation, the wonderful 
 summer crowned with an abundant harvest, now so 
 near upon completion everything was lucky and 
 well. 
 
 John Scutt greeted his daughter with boisterous 
 good-humour. 
 
 "Hullo, Tamsin! Here you do come head 
 first full butt as folk do say. Where off then ? " 
 
 " Where are you off ?" returned the girl. 
 
 " Why, to look at to-morrow's work, to be sure. 
 Where else? " 
 
 " I'm on the same errand." 
 
 K
 
 130 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " What work have you got you little bit of a 
 chiney ornament ? " 
 
 " Why, to walk up and see about hauling my 
 wheat, to be sure. Where else? " 
 
 Tamsin laughed at him even mimicked his short 
 way to his face. 
 
 John Scutt dearly loved such little quibbles with 
 Tamsin. He gave a great guffaw, and shook his 
 head and looked at her with an affectation of surprise 
 at her impudence. 
 
 " Come along then, farmer. As much yours as 
 mine, maybe, for all I do know." 
 
 Side by side they started down the lane. 
 
 " I should like to be a farmer," said Tamsin. 
 
 John Scutt held up his finger in warning. 
 
 " Ah, you'd pretty quick end in workhouse." 
 
 " Not at all. Many women have been very good 
 farmers. I should take care to hold up the bucket 
 to the hand of plenty. I heard what thatcher 
 said." 
 
 " Tamsin, my chile. I do hear what they do all 
 say. There's a deal o' soft soap about thatcher. 
 But their praise don't suck your father in. When 
 folk do talk, Tamsin, I do listen so close that I can 
 most times hear the thought behind." 
 
 Tamsin smiled within herself. 
 
 " But everybody else says the same as thatcher 
 that you've done better, father, than anybody 
 around here." 
 
 John Scutt almost frowned.
 
 THOMASINE'S DIPLOMACY 131 
 
 " May be." 
 
 " Now would that be because you know more 
 than the rest, father? " 
 
 John Scutt's frown. melted into a smile. Really, 
 now, our Tamsin was a maid with a wonderfully 
 innocent way of her own. 
 
 " That I can't say, chile, my own self. That I 
 must leave to the rest. But I do aim to do all I 
 do know." 
 
 " Could you teach anybody else to do as well 
 as you? " 
 
 " I don't quite see what you do mean, Tamsin." 
 
 Determined to make the point clear, Tamsin 
 became slowly and clearly argumentative. 
 
 "Well! A man can grow rich at farming 
 because you have. If that is because you know 
 more you could tell another. If you had a neigh- 
 bour to whom you wished well, if you were to give 
 him advice the best advice why shouldn't he do 
 quite as well? " 
 
 When secretly amused, John Scutt had a way of 
 half closing one eye. He did it now. 
 
 " He'd never take it." 
 
 "But if he did? " 
 
 " They never do, Tamsin, my dear. The bigger 
 the fool the more nogheaded an' the more pig- 
 headed." 
 
 " But I did not mean a fool, father," answered 
 the girl quickly. " Say one clever enough to know 
 that he did not know much." 
 
 K 2
 
 132 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " But show un to me first, Tamsin. If there is 
 one about such as you say, he ought to get on. Why 
 not? " 
 
 Tamsin walked on in silence, constantly repeating 
 in her heart her father's question, " Why not ? " 
 
 They entered the wheat field and wandered 
 amongst the sheaves. Truly, this would be better 
 for Philip than a dingy office in a town. Her father 
 laughed once more, called her farmer, and inquired 
 when she was going to haul. Tamsin told him the 
 first thing in the morning, for the trumpery weed 
 was all withered, the straw dry, and the berry full 
 if not over-ripe, and might have been stacked a week 
 agone. 
 
 " I rather blame myself for being a little slack," 
 said she, imitating the stock excuses she had so 
 often heard. " But there ! At harvest time and 
 fine weather something must go on one side. It 
 must. A man can't be everywhere. Something 
 has to be left. It has it must, when so many 
 things come all at once." 
 
 John Scutt roared with laughter. He delighted 
 in such comedy. 
 
 " You must wed wi' a farmer, Tamsin, my dear, 
 and then you can advise." 
 
 Then it was Tamsin's turn to shake a finger at 
 him. 
 
 " Ah ! what did you tell me ? If I marry a fool, 
 he won't take it. But, father, if he should take it, 
 what will he be? "
 
 THOMASINE'S DIPLOMACY 133 
 
 " I'll come along an' whisper in your ear what to 
 advise, Tamsin." 
 
 " You must wait until I find him. Then you can 
 teach him yourself." 
 
 " If he should have land and not knowledge, I'll 
 teach un like a son, Tamsin." 
 
 " When people once get talking what nonsense 
 people do sometimes talk," reflected Tamsin, with 
 ever so little a pout of discontent. 
 
 " Talking's a pastime, chile. An' there's no 
 harm in a laugh." 
 
 " And to think that all this should have grown 
 out of thatcher's nonsense. It is really laughable 
 after all. Because, of course, if I had thought a 
 minute, old Parson Pilton did- farm his glebe, as 
 everybody said, wonderfully well. And he couldn't 
 have known much about it when he came here. 
 Could he? " 
 
 " Nothing at all. One o' these college chaps. 
 Grew up in the country no doubt." 
 
 "Who advised him? " 
 
 " All the parish. I did mostly." 
 
 " Did he make it answer, father? " 
 
 " First rate. Only he was such a one to spend it 
 afore he had it in hand like." 
 
 "Did he look after it?" 
 
 " Like a hawk. To be sure, he never put his 
 hand to plough. But, there, the value o' one pair 
 o' hands is soon counted. Old passon was for ever 
 casting his eye about. Ho! ho! He looked after
 
 134 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 that flock, whatever happed to t'other. He did 
 well. Passon did." 
 
 " Then that clearly proves," said Tamsin care- 
 lessly, " that thatcher was right about the 
 grumblers. It is strange what a little thing will 
 set one's mind thinking and all about nothing, 
 too." 
 
 " That's true," agreed John Scutt. 
 
 He stopped to set up a fallen sheaf, and then 
 stood rubbing his chin between finger and thumb, 
 apparently listening with thoughtful enjoyment to 
 the rasping sound made by the stubbly growth of 
 his unshorn beard. 
 
 " Yet there's a difference in men. To be sure 
 Passon Pilton well he had the gift " 
 
 He paused and thoughtfully rubbed his chin 
 again. Suddenly he turned, looked Tamsin straight 
 in the face, and spoke quite gaily. 
 
 " Now, young Master Philip. There's one could 
 do it. He'd get on better at the farmering than 
 ever he will at the lawyering ha! ha! I'll bet a 
 guinea he would. I could see that when he was 
 over here in the hayfield, and when he came t'other 
 night. I do like Master Philip. I should dearly 
 like to show Master Philip." 
 
 Tamsin turned away, picked an ear, and rubbed 
 out the wheat between her hands. Here was an 
 answer to her thoughts direct and plain. Yet her 
 father had spoken so spontaneously and everything 
 had followed in a manner so natural that Tamsin
 
 THOMASINE'S DIPLOMACY 135 
 
 walked home happy in the assurance that all was 
 well and her secret well kept. 
 
 But John said to Jane : 
 
 " Our Tamsin is no better 'an a glass bottle. 
 She's bright as a crystal in herself like, but 'tis 
 easy to see the colour o' what's inside. Her mind 
 do shine through she, so clear as the blue stuff in 
 the girt vase thing in the 'pothecary's window into 
 Netherton-town. She an' Master Philip be o' one 
 mind. He do want to go a-farmering an' she do 
 hold wi' it. She flushed up redder than any poppy 
 that ever grew in corn when I did but speak his 
 name, by chance like, looking at the wheat. Sound 
 her, missus. Take a quiet moment and sound the 
 maid."
 
 136 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 DEEP SOUNDINGS 
 
 THE efforts of Jane to sound the maid, although 
 frequent, were not attended with any conclusive 
 success. The thought of Master Philip as a mate 
 for Tamsin was never absent from her mind. When 
 alone she muttered to herself about it over her 
 work. When asleep she dreamed of it; and often 
 lay awake at night, turning the matter over and 
 over again, like hay in showery weather, and 
 sighing, whilst John snored. 
 
 She had none of the secrecy and cunning that 
 John had learned at market and fair. It must be 
 admitted that Jane's efforts in diplomacy lacked 
 finesse. Her finest ruse was but a slow-going affair, 
 as obvious as a waggon and team with bells climbing 
 a hard road up a high hill. Tamsin merely stepped 
 out of the way with a superior nimbleness of phrase. 
 More than once Jane shook her discomfited head 
 and, with a sigh, informed her husband that " a 
 body mid zoun', an' zoun', an' zoun, but never 
 fathom the bottom o' one so deep." 
 
 Yet Master Philip's supposed love for Tamsin 
 was the one gleam of romance in an otherwise
 
 DEEP SOUNDINGS 137 
 
 laborious and matter-of-fact life. The wish for it 
 was not inspired by social ambition. Both John 
 and Jane were too plain and independent for that. 
 It was Tamsin's good that her parents had at heart. 
 
 In Jane's experience love was little more than 
 a rough-and-ready wooing, speedily terminated 
 by a ceremony in the parish church. Then every- 
 thing ended except hard work. But Tamsin was 
 one apart. Heated by admiration and love, the 
 imagination of Jane dimly pictured a passion and 
 a romance more rare the exceptional love of the 
 old ballad song, in which the squire or the lawyer 
 meets the humble shepherdess and proposes to her 
 out of hand ; or the other, wherein the maiden, 
 having loved too readily above her station, is de- 
 serted, sings the song of the willow, and dies. These 
 old folksongs, even when telling the most improb- 
 able story, have their roots deep in human nature. 
 
 In her secret heart Jane perceived that any joy, 
 any sorrow, might fall to the lot of a wonder like 
 Tamsin. 
 
 Jane's heart sank within her to see that Master 
 Philip was not prompt. In her young days there 
 was no such a lag-about lover as he. It was off or 
 on then, sure enough. True, he came once or twice 
 with some sort of lame excuse about the property. 
 But these professional visits of Philip had ceased 
 some time ago. On Michaelmas day John rode 
 into Netherton-town to complete the purchase of 
 Hatchbarrow and came home more merry than
 
 138 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 wise. There was an end of that matter. The days 
 shortened. Tamsin was more often indoors. Jane's 
 eyes followed the girl's every movement, and it 
 seemed to her that the sunny mirth of Tamsin was 
 also giving way to a night of thought. But Tamsin 
 knew that Philip could not get to Hatchbarrow 
 by daylight, and she had not seen him for several 
 weeks. 
 
 The purple of the heather had passed away from 
 the moor, and the bracken, once so green, was 
 yellow and ruddy brown. An early frost had cut 
 off the most tender of the flowers in Tamsin 's 
 garden. Harvest-home had just come and gone, 
 with a festivity not so important as the sheepshear- 
 ing, but leaving a deal of clearing-up behind it. 
 
 Mother and maid were busy at work in the old 
 kitchen. 
 
 " The Beacon Head is lost in a misk, an' what 
 the day do mean to turn to is ver'ly an' truly more 
 'an mortal man can tell." 
 
 Jane brought this information when she came 
 back from the faggot pile hugging a double armful 
 of logs to her bosom. She set the sticks up in a 
 corner of the chimney to dry ready for use. Her 
 apron was green from the moss and lichen on the 
 wood. She stepped across to the window, set her 
 arms to rest a-kimbo, smiled upon her daughter 
 with real affection, and prepared to sound. 
 
 When Jane Scutt rested from her labours to look 
 upon Tamsin, as she often did in a pause between
 
 DEEP SOUNDINGS 139 
 
 any two household duties, her whole countenance 
 underwent a change. Her anxious eyes brightened. 
 The careworn lines upon her lean forehead softened 
 into gentler curves. For the moment she would 
 cast off her weight of responsibilities, and the hunted 
 look gave way to an expression of satisfaction and 
 love. Jane gave over sighing. Her firm lips even 
 quivered with a half-humorous smile. For it would 
 have been necessary to find indulgence for some of 
 Tamsin's ways if she had not loved her so much. It 
 was early in the afternoon, and Tamsin, in her 
 usual pale blue pinafore, but with a pair of old 
 gloves on her hands, was standing at the table 
 board, in the light from the small-paned, leaded 
 window, scouring a pewter platter. The heart of 
 Jane leapt with pride. She had never seen Tamsin 
 look so wonderful pretty though her heart did har- 
 bour a doubt as to whether all was well. 
 
 " There, chile! Let be. You've a-done enough," 
 said the mother in a coaxing tone. 
 
 " I like doing it, mother. And if I don't do it, 
 I know who will." 
 
 " What, then ? I shall have time. So give over 
 now to once, Tamsin, my dear." 
 
 " Thomasine, mother." 
 
 " Very well, then Tomsin, I should say." 
 
 Jane laughed as pride and affection made con- 
 cession to the girl's strange preference for her full 
 name. 
 
 " But why should you, mother ? "
 
 140 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " And why should you, my dear ? I was bred 
 up to work. Work do come natural after so much 
 o' it. Tis no trouble to these old paws. But wi' 
 you, 'tis different like. Lauk! Tamsin Tomsin 
 I should say if I didn't know I bore 'ee, I couldn't 
 half believe 'ee mine. 'Tis as if any old blackthorn 
 bush out in hedge should bear a primerose, as mid 
 say. You be the very heart an' soul o' the place, 
 here to Hatchbarrow. You be. I do really quail 
 to think o' 'ee sometimes. As if I must some day 
 lose 'ee." 
 
 Tamsin made merry. 
 
 " Mother! " cried she, " All this fear about me is 
 nonsense. I'm as strong as a horse." 
 
 " I didn't mean health. Nor I wasn't a-thinking 
 if you should wed, my maid. But if you should 
 ever truly see how rough we verily be. Say no 
 more. There! Let be an' have a-done. T'ull go 
 on as 'tis maybe so long as your father and mother 
 do last." 
 
 The eyes of Tamsin opened wide with surprise. 
 Her mother seemed to speak with some deeper 
 meaning and in the tone of awe with which her 
 superstition sometimes recognized an omen of ill. 
 
 Jane saw at a glance, and hastily set herself to 
 remove the impression that her words had so evi- 
 dently made. 
 
 " What I do mean is this you can never make 
 fine gentry out o' your father an' mother, my maid. 
 Rough we was, rough we be and rough we always
 
 DEEP SOUNDINGS 141 
 
 must be. Tis to be hoped we sha'n't stand in your 
 way. I should like to see 'ee wed. Though when 
 we be gone, you can live a lady out o' the rent o' 
 Hatchbarrow. I wouldn' have 'ee to live alone. 
 So go an' sit down an' read your po'try book or 
 your story book. I do like for 'ee to read your 
 po'try book. You can read un out if you be a- 
 minded. Why, you do colour up when you do read 
 your po'try book more rosy than anybody from 
 hard work." 
 
 " There'll be time for the book by and by, when 
 the candle is lighted, mother." 
 
 " Take it now, child. Take it now. There'll be 
 none too much time, if some gay young lover should 
 find 'ee a house o' your own one o' these fine days." 
 Jane had suddenly become quite lively, for she was 
 just ready to heave the lead. 
 
 "You think of that more than I do myself, 
 mother." 
 
 " Tis my fear, Tamsin Tomsin, I do mean- 
 that you won't take who you might, an' that our 
 rough ways 'ull scare off the finer bird that might 
 prove a mate to catch your fancy." 
 
 " He won't do for me, mother, if he's so timid as all 
 that." 
 
 " I don't say timid, only " 
 
 Jane paused to put her thought into comely 
 shape. She could by no means get it quit so neat 
 as she wished and she shook her head. 
 
 " All same time he might look at a couple o'
 
 142 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 scarecrows like your father and your mother, and 
 think twice." 
 
 "Oh, mother! Surely I should be^well saved 
 from any who could look at me and think more 
 than once," laughed Tamsin, and merrily rubbed 
 the platter. 
 
 " Yet, all same time, there's folk might look 
 down on other people's folk," Jane reflected. 
 
 " Not a tongue on earth, mother, can say a word 
 against you and father." 
 
 Then Jane sighed her everlasting sigh. 
 
 " That's all very well, but say somebody well, 
 say anybody say Master Philip now, for the sake 
 o' saying somebody " 
 
 " Mother ! Master Philip is the very last I should 
 say." 
 
 " Oh, Tamsin! Tamsin! Tomsin, I should say 
 you never will talk serious. I didn' really say 
 Master Philip. Say anybody you like 
 
 " Then, mother, you must wait for somebody I 
 do like." 
 
 Finding herself thus defeated at every turn, Jane 
 stepped forward to seize hold of the platter. 
 
 " Give it here. Give it here this minute," cried 
 she, with a show of authority. 
 
 They laughed and struggled, but Jane's strong 
 grip was soon victorious. She pushed Tamsin into 
 a chair and then prepared to take a still deeper 
 sounding. 
 
 " You do turn things off but for all that there
 
 DEEP SOUNDINGS 143 
 
 is they that look at it how you mid do an' 
 will " 
 
 The rattle of hoofs on the stones of the barton 
 yard cut the poor woman short at the very moment 
 when she was about to be both clear and impressive. 
 Then a lusty voice shouted: 
 
 " Hullo ! In house there where's our Tamsin ? " 
 
 " There's father," cried the girl. 
 
 She ran out of the door. More nimble than her 
 mother, she passed through the garden gate and 
 was by the upping-stock, and the milk pails on the 
 wall ready for the evening milking, before Jane was 
 halfway down the path. J^ohn Scutt had cantered 
 in from the farrn.^ The sturdy little Exmoor pony 
 stood up stiffly under his weight. The wise-looking 
 brindled sheep-dog walked slowly to his corner 
 between the mounting steps and the wall. John 
 was roughly dressed, but not in the tarry shearing 
 suit. There was a button missing from his old 
 gaiter, and his j acket had seen so much weather that 
 it seemed to have taken on the browns and greens 
 of the soil and the field. In the moorland landscape 
 at this autumn season of the year it took a quick 
 eye to distinguish John Scutt. 
 
 He had ridden home in a hurry. His voice was 
 loud as always when he spoke out of doors, and he 
 shouted in short, abrupt sentences. 
 
 " Hullo, Tamsin ! In you go ! up an' change 
 yourself. Hop into Netherton-town. There'll be 
 thick fog maybe for days. Hop on. T'ull be
 
 144 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 a change an' a holiday. Tis no good to 'ee here 
 wi' your weak chest. On to go. There's a good 
 maid." 
 
 The girl's face brightened. She should see Philip 
 and might talk to him for hours. For there was 
 nobody in lawyer Marshall's silent old house but 
 his one daughter, her friend Isabel. Philip would 
 come in from the office and they would have the 
 little sitting-room all to themselves. Isabel would 
 see to all that. And the time had been long since 
 the last sea-fog. 
 
 Her mother came up, a little out of breath. 
 
 "But what do you say, Jane? 'Tis a thick 
 cloud away there over the sea. But you can see 
 for yourselves." 
 
 Her father pointed with his riding whip in the 
 direction of the beech trees which sheltered the 
 homestead. Across their reddening leaves a thin 
 grey mist like a film of smoke was already drifting. 
 It could be distinguished more clearly still against 
 the darker branches of the clump of firs. 
 
 Her mother hesitated in a way that Tamsin did 
 not understand. 
 
 " What do 'ee say? " repeated her father more 
 sharply than before. 
 
 Standing between them, the girl glanced from 
 one to the other. 
 
 Jane was very slow to answer. Her husband's 
 eyes were fixed intently upon her, and she returned 
 his gaze with a look of pleading inquiry. Tamsin
 
 DEEP SOUNDINGS 145 
 
 detected an almost imperceptible nod. Her mother 
 responded with a slight movement of assent. Evi- 
 dently there was some secret understanding between 
 them something regarding this visit which she 
 was not to know. Her mother's face puckered 
 with anxiety. The tardy reply came with con- 
 straint, like something said only to save appear- 
 ances because a listener is present. 
 
 " If such is your wish, John." 
 
 " That's it. Get on then, maid. Tis a goodish 
 step to Netherton-town. Come. Besprack!" 
 
 The girl wanted no urging. Happy as a linnet 
 flitting to its nest in the gorse, she ran down the 
 garden path and disappeared within the porch. A 
 moment later John Scutt caught sight of her before 
 the little mirror in the window aboe. But Tamsin, 
 seeing her father glance that way, drew back at once. 
 She was perplexed at what she had seen. She could 
 not believe herself mistaken. The window was 
 open. She peeped between the curtain and the 
 looking-glass. Her mother had stepped forward, 
 and was standing close by her husband's stirrup. 
 Although Jane's whisper was of the loudest, he bent 
 down his ear. His voice, when he endeavoured to 
 speak softly, gave to alternate words the penetrating 
 power of a foghorn. 
 
 " To-night, John ? Do 'ee suppose ? " 
 
 " Likely enough. There's a cloud so big as a 
 mountain arising up over to the west. It'll be black 
 as a bag on the moor after dark." 
 
 L
 
 146 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " I thought o' fog last night, I did sure, when 
 the sun went down so red," sighed Jane. " I 
 dreamed of it too. But la ! I can't a-bear it to 
 see the maid a-sent off into town on a tale like 
 this." 
 
 " Pack o' nonsense ! Can be but for her good. 
 She'll reap the benefit." 
 
 " Yet still there, my heart do sink when 
 I do think o' her sometimes. All her thoughts an' 
 ways be so right an' we be so double. Day an' 
 night I do wish her well wed and settled an' safe. 
 An' that's a fac'." 
 
 " Well. This is the way to it. She do take 
 Netherton-town " His voice sank and rose again, 
 and the ear of Tamsin could catch little more than 
 a word here and there. " willing an' ready 
 cat to cream. Who do know ? " 
 
 He glanced at the window. To Tamsin his lips 
 appeared to shape a warning that he could see her 
 peeping at them from behind the blind. At the top 
 of his voice he shouted, " Good-bye, Tamsin," pulled 
 round his pony, whistled up the dog and clattered 
 out of the yard. 
 
 Slowly Jane turned back towards the gate, her 
 head bent as if it carried a burden of serious thought. 
 Seen from the window, she was a pathetic figure, 
 full of weariness. "Poor mother! she is always 
 thinking of me and Philip," said Tamsin to herself. 
 She longed to go and tell her that all would some day 
 be according to her wish. That Philip loved her.
 
 DEEP SOUNDINGS 147 
 
 That she loved Philip. That they would marry, 
 come what may, and perhaps even live near to 
 Hatchbarrow. But she dared not do that. She 
 said to herself, that, sea-fog or no sea-fog, she would 
 not go to Netherton-town that afternoon and leave 
 her mother who looked so woebegone. Yet with 
 these thoughts in her mind she hastened all the more 
 to get ready. 
 
 Certainly Tamsin was not long. Still in the 
 kitchen at work on the pewter when her daughter 
 came downstairs, Jane stopped to look at her. The 
 woeful, pleading look was still in her eyes. 
 
 " I don't want to go into town to-day, mother." 
 
 "Oh! but you must. Your father'll be vexed," 
 urged Jane, in alarm. " He do think so much o' 
 your chest." 
 
 " That's all nonsense," cried the girl. 
 
 " Maybe. 'Tis his thought, an' go you must. 
 Besides, you do love to go," and, brightening up 
 amazingly, Jane turned Tamsin round about in 
 admiration. " 'Pon my life, you do look nice. 
 There be two o' you, Tamsin two maids, sure 
 'nough, in one skin. There's Tamsin for your home, 
 an' Tomsin, by the same token, for Netherton- 
 town. 'Pon my word, you be smart." 
 
 Although autumn was passing and much leaf 
 had yellowed, there had been no more than an early 
 morning frost, and this sea-mist came to blot out 
 the clear blue sky of an Indian summer. And 
 summer still lingered in Thomasine's attire. Her 
 
 L 2
 
 148 THE REVENUE OF THE WICKED 
 
 bodice, of the colour of the reddened beech leaves, 
 was partly covered by a pale silk kerchief almost 
 the hue of the new thatch on the mows beside the 
 homestead. The sleeves came but little below the 
 elbows. Her skirt was short, revealing crimson 
 hose of her own knitting, and the neatest of ankles 
 above stout leathern shoes with bright steel buckles. 
 Such was Thomasine of a holiday or when she went 
 to Netherton-town. 
 
 " That's right. An' your cape to carr' 'pon your 
 arm," said her mother, looking her over with complete 
 approval. 
 
 Refusing to be led into further talk, Jane led her 
 daughter to the door and started her on the way. 
 She afterwards stood in the porch watching the 
 distant hill, where the winding road again came into 
 view over the moor.
 
 149 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 TO NETHERTON-TOWN 
 
 THOMASINE walked briskly. She had eight miles be- 
 fore her over the moor, down the coombe-side, 
 by the bridge and through the straggling village of 
 Eddyford, over Netherton Common and thus into 
 Netherton-town. 
 
 Thomasine was excited. Her mother's soundings 
 might have passed almost unheeded, but since there 
 was some secret understanding between her parents 
 the matter was of more importance. If her father 
 had really discovered her secret, as their nods and 
 their whisperings led her to fear, it was by no fault 
 of hers. She had kept her promise to Philip most 
 faithfully. Some tattling body in the village, know- 
 ing of his visit, must have said some word by way of 
 joke and set the world talking. That was likely 
 enough, and would not have mattered a pin but 
 for Philip's wish. Thomasine only feared the tale 
 might get carried to Netherton-town. There was 
 no worse place for gossip in the whole world than 
 Netherton-town. Everybody knew that. Just a 
 word let fall of a market day and the whole country- 
 side was soon humming. Somebody might have
 
 150 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 spoken a word already in her father's ear. To con- 
 fer together and hold silence concerning anything 
 of importance was the way of her father and mother 
 and characteristic of the moorland folk, though they 
 were boisterously open about all that did not touch 
 them closely. From their reserve it was clear that 
 they approved. They could express disapproval 
 loudly enough and at once and indignation also, 
 if they should fancy themselves slighted or hurt. 
 Should they once get it into their heads that Philip 
 was trifling, there would be what her mother called 
 an " upstore." If anything of this sort were to 
 happen, Philip must surely think her a very shallow 
 and unreliable person, without wit to conceal her 
 thoughts. 
 
 In spite of these misgivings, the heart of Tho- 
 masine was exuberantly glad. She was on the road 
 to Netherton-town. She was on the way to meet 
 the man she loved. Everything was happy and 
 beautiful on the way to Netherton-town, from the 
 hare that lopped across the track to the seagulls, 
 like Thomasine herself, passing inland. Thomasine 
 sprang to the roadside to pick a sprig of belated 
 heather still in flower. A string of ponies, a score 
 of them at least, each one a mare with a sucker 
 running by her side, came in single file along the 
 slope of the coombe. They stopped, whinnied at 
 the sight of her, then of a sudden made up their 
 minds and crossed the road in front of her at a 
 canter. Thomasine shouted to them from very
 
 TO NETHERTON-TOWN 151 
 
 joy as they galloped away down their track be- 
 tween the heather, through the green swamp and 
 up the opposite hill. They, like the seagulls and 
 herself, were changing quarters because of the sea- 
 fog. And yet, to look at Thomasine, her eyes bright 
 with anticipation, her cheeks aglow with the exercise 
 both of mind and body, none could have suspected 
 that she need tramp eight miles to get away from a 
 mere mist. 
 
 Full a mile across Eddyford Common and Tho- 
 masine did not meet a soul. 
 
 The village of Eddyford straggled along the banks 
 of a river that rushes hurrying down from the moor. 
 Thomasine could hear the hum of the waters before 
 she could see the stream. Enclosed fields, both 
 grass and arable, reached up the hillside. At the 
 end of the moor the rough open road, shut off by a 
 gate, passes between hedgerows and becomes a 
 winding lane. Close by the gate-post and hanging 
 over it grew a large hazel bush. A bent old woman, 
 in a dirty sun-bonnet, muttered to herself, as, by 
 means of a crooked stick, she dragged down boughs 
 to pick ruddy clusters of nuts from amongst the 
 yellowing leaves. On the ground, by her feet, was 
 a small cross-handled basket half filled with herbs. 
 
 Thomasine recognized the old aunt Titcomb at a 
 glance. 
 
 The old aunt Titcomb was the wise woman of 
 Eddyford, and many people believed her to be a 
 witch. Perhaps she was neither wise nor a sorceress,
 
 152 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 but only cunning enough to make the most of her 
 reputation. For nearly half a century, before she 
 became too old, she had been the priestess both of 
 the cradle and the coffin, for every village that hung 
 around the skirt of the broad moorland. Many a 
 strange occult rite had she performed. The old 
 aunt Titcomb not only carried a headful of wonder- 
 ful and secret things, but a wide experience had 
 taught her much of human nature. Her means of 
 living puzzled everybody. Some said she must be 
 half starved. Others that she had money hidden 
 away and ought not to be allowed parish relief. 
 But with her old age she had found a shrewd and 
 bitter tongue, which feared neither high nor low. 
 The rich encouraged her for the sake of hearing her 
 talk. The humble were careful not to offend her for 
 fear of what she might be able to do. So she did 
 and said as she liked. She had known Thomasine 
 from the moment of her birth, and she had a way 
 of talking with astounding freedom to those whom 
 she had assisted into the world. The village people 
 only laughed. Thomasine shuddered to see her. 
 A most blood-curdling coarseness oftentimes, and 
 now and then a most horrible profanity, fell from 
 the lips of the old Titcomb. But she was busy 
 with her nuts. It might be possible by walking 
 quickly to pass unobserved. 
 
 The gate creaked on its hinges. 
 
 The old hag stood up, glanced around, and tried 
 to straighten her back.
 
 TO NETHERTON-TOWN 153 
 
 " Hullo ! " cried she, with a laugh, thin and harsh 
 as the creaking of a worn-out wheel. " Here's 
 another of my own beauties. Ha ! ha ! Tamsin 
 Scutt. Zo here you be again off to Netherton-town. 
 Can 'ee guess the reason why they do send 'ee, 
 Tamsin Scutt an' o' sich a misky day, too ? " 
 
 The girl started. As she put the question the 
 old aunt's voice dropped to a sly whisper, and it 
 came so pat upon her thoughts. 
 
 "La! You do turn your head zo quick's a 
 robin, Tamsin Scutt. Your folk do tell up as how 
 you be weakly. But to look 'ee in the face, who'd 
 ever think it, Tamsin Scutt ? An' never had herb, 
 drink nor ointment from the wold aunt Titcomb 
 since the day o' your birth." 
 
 There was an irony in this frequent repetition of 
 the name, which was most uncomfortable. The 
 old woman hobbled forward, and with her thin brown 
 finger tapped on the girl's wrist. 
 
 A grey eye, watery, shrunken but cunning, peered 
 from under a bushy eyebrow, and Thomasine had 
 not the courage to move. 
 
 " Here ! Looky-here, Tamsin ! One o' my own. 
 Do 'ee ever wake, full early in the morning, wi' a bit 
 of a cough? " 
 
 " No, aunt Titcomb." 
 
 " Do 'ee panky much if you should chance to 
 step out pretty quick up hill ? " 
 
 " No, aunt Titcomb." 
 
 "Nor spit blood?"
 
 154 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Nor sweat o' nights ? But don't speak another 
 word. I'll warrant you don't. For you be one o' 
 the lucky ones, Tamsin Scutt. One by yourself, an' 
 never a one to follow as the old aunt Titcomb could 
 ha' taken oath. So, to be sure, they must take good 
 care o' 'ee, Tamsin Scutt. Your mother can't afford 
 to lose the only one. An' to watch how your vather 
 have a-got on ! A little better 'an nothing, same as 
 most o' the rest about here an' now the farm his 
 own. The lawyer Marshall bought un another 
 piece o' ground last month, didn't 'er? 'Tis won- 
 derful. Zo 'tis. An' work night an' day, night an' 
 day to save money for the only one. You be the 
 apple o' both their eyes, Tamsin Scutt. You'll 
 bring money to the man you do wed. Do 'ee ever 
 wonder why they do send 'ee in to Netherton-town, 
 Tamsin Scutt ? " 
 
 The old woman had gradually drawn nearer still. 
 Her neck was craned forward, her face came so 
 close that Thomasine could feel the breath 
 against her cheek. Her voice was little more than 
 a wheeze. 
 
 Thomasine drew back. 
 
 " I I go in to visit my friends," she replied, 
 quickly. 
 
 The old aunt Titcomb showed her toothless gums 
 and laughed. 
 
 " Ho ! Ho ! An' so you do," she nodded. 
 
 The answer seemed to fill her with merriment
 
 TO NETHERTON-TOWN 155 
 
 and she had to stop and regain breath before she 
 could proceed. 
 
 " Ha ! Ha ! An' in hopes o' one more than a 
 friend, maybe. Harky here, Tamsin, my sweet 
 pretty maid. A word in your ear. Don't 'ee loiter 
 about too long in Love Lane. Get to church, my 
 maid, so quick's you can. The ring on your finger, 
 my dear, that's the thing. There's a planet against 
 'ee, Tamsin Scutt, lucky as you be. Till death us 
 do part that's a maxim for a maid wi' money. 
 Troubles do come thick as weeds. Money do vlee 
 all to once whir-r-r like a flock o' linnets. Death 
 us do part is the only rock. Here ! Here's a riddle 
 for 'ee, Tamsin Scutt. When is dark night more 
 open than daylight ? Can 'ee guess ? Ho ! ho ! 
 I'll warrant you can't. Ax o' the owls up in Hatch- 
 barrow wood. They'll hollar who-o-o. Turn tail 
 now, an' run home an' ax o' your vather. Tell un 
 the wold aunt Titcomb send 'ee. Mid be all zo well. 
 Then tell un the answer too when another do lie 
 in wait." 
 
 Impatience with such nonsense overcame her fear. 
 Thomasine found the will to speak and be free from 
 the nightmare that oppressed her. 
 
 " There's no sense in what you say, aunt Tit- 
 comb," she said, sharply, and stepped aside to con- 
 tinue on her way. 
 
 The old woman hobbled in front of her. 
 
 " Then you won't take a errand from your old 
 aunt? "
 
 156 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 Thomasine did not answer. 
 
 ' Youth is proud. Maybe you be right. Be 
 proud while you may. There's no pride in crooked 
 limbs and wrinkles." 
 
 The old aunt Titcomb stood back and allowed her 
 to pass. She did not, however, cease to talk, but 
 gradually raised her voice to its normal squeak as 
 Thomasine walked away. Louder and louder it 
 grew, following the girl all down the road. Tho- 
 masine hoped that no neighbour from Eddyford was 
 near to listen. 
 
 " No more there is, my dear. There's no sense. 
 No sense in young or old. Young thoughts must 
 run love-seeking. Old will be for ever a-wool- 
 gathering. Now, I'll tell 'ee why they do send 'ee 
 into town. You be a beauty, Tamsin Scutt. Under 
 a head like the furze in flower lips do pray to be 
 kissed. You be a primerose, my dear. They do 
 hope one o' the town some gentleman born mid 
 chance to pick 'ee, Tamsin Scutt. An' why not, wi' 
 the land an' a bit o' money ? Why not Jane Scutt's 
 maid a lady, so well as some of the rest ? Keep on 
 your way. You be one o' my own. I do wish 'ee 
 well. Don't forget now, don't forget. Ax the 
 riddle for all that. He'll make your vather stare a 
 bit I'll warrant un. So good-day, Tamsin Scutt. 
 You be one o' my own. Good-day! I do say 
 Good-day!" 
 
 For the sake of silence Thomasine turned her head 
 and cried back, " Good-day ! "
 
 TO NETHERTON-TOWN 157 
 
 " One o' my own one o' my own," mumbled the 
 old woman as she picked up the basket and hobbled 
 away to her nuts or her herb-picking. 
 
 The girl hurried down the hill towards the village. 
 This unexpected interview had disturbed her greatly 
 and she was distressed in mind. In vain she tried to 
 reassure herself that this was only a silly old woman. 
 The old aunt Titcomb had spoken as one who knows 
 what she is talking about. Towards the last, in her 
 way, she had been almost kind. Yet many people 
 called her witch, and superstition was in the blood 
 of Tamsin. Jane Scutt believed implicitly in the evil 
 eye. Her father always spat three times, if he 
 should be unlucky enough to meet a piebald horse 
 on the road. The roots of these beliefs lie deeper 
 than the surface ploughing of a superficial education. 
 There are scholars who feel their flesh creep at a 
 ghost-story, even though they do not believe in 
 ghosts. And the wisdom of the old aunt's utter- 
 ances, whenever they happened to be clear, seemed 
 to menace a more certain misfortune in the warnings 
 which were so obscure. " There's a planet against 
 'ee ! " " Till Death us do part." These dark words 
 cast a shadow that dispelled the gaiety of Tho- 
 masine. Her mood was changed. The joy of Love 
 gave place to its no less natural apprehensions. 
 Philip's mother would never consent. It would 
 never come to anything. There would be talk 
 talk before it was wise. He would blame her and 
 grow cold. His friends would dissuade him when
 
 158 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 it was known. And it was known already. Her 
 parents knew. The old aunt Titcomb knew by 
 some means or the other. All Eddyford knew 
 likely enough 
 
 She reached Eddyford and saw with pleasure 
 that there was no loiterer on the bridge. Tho- 
 masine was in no humour to speak to any soul alive. 
 Eddyford was not reticent, but apt to indulge in 
 disagreeable jokes or to be inquisitive and ask plain 
 questions straight out. She walked quickly up the 
 street, but was fortunate enough to meet no intimate 
 friend. 
 
 She came to the house where Mrs. Airdrie had 
 lived, now tenantless and falling out of repair. 
 Since her death it had never been let, and now the 
 windows were boarded up. Thomasine was already 
 unhappy and in distress. She burst into tears and 
 hurried on her way. 
 
 Yet all was not over. A little beyond the vil- 
 lage was a small thatched homestead, the dwelling 
 of cousin Jane Peters, that excellent spinster, 
 middle-aged and so talkative. Cousin Jane Peters 
 lived in frugal independence and therefore had little 
 to do. Her afternoons she devoted to needlework 
 and was always seated at the window. Nobody 
 could be more inquisitive as to your errand than 
 cousin Jane Peters. No eye so keen as hers to 
 detect the state of your health and the condition of 
 your mind from your countenance. Sure enough, 
 scarcely had Thomasine passed the door, when
 
 TO NETHERTON-TOWN 159 
 
 cousin Jane Peters, with uncle Jeremiah Brook 
 close at the tail of her skirt, popped out and shouted 
 after her with the utmost good humour. 
 
 " Hullo, Tamsin ! Why so quick ? London afire, 
 maybe ! You be in a hurry then ! " 
 
 " I'm late ! I'm late ! " cried the girl, looking 
 back over her shoulder. 
 
 " You be proud proud, seem so." 
 
 " I'll look in on my way back." 
 
 " Oh ! Don't 'ee trouble, if you should be in 
 haste, sure. So fine as you be." 
 
 " I must speak. To pass your near kin without 
 greeting is to show bad manners and a base mind." 
 
 Thomasine kept on without stopping, and pre- 
 sently the door closed with a slam. 
 
 Thomasine had committed the most unpardon- 
 able offence known to rural life. She had appeared 
 stuck up. She had given the go-by to a poor rela- 
 tion. In a village news is always scarce, and every- 
 one a-hungering for the sound of a fresh voice. 
 Cousin Jane Peters was not only disappointed but 
 incensed. She would never forget. Yet Thomasine 
 had as little false pride as a girl with money might. 
 She understood, and was vexed. Vexed with cousin 
 Jane Peters with herself with everything. Never- 
 theless she could not bear to talk to anyone that 
 afternoon. She kept on to the point where the road 
 parts company with the river to climb the opposite 
 hill. 
 
 Thomasine heard a voice as it were come out of
 
 the sky a rough voice that called to a team. High 
 on a slope of the hillside she saw a man at plough. 
 His back was towards her, but she knew that tall 
 figure only too well. She quickened her pace, 
 hoping that she might pass unobserved. 
 
 Again she heard him call as he turned the plough 
 at the headland under the higher hedge. Now he 
 faced her way as he came down the other furrow. 
 The homestead of the Cledworths was hidden in the 
 coombe close by, although an outlying field or two 
 of their farm lay beside her father's land at Hatch- 
 barrow. The village street was well in view from 
 any part of the hill. She could scarcely hope to 
 miss his eye in her brighter holiday attire, but 
 Thomasine drew into the side, and, wherever it was 
 possible all up the winding steep, kept well under 
 the cover of a tall beech hedgerow. 
 
 She began to take courage. She had almost 
 reached the top. 
 
 A minute more yet another turn of the road 
 and she would be in safety. 
 
 " Hullo, Tamsin ! Here you be. Out to look 
 roun' for your sweetheart, then." 
 
 The face of Thomasine reddened with anger. 
 Education had taught her to detect impertinence 
 where the village of Eddyford would only have 
 found good humour. She did not see the speaker, 
 but full well she knew that drawl and hated it. 
 
 The young Isaac Cledworth had left his plough 
 and run down to a gap in the hedge. He knew that
 
 TO NETHERTON-TOWN 161 
 
 if Thomasine should see him she would turn back, 
 and there he stood, out of sight amongst the leaves, 
 waiting for her to come by. In leathern gaiters 
 and a kirtle smock he lightly jumped from the high 
 bank over the fern-covered ditch and stepped into 
 the road. The place was lonely and the way little 
 used. Thomasine was afraid. She cast a hasty 
 glance up the hill and down. Nobody was in sight. 
 There was no help for it. She had no wile by which 
 to escape him this time. She needs must stop and 
 hear whatever he might have to say. 
 
 " I can't tell what you mean, Isaac Cledworth, 
 I'm sure," said she, trying to conceal her fear under 
 a careless manner. 
 
 "Why, who but myself, to be sure?" The 
 young Isaac spoke with that air of jaunty self- 
 satisfaction which had won so much admiration at 
 revel and fair. " An' met me you have, then, sure 
 'nough." 
 
 In the eyes of the moorland folk Isaac Cledworth 
 passed for a very smart young man, and more than 
 one girl in Eddyford would have thought herself 
 lucky to wed with him. Ready at any moment to 
 drink or work, or fight or wrestle with any comer, 
 he had gained for himself a considerable popularity 
 in that country. Although but four-and-twenty, 
 he was as 'cute at a deal as many a one whose 
 crown was bald with over-reaching his neighbour. 
 And many thought him not so bad-looking, with 
 his tall, active figure, his straight sandy hair, grey 
 
 M
 
 162 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 eyes, short nose and long upper lip. As the cham- 
 pion of that part of the county, Isaac was welcome 
 at any homestead within ten miles, as they say, 
 " on any day of the week," and in consequence 
 fancied himself as a wit and humorist. 
 
 " Don't make such a fool of yourself, Isaac 
 Cledworth," cried Thomasine in a fury, and with 
 a step to one side as if to go on her way. 
 
 " Stop ! Stop, my beauty ! " 
 
 He laughed, and still in his humorous vein skipped 
 in front of her as if dancing a reel. 
 
 " There's none such hurry. 'Tis my turn now. 
 You can't hop away here into the crowd, as you did 
 last year at Eddyford revel, my maid. Nor give 
 me the go-by as you have done many a score o' 
 times. Nor run out o' house an' hide yourself away 
 from the dancers, as you did at your father's sheep- 
 shearing. For here we be, Tamsin, my maid. 
 You an' I, that do love 'ee better 'an life. Look 
 here, Tamsin. Look here, my dear. Will 'ee ha' 
 me? " 
 
 " Never, Isaac Cledworth." 
 
 " Look here, Tamsin, my beauty. 'Tis better to 
 wed wi' one o' your own sort you do know. We be 
 neighbours ' ' 
 
 " An' neighbours is all we can ever be, Isaac 
 Cledworth. I've made it plain many a time in 
 deeds if not in words. What other meaning could 
 I have ? If you would only have the sense to see ! 
 Now I tell you for once and all."
 
 TO NETHERTON-TOWN 163 
 
 " I do love 'ee dear, Tamsin, my maid. I'd 
 take care o' 'ee, my dear." He wrung up his fist 
 as if to show how well. " Look here ! Will 'ee 
 ha' me?" 
 
 " I can quite well take care of myself," retorted 
 the girl sharply. And seeing she could not go 
 forward, she turned to go back to the village. 
 
 " Don't you be sure o' that, Tamsin. There's 
 nothing like a good stout arm and fist to take care 
 of a maid. Let but another look at 'ee I'd 
 I'd " 
 
 But Thomasine scarcely heard. She was hurry- 
 ing down the hill. 
 
 A fierceness of jealousy was added to his brute's 
 passion. Stung with the recollection of how many 
 times she had eluded him, he saw her trying to 
 escape again. The very futility of the attempt 
 quickened his blood. He strode after her. She 
 heard his steps and ran. In a moment his arm was 
 around her. He forced back her head with his 
 rough hand, and kissed her cheeks again and again. 
 He thrust aside the kerchief and kissed her neck 
 and bosom, until Thomasine in a frenzy seized 
 his yellow hair above each ear and thrust his head 
 away from her. 
 
 " You vixen! You little red-headed she-devil! " 
 
 cried he, with a grim humour but between his 
 
 clenched teeth. Yet he was exultant and grinned 
 
 as he smoothed his ruffled locks. 
 
 The burning of his polluting lips upon her breast, 
 
 M 2
 
 164 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 and he within arm's-length, Thomasine stood 
 breathless between shame and fear her lips parted, 
 her face towards him, because she feared again to 
 turn her back and run. 
 
 Then the absurdity of having his hair pulled 
 struck the young Isaac Cledworth. He was used 
 to give knocks and to take them smiling. After 
 all, a deal of roughness went to the Eddyford idea 
 of successful wooing. And Tamsin, looking so 
 handsome in her anger, was helpless as a sparrow in 
 his hands. The young Isaac Cledworth laughed aloud. 
 
 " Not but what I do commend 'ee, Tamsin. 
 Above everything in life I do like to see 'em game ! 
 Look here, Tamsin. What's a kiss? You must 
 all make a fuss, we do know. I do love 'ee true. 
 I never will be rough wi' 'ee. Take and ha' me. 
 I'll love 'ee so gentle as two wood-pigeons. Will 
 'eeha'me?" 
 
 " I will tell my father," she panted. 
 
 " ' Tell my father,' says she. What if Isaac 
 Cledworth should be your father's choice? Look 
 here, Tamsin ! If your father do tell 'ee to ha' me 
 will 'ee ha' me ? " 
 
 Before Thomasine could frame an answer to a 
 question so absurd, far below them the head of a 
 horse came nodding round the bend of the hill, 
 then the four-wheeled van, then the "Nethertonx 
 tranter following a step or two behind, ready, stone 
 in hand, to clap it under the wheel when the moment 
 came to give his horse a rest.
 
 TO NETHERTON-TOWN 165 
 
 It might be five minutes before the carrier could 
 slowly journey up to them. But Isaac Cledworth 
 saw that for this time his wooing was over, and 
 cursed. Thomasine was again to elude him. To 
 see her re-arrange her kerchief and regain her self- 
 possession, now that some one had come within 
 hearing, made him furious with disappointment and 
 jealousy. 
 
 Suddenly he burst forth with a torrent of threats, 
 meaningless and wild. 
 
 " Your father ! Tell your father ? Go an' tell 
 the little black-headed fellar in the drab cloth 
 gaiters, that do walk 'ee out into Netherton-town. 
 Go on into town and tell Master Philip. You who 
 / do think yourself too good for folk about here. 
 But you'll never marry un, Tamsin Scutt. Unless 
 you can marry now afore sundown, you never can 
 marry un. You never will. An' you never shall 
 marry un, so sure as God's in heaven. There'll 
 be no two ways about it. You'll wed yet wi' 
 Isaac Cledworth. So there! " 
 
 " You talk like a fool," cried Thomasine in her 
 security. 
 
 He pointed towards a bank of cloud above the 
 horizon in the direction where of a clear day the sea 
 was to be seen. It had imperceptibly drawn much 
 nearer since she left Hatchbarrow. 
 
 " Maybe. Can 'ee see anything away out there, 
 Tamsin 1 " 
 
 " I've got my eyes, I suppose," said she angrily.
 
 166 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " That's vog. That's a sea-vog. Your father 
 or any man hereabout could swear to it. We shall 
 get it afore night. An' I can see the other coming 
 so clear as I can see that vog. You'll wed wi' 
 Isaac Cledworth, my fine maid. An' there's no- 
 thing 'pon earth can stop it." 
 
 " I'd rather be in my coffin." 
 
 " Not that ! There's a better place than a coffin 
 for the likes o' you. An' you'll seek it. May be 
 soon. May be a month. May be to-morrow. But 
 come 'tis bound to, sure as the light. An' you'll 
 seek it, Tamsin Scutt." 
 
 "Seek it?" 
 
 " Ay seek it. I said ' seek it.' ' 
 
 The creaking cart was drawing near. Isaac 
 Cledworth glanced at it, turned hurriedly, cleared 
 the ditch, and went back to his plough by the gap 
 through which he had come. 
 
 Again the tranter stopped to give his horse a 
 rest. Thomasine took the opportunity to hasten 
 on her way. The country was rough, the roads 
 bad and heavy-laden wheels got over the ground 
 little faster than a traveller on foot. Thomasine 
 made haste to get far in front whilst he laboured 
 up the hill. At the top of the steep the tranter 
 would be certain to offer her a lift. He must have 
 seen her talking to young Isaac, and was doubtless 
 already provided with half a dozen sly jokes. 
 Thomasine with her tear-stained cheeks had no 
 wish for company, and did not want to ride.
 
 TO NETHERTON TOWN 167 
 
 Now that she was safe, her thoughts went back 
 to Philip. Everybody knew of her love for Philip. 
 Her parents, the old aunt Titcomb, and the young 
 Isaac Cledworth had spoken of it outright. She 
 must tell Philip as soon as possible. In her agita- 
 tion she walked so fast that she kept in front of 
 the slow-going carrier, until at last she looked down 
 upon the slate roofs and blue smoke of Netherton, 
 a small market-town lying deep in a valley and 
 almost hidden by trees. 
 
 After all these misadventures and agitations un- 
 expected happiness was awaiting Thomasine. 
 
 In the distance a young man came loitering upon 
 the road. He looked up, saw her and quickened 
 his pace. He was neatly dressed in a dark-blue 
 swallow-tailed coat with bright buttons. He wore 
 breeches with a fob, from which, by a black watered 
 silk ribbon, hung a seal. Isaac Cledworth was 
 right when he spoke of drab cloth gaiters. Philip 
 wore them in the town. They were long, with but- 
 tons close together, and fitted as elegantly as a glove. 
 
 "Philip!" 
 
 Yes. Philip was coming to meet her. 
 
 He was hastening towards her. Thomasine 
 slackened her pace to regain her composure and 
 still further to arrange her ruffled feathers. More- 
 over it was wise to let the heavy van go lumbering 
 by, putting the tranter safely out of sight under 
 the square shelter of his tarpaulin tilt. There was 
 not another person in the whole landscape.
 
 168 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 But Philip was there. He was with her. His 
 arms were around her his kisses on her lips. 
 
 Thomasine forgot all her troubles, all her anxie- 
 ties. Though all the world might know, for the 
 moment, at any rate, her heart was at rest. 
 
 And Philip had never been so joyful. 
 
 He had so much to tell so much that was won- 
 derful, even incredible that he did not notice any 
 traces of her recent distress. From the first his 
 talk became a rapid monologue, with only now and 
 then a pause to take breath. 
 
 This was what Philip had to tell.
 
 169 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 WHAT PHILIP HAD TO TELL 
 
 " THOMASINE, my dearest angel ! So I was right. 
 I knew it. I was certain of it. It was an inspira- 
 tion my coming to meet you this afternoon, though 
 everything was arranged for me to come to Hatch- 
 barrow the day after to-morrow. I overheard 
 Isabel ask old Marshall whether it would rain. He 
 solemnly looked out of the window and said it was 
 only a sea-fog. That word was enough. From the 
 very moment sea-fog was uttered, I knew it. It 
 was magic. I saw you absolutely saw you, darling, 
 coming along this Eddyford road. That was just 
 as the clock struck twelve. Kiss me, Thomasine, 
 love. I sneaked out of the office and came. I 
 have been waiting all the afternoon. Again, sweet- 
 heart. For, Thomasine, dearest, you will never 
 in this world guess what has happened. My mother 
 has consented deliberately, spontaneously, unre- 
 servedly agreed, sanctioned and consented. For 
 some unimaginable reason old Marshall has stood 
 my friend. Oh, Thomasine, best and dearest, I 
 am so glad that all troubles and petty annoyances 
 are over. You have been so patient and so true.
 
 170 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 Give me your hand, love. No. The other, silly 
 child. Isabel told me that a diamond between 
 rubies was the real thing. Do you like it, Tho- 
 masine, dearest? Yes. Old Marshall! A man 
 whom for years I have daily stigmatised as ' ass,' 
 ' prudent ass/ ' silly ass,' in fact every variety of 
 ass, which, of course, was contradictory, impossible 
 and absurd. He has a lot more sense than ever I 
 believed. He has told my mother that I am no good 
 for the law. One cannot help respecting discrimina- 
 tion such as that. He said we should marry in 
 spite of her and she had better consent. There's 
 foresight. The man is a seer. And it is a duty to 
 venerate the gift of prophecy when one unmis- 
 takably meets with it. He recommended that I 
 should go farming. He pointed out that your 
 father had made a lot of money. And Court is 
 now to let, and he has the letting of it. You know 
 Court, that beautiful little old manor-house, now 
 a farm only four miles from Hatchbarrow. He 
 says if my money is not enough, that can easily be 
 arranged. And my mother has consented to every- 
 thing. I told old Marshall to his face he was a 
 brick. It's not a legal term. He looked pained. 
 If your father thinks it wise, we can settle on Court 
 at once. Oh, Thomasine! Thomasine! Do you 
 see what that means? Do you really understand 
 it, sweetheart? If you will, we can marry before 
 next summer. I have to go to Taunton to-night. 
 Assizes to-morrow. And I'll come to Hatchbarrow
 
 WHAT PHILIP HAD TO TELL 171 
 
 on the next day. And, Thomasine, I want you 
 to go home to-morrow morning as early as you can. 
 You can announce everything to everybody now, of 
 course. But I do hope you will not happen to see 
 my mother before you go. She might explain her- 
 self out of her obvious duty. Let her come to 
 Hatchbarrow. She knows Hatchbarrow. She's 
 been there often enough. Let her do the right 
 thing. She has talked a lot of nonsense. I'll drive 
 her over. And, Thomasine dear, I will come over 
 towards evening. I may be a little late because of 
 these beastly assizes. Meet me on the beacon, 
 dearest, in the afternoon. We'll go down together. 
 We'll talk everything over with your folk. Make 
 it right with your father and all that. He is cer- 
 tain to like Court. They say it is much better 
 land even than Hatchbarrow. And before next 
 summer, dearest ! Think of it, Thomasine. Before 
 next summer ! Never to part ! Think of it- 
 Such great happiness, coming all. at once on the 
 top of so many woes ! Thomasine could only think 
 of it with tears.
 
 172 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 THOMASINE'S RETURN 
 
 AT Netherton-town the following day was bright 
 and clear. When Thomasine looked out upon the 
 morning, from a window of the lawyer Marshall's 
 house, everywhere behind the sunlit chimney-pots 
 she saw a sky of cloudless blue. 
 
 Sea-fog or fair weather at Hatchbarrow, Tho- 
 masine was restless with eager anxiety to get home. 
 Her friend Isabel, full of excitement at the turn 
 things had taken, swallowed an insufficient break- 
 fast with imprudent haste in order to accompany 
 her on the first mile of her way. 
 
 Thomasine felt shy of the road by which she had 
 come into town. Isaac Cledworth would still be 
 at plough in his large arable ground on the side of 
 Eddyford Hill. Cousin Jane Peters was for certain 
 looking out of her window, and the old aunt Tit- 
 comb might be abroad in search of her herbs. 
 Although the only other way was longer by two 
 miles, Thomasine crossed the river by a bridge 
 far below Eddyford. Then, by a track little 
 better than a sheep-run or one of the paths made by 
 the wild ponies, almost hidden beneath a rough
 
 THOMASINE'S RETURN 173 
 
 overgrowth of heather, she at last reached the road 
 across Eddy ford Common. 
 
 Thomasine not only started early, but she walked 
 fast. 
 
 She laughed as she went. 
 
 Now her mother's mind would be at peace ! Poor 
 mother! So full of hidden anxieties! And so 
 good! Now her father might indeed have the 
 teaching of Master Philip. How surprised he 
 would be to detect the hidden meaning in her talk ! 
 She had heard her father praise the land at Court 
 a hundred times. He would be proud and glad 
 indeed to do his best with it. And next summer 
 before next summer 
 
 Oh ! what a crowd of things to think about ! And 
 nothing quickens the pace so much as happy 
 thought. And, besides, there was no time to 
 waste. Her head was full of plans for to-morrow. 
 She and her mother would have to work. The 
 house must be put perfectly neat and straight. 
 She would make it everywhere gay and beautiful 
 with the last of her autumn flowers. The spare 
 room must be got ready. Everything settled, of 
 course Philip would stay the night. Oh, yes! 
 Her mother's mind would be at rest except about 
 the cooking and the cakes. Her father would 
 have to put on his new holiday suit, and his white 
 stock, and 
 
 Thomasine went on arranging these things over 
 and over again, in a brain that could neither cease
 
 174 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 nor tire, until, the happiest girl in the world, she 
 mounted the last billow of Eddyford Common, and 
 came in sight of home. 
 
 She must needs rest a moment on the brow of 
 the hill to draw breath. At once her eyes sought 
 the dear old homestead where she had always lived 
 so happily and from which she no longer feared to 
 part. 
 
 Suddenly her gaze became intent. 
 
 The old house surely presented an unusual aspect. 
 She knew every feature of it so well, and the signifi- 
 cance of every trifling detail, that the slightest 
 change was at once noticeable. To-day it was a 
 familiar countenance, wont to be full of joy and 
 welcome, unexpectedly bearing a strange expres- 
 sion. 
 
 It faced the south. The sun was shinir% upon it, 
 yet the whitewashed walls between the flowering 
 creepers stared irresponsive and cold. The upstair 
 windows, doubtless closed against the sea-fog, had 
 none of them been opened to the clear morning air. 
 The place looked lifeless and uninhabited. So far 
 as eye could detect, no thin wreath of blue smoke, 
 such as from morn to night was visible against the 
 dark pines even when the fire was low, was arising 
 from the chimney. Still more astonishing, the 
 front door was shut the great oaken door studded 
 with nails, and so well sheltered by the porch that 
 it stood open summer and winter, rain or shine, 
 until work was done for the day and everybody was
 
 THOMASINE'S RETURN 175 
 
 in from field or dairy ready to gather around the 
 hearth. 
 
 Thomasine stood perplexed. 
 
 She made hasty guesses and cast them aside with 
 equal haste. 
 
 Her father and mother must have gone away for 
 the night and had not yet returned. A ridiculous 
 proposition and quite impossible ! To be sure, they 
 would not be expecting her that day. No visit to 
 Netherton-town had ever been so short as this one. 
 But what of that ? How could they possibly leave 
 the ordinary daily duties without arrangements 
 discussed and planned long in advance ? Then 
 Thomasine remembered the mysterious signs which 
 her parents had made to each other just before her 
 departure, and all her fears of yesterday came 
 back. Could this absence from home have been 
 foreseen ? Had they sent her away without speak- 
 ing, so that she might not know of it? But that 
 was absurd? They had never in their lives been 
 away together. Besides, there was nowhere for 
 them to go 
 
 Casting aside such futile guesses, Thomasine ran 
 down the hill, her eyes all the while fixed upon the 
 homestead, watching for some sign of life. Nobody 
 moved by the barn or amongst the mows or between 
 the sheds and the stable. No poultry was to be 
 seen in the barton or scratching amongst the short 
 hay beside the ricks. The fowls, shut up at night 
 for fear of the fox, had not been let out.
 
 176 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 She ran up the garden path. 
 
 The front door was not locked nor even latched. 
 Creaking, it swung open under her pressure, and 
 Thomasine went in. The house was silent, and bore 
 every appearance of having been left empty in great 
 haste. 
 
 The wood upon the dogs had burnt through and 
 fallen upon the hearth on either side of a heap of 
 white ashes, from which the glow had died out. 
 On the table-board was a loaf, a piece of cheese and 
 an empty cup; as though her father had snatched 
 a hasty meal before going away at some unexpected 
 hour. She called, but no answer came. No logs 
 had been brought in. None of the morning house- 
 hold work had been touched. 
 
 Thomasine fetched turf, stirred the ashes for a 
 red ember, built the half-burnt logs together, and 
 blew them into flame. At the sound of the bellows 
 a step came slowly to the top of the staircase, and 
 her mother called: 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 " I, mother. Where are you ? What can have 
 happened ? Is anything the matter ? " 
 
 " You, Tamsin ? I didn't allow you would be 
 back so quick. I didn't hear no sound o' wheels. 
 Where's your father ? " 
 
 " What wheels, mother ? How can I possibly 
 know where father is ? " 
 
 " But ha'n't 'ee met wi' your father ? " 
 
 " No, mother."
 
 THOMASINE'S RETURN 177 
 
 " He drove from here more than an hour agone 
 all in haste to Netherton-town to fetch 'ee home." 
 
 " To fetch me home ? " 
 
 " Ay. Wi' the bay mare an' cart." 
 
 "Why? What for?" 
 
 " What! Ha'n't he told 'ee nothing? " 
 
 " I have not seen him." 
 
 " Then why did 'ee leave ? " 
 
 " I wanted to come home." 
 
 " Then how did 'ee come ? " 
 
 " I walked. Not through Eddyford village, but 
 by the other way." 
 
 " Like enough. My poor head is all to a mizmaze. 
 He would have to go through village wi' the cart, 
 I do believe." 
 
 Thomasine ran to the staircase. " But what's 
 the matter, mother ? Are you ill ? " 
 
 " No, no. Stop stop, Tamsin. Stay where you 
 be. You can't come up. I can't have 'ee to 
 come up." 
 
 " But what is the matter, mother? " 
 
 " I'm a-feeling none too well, chile, I do believe. 
 Stop there an' put it straight a minute, Tamsin, my 
 dear. Get out some victuals for yourself. One 
 must take in or sink. Make up a fire a good fire, 
 so quick as you can. Put on the kettle to make 
 me a few broths. You'll find it all to do, Tamsin, 
 my dear. You can't come up. I'll be down." 
 
 Perplexed and distressed beyond measure, Tam- 
 sin obeyed. 
 
 N
 
 BOOK IV. THE REVENUE OF TROUBLE 
 
 N 2
 
 CHAPTER I 
 CONFESSIONS 
 
 THE fire was blazing and the kettle steaming before 
 Jane Scutt came down " into her house." She 
 had wrapt her shawl about her, but she shivered 
 as she walked across the stone floor, and, as if for 
 warmth, seated herself on the chimney seat in an 
 inner corner of the hearth. Thomasine looked at 
 her mother in fear and wonder. In the few hours 
 since yesterday she had become thinner than ever. 
 The lines upon her face had deepened. She moved 
 as if tired to death, and sat bent like a feeble old 
 woman. Her forehead and cheeks wore a hue of 
 yellow that peered through the habitual tan which 
 summer had deepened. Her clothes were creased 
 and rumpled. Her hair was dishevelled and her 
 cap on one side. Thomasine could see at a glance 
 that she had not been to bed that night. 
 
 " I didn' think, chile, you could be here for hours 
 yet, or or I should ha' put things a bit straight 
 for 'ee. I went up for an hour to lie down in my 
 clothes. We had company last night. Yes 
 company that did bide about most terr'ble late. 
 I couldn' get to sleep. I couldn' close my eyes a
 
 182 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 wink all night. The young Isaac Cledworth and 
 his father, old Isaac Cledworth, the tithingman, 
 they dropped in yes they dropped in." 
 
 " Young Isaac Cledworth! " 
 
 Thomasine uttered the name with disgust. Even 
 with the knowledge that all was happily and beyond 
 all misgiving settled with Philip, a fear, something 
 of a superstition, troubled her at the recollection of 
 young Isaac's threats. 
 
 " Yes, yes. But I do quiver like a leaf. 'Tis 
 the fall maybe an' the blackberry season. Not 
 man nor woman nor beast is so well along the 
 blackberry season, or so the old folk used to tell. 
 I must boil myself up a few herbs for a bitter drink, 
 I do suppose." 
 
 " Let me get out the brandy, mother." 
 
 " No. No. I shall be better in a while 
 
 " Or maybe wi' the damp o' the fog an' all I've 
 a-catched a chill." 
 
 Suddenly the voice and manner of Jane Scutt 
 changed. She gave over whining her complaints 
 and ceased from guessing at her ailments. Her 
 face even brightened, and she spoke with a warm 
 enthusiasm which, however, did not carry the true 
 ring: 
 
 " But, Tamsin, my maid, I say ! Really an' 
 truly now ! Tamsin ! The young Isaac Cledworth, 
 he is a fine young man. A smart young fellow as 
 ever walked, Tamsin! An' wonderful good com- 
 pany, too, as all the world do know. But but
 
 CONFESSIONS 183 
 
 there, I didn' want anybody here and and " 
 
 " What is it, mother ? There is something more 
 behind. Something you are not telling me." 
 
 Jane Scutt hesitated. She rocked to and fro on 
 the chimney seat, staring at the flames as if not 
 daring to look her daughter in the face. She 
 moistened her lips to speak and yet remained 
 silent. 
 
 " What is it, mother, I say ? " 
 
 Alarm was added to impatience in this insistence 
 of Thomasine. 
 
 ' You never thought much o' the young Isaac 
 by your ways back at the sheep-shearing and by 
 
 words you let fall, Tamsin, now and again or 
 so T " 
 
 Ow 1- 
 
 " Mother ! What can that have to do with 
 their coming? " 
 
 ' You've never a-done quite justice to the young 
 Isaac Cledworth, Tamsin you " 
 
 " But what are you saying, mother ? Speak 
 out ! " 
 
 " He's a neighbour, Tamsin. Our nearest neigh- 
 bour, my maid " 
 
 At this repetition of the young Isaac's only 
 argument Thomasine could no longer doubt the 
 purpose of last night's visit. But that her mother 
 should favour the suit was most astounding. 
 
 " Oh, mother ! Say not a word more. For 
 pity's sake ! " 
 
 " An' he've a-catched a wonderful mind to 'ee,
 
 184 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 as everybody hereabout do know. So he an' the 
 constable well, old Isaac his father, the tithing- 
 man, I should say walked across late last night to 
 speak wi' your father an' make offer for 'ee, 
 Tamsin " w 
 
 " Oh, never never, mother." 
 
 " Think twice, my maid, think twice. He's the 
 vittiest young fellow in these parts ay, for twenty 
 mile round." As Jane went on, her eagerness grew 
 with every word she uttered. " An' his father do 
 own a bit o' land that do lie next to ours to your 
 own that will be an' there's more to be bought. 
 Think twice. For he do love 'ee, Tamsin, my dear 
 he do love 'ee most wonderful well. An' if 
 you've a-set eyes on young Master Philip, 'tis no- 
 thing, Tamsin. For 'tis but a folly an' a vanity, 
 an' 'twill come to nothing. An' your father was 
 all for it, all for it, when he came to listen to what 
 they said and think " 
 
 " But you, mother ? You could never agree 
 Oh, mother! You? Not you! Oh! I'd rather 
 be dead. I've told him so. I'd rather be in my 
 grave." 
 
 ^ "I must hold wi' your father, Tamsin, my dear, 
 when I do look at it in the right light like. More 
 'an that, your father have a'most so good as 
 promised. You'd never go again your own father, 
 your own father an' your own mother, who have 
 a-worked for 'ee all these years an' no other thought. 
 An' your father rode off to find 'ee. For they'll be
 
 CONFESSIONS 185 
 
 here to-morrow, after work, just at dark, for your 
 answer." 
 
 " Answer ! But f , mother ! Mother dear ! You 
 know there could be^but one answer." 
 
 "Ah! But you'll say 'Yes,' Tamsin. Say 
 ' Yes ' 'ithout question an' 'ithout many words. 
 POT God's sake say ' Yes ' an' seek no further, 
 Tamsin. Question it no more when you do see 
 how your father's mind is bent 'pon it. An' your 
 father always so good so good an' indulgent to 
 us both. You do owe it, Tamsin. You must owe 
 it. Master Philip is nothing. Tis but a dream, 
 Tamsin. An' maybe a rough waking. For 'tis better 
 to marry near home close near home. You 
 must see that. Think o' your mother, Tamsin 
 chile, an' raise no words. A love fancy is but a 
 passing whim at best. 'Tis better to wed wise. 
 I did hope at one time that you should marry in 
 the town. But no ! No ! No ! I couldn' a-bear 
 to lost 'ee an' let 'ee go to strangers." 
 
 The appeal went to Thomasine's heart. 
 
 So many weeks of thought bestowed on going 
 abroad unwilling as her consent to it had been 
 the recollection of it arose to accuse her of ingrati- 
 tude. But that was past. Everything was to turn 
 out happily. 
 
 Cheer up, mother. You are not going to lose 
 
 me.jt So you need not take the part of young Isaac 
 afterjall." 
 Thomasine had seated herself upon a low-
 
 186 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 bottomed chair in front of the fire, and her hand 
 was hidden in the folds of her skirt. Moved by 
 this impulse of affection, she held out her arms 
 towards her mother. The gem on her finger 
 flashed in the firelight. 
 
 " What's that ? " cried the woman. 
 
 " 'Tis a sign, mother, that the young Isaac is a 
 day too late. Even if I could find it in my heart, 
 which I never could, to wed with Isaac Cledworth, 
 I have promised another. That was why I came 
 home so soon. He is coming to-morrow evening to 
 see father to see you both " 
 
 Jane Scutt leaned forward and interrupted in an 
 eager whisper: 
 
 " Who is it ? Not not not Master Philip ! " 
 
 " Yes, Philip." 
 
 " Master Philip ! Master Philip ! " 
 
 She sat upright and held up her brown hands 
 high above her head. 
 
 " Oh God ! Oh ! My God ! That it might have 
 been looked over but for that once. An' then we 
 had a-promised to one another and a-swore to do no 
 sin no more for ever." 
 
 Very quickly she remembered herself and turned 
 to reason with Tamsin. 
 
 " But it can never be. It can never come to 
 anything. Never think it, Tamsin. Old hook- 
 nose'll never agree " 
 
 " Mrs. Pilton has agreed, mother." 
 
 " But that's only her sly way. Have no hope,
 
 CONFESSIONS 187 
 
 Tamsin, my dear. They've a-got little or nothing. 
 'Tis long afore a lawyer can earn to marry. She'll 
 get roun' un. She'll worm a way roun' his mind 
 like, an' you'll be left." 
 
 " No, mother. He is to give up lawyeriug. 
 He'll take Court farm. And he wishes to marry 
 before the summer." 
 
 Jane Scutt moaned and sank back in the chimney 
 corner. At the .same hour of yesterday this had 
 been the dream of her life. John and she had 
 talked of it openly after the departure of Tamsin. 
 Within the kitchen was a silence so complete that 
 Thomasine could hear the click of the ash falling 
 from the half-burnt log. Years ago, when the 
 child was quite young, seeing her so nice in her 
 ways, they had cherished something of a prophetic 
 anticipation that the maid would marry above her 
 station. They had slaved for it. Loving money, 
 they had never begrudged the penny that Tamsin 
 might go fine and smart. Jane had prayed for it, 
 too, in secret, if the truth were only known 
 prayed in fear, with the knowledge and burden of 
 her only half-repented sins upon her soul. And 
 now the silence was broken by sobs. Tears poured 
 down the gnarled, weather-beaten face. Moreover 
 the woman's heart perceived a tragedy in which for 
 the moment she forgot both disappointment and 
 fears. She looked on Tamsin, and with a tender- 
 ness never to be suspected in one so primitive, so 
 rough, she faltered a question.
 
 i88 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " Do 'ee love un, Tamsin, my dear ? " 
 
 " Dearly. With all my heart and soul, mother. 
 And he loves me." 
 
 The girl's simple, plain avowal of love touched 
 some responsive chord in the bosom of the woman 
 who had borne her. In her imperfect way Jane 
 Scutt understood. 
 
 " Poor lamb ! poor lamb! " she murmured. 
 
 Dazed, helpless, broken and dumb, she turned 
 away and sat staring into the fire. Once she tried 
 to speak, but there came only a distracted mutter- 
 ing. Again, driven to it by fear, she began: " Oh! 
 
 Tamsin, chile, there's that behind that " but 
 
 suddenly checked herself and drew back into the 
 chimney corner again, affrighted at what she had 
 been about to say. But for ever the truth is 
 present, and must be faced. There came a sigh so 
 deep that the heart of Tamsin trembled. Then 
 Jane found herself. She sat up, erect, stiff, hard 
 as a carved figure in a stone niche. 
 
 " Tamsin, my dear ! 'Tis so well to know it first 
 as last. Your father is so bent on the young Isaac 
 that he'll he'll never bend his will to gie other 
 consent." 
 
 A calm had also fallen on the spirit of Thomasine. 
 
 " Then I shall marry Philip all the same. His 
 mother is none too pleased at the thought of it, 
 though she has given way. But he would have 
 stood true and married me though all the world 
 were against it. We talked of it many times. We
 
 CONFESSIONS 189 
 
 knew what we should do. We should have met in 
 Netherton-town. We should have married by 
 licence in some place far away and nobody would 
 have known until after. I am almost of age. No- 
 body can stop us. I shall be as firm as Philip 
 was " 
 
 "Oh, Tamsin! Tamsin! Tamsin!" cried the 
 woman. " You don't know what you do say. 
 You be bound to wed wi' Isaac. Poor chile ! You 
 must you must. Tis a matter o' life or death, 
 maybe " 
 
 Thomasine sprang to her feet. 
 
 " What is it you are saying, mother ? What 
 do you mean ? " 
 
 " Oh ! What have I said ? " moaned Jane Scutt. 
 But very quickly she recovered herself and drop- 
 ping her voice went on speaking as one coaxes a 
 child. " Take your mother's word for it, Tamsin, 
 my own poor maid. Seek no further, Tamsin. 
 I told 'ee by now. Ask never a word, but do an' 
 th' Almighty'll bless 'ee for it. Just put aside the 
 young man o' Netherton-town. He's none o' your 
 own sort. He'll change. Take the young Isaac. 
 These fine young men they be one thing in love 
 an' another in marriage. But what Isaac is, he'll 
 bide. He's rough maybe to your thinking but 
 he's one like ourselves. Ah! We've a-bred 'ee 
 up too fine, Tamsin. Too fine to our own 
 sorrow." 
 
 " To your own sorrow, mother ? " repeated
 
 igo THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 Thomasine, now roused into anger. " What sor- 
 row ? Why should there be sorrow because I have 
 promised to marry one of my own choice? Life 
 or death! What sense to such wild talk unless 
 you see that it would break my heart. And it 
 would to marry Isaac Cledworth. I should die 
 I should die of very shame." 
 
 " Sit down again, Tamsin. Sit down an' speak 
 never a word. There's not a minute to spare, for 
 your father may be back. You shall hear the 
 truth. You shall know all every word o' it. And 
 then you shall judge." 
 
 Thomasine sat down without reply, but away 
 from the fire in the furthest corner of the old high- 
 backed settle. 
 
 " Tamsin, last night, after you had a- went into 
 Netherton-town, there came up a sea-vog, as your 
 father had a-thought would. Come closer, maid, 
 so as I needn't to speak out so loud. Here come 
 just to here." 
 
 Jane Scutt glanced around, as if fearing that 
 eavesdroppers might be present even in " the 
 house," and pointed to the vacant place on the 
 stone seat by her side. 
 
 Thomasine silently rose, crossed the kitchen and 
 obeyed. 
 
 Jane's brown hand grasped Tamsin's arm, and 
 she went on never daring to look her daughter 
 in the face, but staring beyond her into space, as 
 she pictured in every detail the tale she had to tell.
 
 CONFESSIONS 191 
 
 " 'Twas a vog so black as pitch for hours but 
 in the early morning it lifted into starlight. Your 
 father took his supper. Then he an' the old dog 
 went out 'pon the common, Tamsin. You can't 
 see the meaning o' my words. He chanced very 
 quick to fall in wi' three sheep, an' the old dog 
 brought 'em on. Your father turned to an' killed 
 and skinned 'em, and went off again. I had made 
 ready a great fire here all to a red glow but I had 
 no chance to burn the skins. I had 'em two over 
 my right arm, an' the t'other a-dragging on by my 
 left han' like an' they catched me, Tamsin. They 
 came out from lying in wait by the cow-stall, an' 
 they catched your mother, your own mother, Tam- 
 sin, an' they " 
 
 "Who, mother? Who?" 
 
 " The Cledworths. The old Isaac, an* he the 
 tithing-man an' all an' the young Isaac, his son. 
 They catched me like this by the both wristes. 
 In their hands I was no stronger 'an a child. Like 
 this like this, But my heart sunk within me, 
 Tamsin. I was weak as water. I could but come. 
 An' they dragged me here, in front o' the great fire, 
 an' into the light an' an' they spread out the 
 three skins there there 'pon the flagstones, an' 
 there as so happed was their own mark, the C wi' 
 the skiver down through, 'pon all the three o' the 
 fleeces " 
 
 Thomasine understood. 
 
 The whole truth came before her mind with the
 
 IQ2 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 clearness of a revelation. She had listened to too 
 many fireside tales of stealing sheep from the moor 
 to mistake the significance of a single word. The 
 true meaning of that scarcely credible story of her 
 delicate health invented only to be rid of her 
 the mystery of those unexpected visits to Netherton- 
 town whenever the mist hung over the moor, the 
 rapid growth of her father's wealth and the pur- 
 chase of Hatchbarrow, the hidden significance of all 
 these wonders became suddenly discovered. In the 
 mirk of a thick sea-fog, a man bred on the moor and 
 a silent dog could bring in sheep with little fear of 
 detection. At ten paces he was not to be seen. At 
 an arm's length he was scarcely to be recognized. 
 And no living soul can swear to mutton. That was 
 one of the commonest of fireside sayings. There 
 was no danger if the thief could only get rid of the 
 skin. No other evidence had ever brought a man 
 to the gallows except the skin the mark on the 
 skin. 
 
 This unlooked-for disclosure was most terribly 
 complete. 
 
 Thomasine could only gasp : 
 
 " You, mother ! Father and you ! " 
 
 In all Jane's sighings over her hidden iniquities, 
 in all her fears of ill to come, the shame of standing 
 discovered and guilty in the eyes of Tamsin had 
 haunted her beyond all dangers and penalties of 
 the law. In Tamsin's lament was no reproach, only 
 surprise and heartbroken sorrow.
 
 CONFESSIONS 193 
 
 In spite of the danger hanging over them, the 
 mother's first instinct was to excuse herself. 
 
 " We be sinners, God knows. Wicked sinners ! 
 But we did it all for you, child. There was no other 
 thought, an' many a time we've a-said it. Our Tarn- 
 sin shall be well off. Our Tamsin shall have no 
 need to work, we said in our pride. For we have 
 a- worked, Tamsin, your father an' I. We never 
 stole to spare ourselves. We never lived high, we 
 never lay soft. We scarce sat down from morn to 
 night. All our hopes were to make 'ee a lady. Ever 
 since you came to us, the only one, an' so late. For 
 you were always from the first, Tamsin, so nice in 
 your ways. Why, when you were but a toddler 
 no more 'an knee-high if should chance but a smut 
 to fall 'pon your little bare arm why, you'd cry, 
 Tamsin you'd cry till I did jus' touch o' it like wi' 
 the tip o' my tongue and rub it off wi' my apern. 
 You was nothing for this hard work, Tamsin, my 
 dear, an' we saw it. How you corned to us, rough 
 as we be, I never couldn' think. Yes. We saw 
 it, Tamsin we saw it an' though we prospered 
 we sinned an' we put 'ee to school an' all. But I 
 ha'n't a-told 'ee everything now. There's more an' 
 may be worse to come " 
 
 Jane Scutt stopped. 
 
 Emotion had broken the thread of her narrative, 
 and she needs must press her hands upon her lined 
 forehead to collect her thoughts. 
 
 Thomasine did not speak. Everything was clear 
 
 o
 
 194 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 before her mind the love the oft-repeated crime 
 and the present peril. She sprang up from the 
 settle. Trembling between pity, fear and love, but 
 in utter helplessness, she seated herself by her 
 mother's side and clung to her arm. The woman 
 drew her closer, pressed her to her bosom, and 
 encouraged, went on more eagerly than before 
 her words coming faster with each sentence : 
 
 " Your father picked up two suckers. He 
 brought 'em home. How should he know? He 
 was off afore the Cledworths took me. But the 
 Cledworths hadn' a- went. They had not gone, 
 Tamsin oh, maid! He'll be hanged for the 
 ponies, for certain sure. Old Isaac is the tithing- 
 man. He's the constable. He took 'em away in 
 the name o' the law. To-day he'll find the little 
 mares on the common an' the mares'll own 'em, 
 Tamsin. Tis their mother's nature, Tamsin. They 
 can't help theirselves, Tamsin. They can't forget 
 so soon. They'll wicker. They'll run an' own 'em, 
 Tamsin. They'll gie suck. Why! If 'tis only to 
 ease theirselves gie suck they must. An' that'll 
 be proof proof so clear as eye-witness a' most. 
 They'll hang your father they little mares. An' 
 your father do know it. He tried to face it out 
 that the suckers were our own an' the sheep a mis- 
 take. But after constable had a- went, your father 
 came in an' zot down there there where you got 
 up from. He had never a word for hisself then nor 
 I one to help un wi'. He zot so silent as a dead man."
 
 CONFESSIONS 195 
 
 Jane Scutt's voice had sunk lower and lower, 
 until it was scarcely to be heard. Her eyes were 
 fixed on the vacant corner of the settle as if John 
 were still there. Then, perhaps unconscious of 
 what she was doing, she muttered, " Let be a 
 minute, Tamsin," and rose and lifted the kettle, long 
 ago boiling to waste, to one side out of the flame. 
 
 She sat down on the opposite seat of the hearth 
 away from Tamsin and continued. 
 
 Every movement, every gesture, every word 
 spoken in that part of the story yet to come had 
 graven itself so deep upon her brain that presently 
 it was no longer a tale she was telling. She spoke 
 only the bare dialogue, even imitating the voices. 
 Ignorant though she was, Jane's unstudied art made 
 it all terribly clear. 
 
 " Oh ! they Cledworths ! The cunning o' they 
 Cledworths! It might be a half hour, or a little 
 better ay more, an' then they corned back. They 
 never knocked to door. They walked straight in 
 the constable in front an' the young Isaac at his 
 heels. Your father thought they had a-comed to 
 take un. You do know your father, Tamsin. Ah ! 
 His way ! He stood up there over there, so stern 
 wi' his back to the wall. But the old Isaac only 
 said, ' Sit down, neighbour, an' exchange a word 
 or two.' I seed your father's countenance light up. 
 He do know they Cledworths. He thought they 
 Cledworths 'ud take money. The old man he did 
 all the talking an' the young Isaac stood by. 
 
 o 2
 
 196 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " ' A tithing-man is chose to look after the law. 
 
 " ' But not to go beyond it/ put in your father. 
 
 " ' That's true, neighbour. But the parish would 
 hold wi' me where the case do look so black. Now, 
 a jury, I wouldn't swear. Maybe the mark now 
 so much like your own. An' such a dark night, too, 
 and you, maybe, short o' mutton. An', to be sure, 
 we may never prove the suckers we can but try. 
 An' none better pleased 'an myself an' Isaac to 
 bring 'em back to 'ee. But we corned back now wi' 
 another intention.' 
 
 " ' There's fools 'ull believe anything. There's 
 no case. Still I'd rather do more than a little not to 
 have such a thing said. We can make it right ' 
 
 " ' Hush, neighbour, if you should offer to buy a 
 tithingman 't'ud look so terrible bad in the box. 
 No. 'Tis well known our Isaac is wild in love wi' your 
 Tamsin. There's some do say he must be witched. 
 Now we be come to make a offer for your Tamsin.' 
 
 " ' There's no chance o' it. I don't offer, but I'd 
 pay money if asked ' 
 
 " ' Not too fast, neighbour.' 
 
 " ' She shall choose for herself.' 
 
 " ' Exactly. We do but offer. Tamsin, we do 
 know, is in to Netherton-town. Fetch her home 
 to-morrow, neighbour. Lay our offer before her 
 quick as you can. To-morrow may be fog. Like 
 enough we shan't be ready till next day. Say late 
 in afternoon. We'll look round, if all is right, for 
 the answer.'
 
 CONFESSIONS 197 
 
 ' Tis no good. Do your worst.' 
 
 ' Maybe there's no worst, neighbour. Look 
 round we must, I know. I said for an answer if 
 all is right. Mark me, no Cledworth, for love or 
 money, 'ud wed wi' the maid of a convick.' 
 " ' Tis no good to come on such errand.' 
 
 ' But come we must. If we don't have to take 
 'ee, we can't be so rude as to leave 'ee in doubt. 
 No maid, neighbour, do know her mind till she's 
 asked. I do believe, Tamsin 'ull take un. We be 
 neighbours. Just think how the land do lie. An' 
 if Tamsin do gie the word young Isaac can go there- 
 right an' put in the banns for first time o' asking 
 Sunday next. There can be no need to wait. To 
 be sure, you'd settle Hatchbarrow 'pon your only 
 child keeping a life interest, of course. So neigh- 
 bours, we'll say good-night.' 
 
 " An' wi' that they walked out. But oh ! they 
 Cledworths ! The cunning o' they Cledworths ! An' 
 the old man so soft as new milk, yet so hard as a sea- 
 pebble. We talked the night through, Tamsin, my 
 maid, your father an' I. There's no chance wi' 'em. 
 They be all envy an' covetousness. Though the 
 young Isaac do love 'ee wonderful. He do that. 
 An' a fine young man, too, that half the world could 
 be proud o'. He is that. An', oh Tamsin ! There's 
 no light, nor way nor hope. Love or no love 
 promise or no promise faith or no faith Master 
 Philip could never wed wi' the maid of a man that 
 was hanged."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 THE DECISION 
 
 THERE was nothing more to be told. 
 
 Thomasine and her mother remained sitting by the 
 hearth weeping in silence. They had found comrade- 
 ship in their adversity and in their fear. Once Jane 
 raised her head and whispered " Hark ! " It was 
 nothing. The wind was rising, and a gust had rum- 
 bled in the head of the chimney. It drove a cloud 
 of smoke out into the room. Although they did not 
 mention his name, they were both listening intently 
 for the return of John. They were both in fear of 
 his coming. Rough and masterful even in his good- 
 humour, with Thomasine his downright ways had 
 passed for plain blunt honesty. To her he had 
 always been kind. From childhood she had never 
 feared him. But the father of the past was gone. 
 Now she was afraid. His foot crossing the threshold 
 then the next step towards humiliation and 
 misery. 
 
 " Hearken again ! " 
 
 They both listened. This time the sound of 
 wheels was unmistakable. But to-day no shout 
 came from the barton. The silence had its signifi-
 
 THE DECISION 199 
 
 cance. There were no purchases from Netherton 
 to be fetched into the house. Never since she was 
 big enough had Tamsin failed to run out to meet her 
 father on his return from town. Now she sprang up 
 to flee from him. By the door she stopped. 
 
 " Ay. Run away, Tamsin, my dear. Tis no 
 good to wait. I'll talk to your father myself." 
 
 Then Thomasine crept away upstairs, took refuge 
 in her room and locked the door. She was suffo- 
 cating choking. There was no air no air in the 
 room. She opened the window and threw herself 
 upon the bed. 
 
 All that was solid, certain, firm and abiding in 
 this life had suddenly crumbled from beneath her 
 feet. If the integrity of her father were an illusion 
 there could be nothing real, nothing on earth to rest 
 upon. Everything was false. They themselves, 
 all of them, were false. Hatchbarrow was not theirs. 
 She was no longer Philip's, and Philip could never be 
 hers. 
 
 Again and again, without rest, all the circum- 
 stances went chasing each other through her brain. 
 Like a bird encaged, she turned every way only 
 to beat once more against the same bars. She was 
 in a labyrinth where every path not closed led back 
 to the same place. 
 
 To tell Philip was to make known her father's 
 shame. If she told nothing, on Sunday the banns 
 might be read in church to the whole neighbour- 
 hood. Then what could he think of her in the face
 
 200 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 of all her promises ? How was he to explain her to 
 his friends ? 
 
 She could never consent. 
 
 With the thought of refusal she remembered 
 the young Isaac's threats. She could find no hope 
 that the Cledworths would be merciful. Their plot 
 had been too carefully prepared. The constable 
 might be tempted with money, but the fierce love of 
 the young Isaac was not to be bought off. They 
 had thought of everything, even to the settlement 
 of Hatchbarrow! Oh! let them have Hatch- 
 barrow. All delight in Hatchbarrow was gone for 
 ever, since that was how it was got. Let them have 
 Hatchbarrow if only she might go free free and 
 somewhere far away, where not even a whisper 
 could carry the story of her shame. 
 
 And presently, as if unaware of her distress, the 
 little everyday occurrences of house and farm began 
 to move around her as if nothing had happened. 
 
 She heard her father go out of the house, come in 
 and go again. Very soon came the passing of the cows 
 and the scent of their milky udders. She heard the 
 taking of the pails from the garden wall, and then 
 the singing of the milk against the staves. For the 
 daily business will go forward whatever may befall. 
 John and Jane, after a short talk, had drifted into 
 the current of everyday life. And every little 
 sound they made, in its commonplace familiarity 
 became cruel and inexorable. 
 
 It seemed to Thomasine that there was no way
 
 THE DECISION 201 
 
 and no hope. This thing must go forward like 
 everything else upon this earth moving irresistibly 
 towards some unseen end. 
 
 "Oh God! Let me die! Let me die quickly! 
 Oh God!" 
 
 The loathsome horror of marriage with Isaac 
 Cledworth arose before her in all its hideous details 
 to touch him to be wife to him 
 
 " Oh ! Let me die ! Let me die ! " 
 
 All other fear was swallowed up in the presence 
 of this overwhelming terror. Thomasine burned 
 with shame. A chill, icy and damp, seized upon her 
 and froze her blood. She trembled like an ague. 
 Thomasine came near to meeting with the fulfil- 
 ment of her prayer. From the very centre of 
 her bewilderment, as it were a grave face in 
 the midst of a tumultuous crowd, came the 
 thought that she held it in her power to die if she 
 would. She could consent or let her father carry 
 her consent. But they could never make her 
 marry. Let them call the banns. Let them fix the 
 wedding. Let them arrange as they might think fit. 
 She would hide, lock herself up, elude Isaac, as she 
 had always done, until the time drew near. Her 
 father would be safe by then. They could do 
 nothing prove nothing after these weeks had 
 elapsed. Then her father safe but Philip lost at 
 night she could steal up to the Beacon Head, pass 
 through the dark wood and throw herself from the cliff. 
 The thought quieted her. She could breathe again.
 
 202 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 Towards twilight her mother came, tried the door 
 and knocked. 
 
 " Open," said Jane, " I want a word wi' 'ee, 
 chile." 
 
 " No. Not yet, mother. Leave me alone." 
 
 " But you must have a bit to eat." 
 
 " No, mother. I do not want anything." 
 
 " Not to come down, Tamsin, my dear. I don't 
 say that. Open. I've a-brought it to 'ee." 
 
 " No. Nothing. Go away and leave me, 
 mother." 
 
 " I'll put it down at your door, Tamsin." 
 
 It was no good. Jane creaked down the stairs 
 defeated. 
 
 Presently Thomasine became conscious of a 
 distant hum, a constant murmur that rose and fell 
 but never ceased, like the distant voice of the river 
 in flood when heard from the moor. Her ear had 
 never before caught a sound from the kitchen, except 
 when her mother opened the door and raised her 
 voice to call. But she knew that they were talking 
 talking always about her. After dark her mother 
 came and knocked again. But Thomasine made 
 no reply. And all through the still night the moan 
 of their talking and planning went on. They might 
 arrange what they woJd. Thomasine would do 
 nothing. She could ne^er see Philip again. She 
 could not lie to him. She could not tell him that her 
 father was a thief. They might plan and arrange, 
 but they must carry out their plans for themselves.
 
 THE DECISION 203 
 
 Thomasine determined to remain locked in her 
 room. The Cledworths might come and go. Her 
 father must deal with them as best he could and 
 afterwards they could tell her what had been done. 
 Before the night was through, Thomasine had found 
 the acquiescence that comes of despair. 
 
 Daybreak came at last with happy sounds of 
 awakening life. 
 
 The turkeys flew down from their roost in the 
 trees ready to wander away by the lane. The 
 geese gobbled their intentions concerning some 
 distant stubble. Earlier than usual before it was 
 fully light she heard her father go away. Her 
 mother stole upstairs once more, laid her ear against 
 the panel of the door, and, hearing nothing, crept 
 noiselessly away. At last from sheer exhaustion 
 Thomasine fell asleep. 
 
 Towards noon she awoke with a start. The 
 bright sunlight was streaming in through the 
 window, for the day, as it came from heaven, was 
 as glorious as yesterday, when she walked home- 
 ward across the moor. But at the door her mother 
 was knocking, this time with a determination not 
 to be refused. 
 
 " Open, Tamsin. Your father an' I have a- 
 talked. I do want a word wi' 'ee, my dear." 
 
 " Leave me alone, mother. Leave me alone." 
 
 " No, Tamsin. Open, chile. Verily an' truly 
 we have a-found out the way." 
 
 Tamsin got up and turned the key.
 
 204 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " I've a-brought on a few broths in my hand," 
 said Jane. 
 
 That was her name for a basin of bread and milk. 
 And she stood by and made Tamsin eat. 
 
 " Didn't you say, Tamsin, that Master Philip is 
 to come to-day evening? " 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 " You must go out an' stop un from the house. 
 Your father do say he can't come here." 
 
 " I shall never see him again, mother." 
 
 " But you must. He'd come. He'd fall in wi' 
 they Cledworths. Now listen, Tamsin, for we've 
 a-thought it all out clear. You must say to Master 
 Philip that your father won't hear a word of it. 
 Say, Tamsin, if he should once give Master Philip 
 a ' No ' right out, he is stubborn as a bull. Say 
 you must wait. Say you can manage, chile, if you 
 do but wait an' catch the moment like. Then Master 
 Philip will go away an' no harm done 'atween 'ee." 
 
 " Mother, if everything could be hushed up, I 
 know it. I can never marry Philip now." 
 
 " Tis wild talk, Tamsin. That'll pass." 
 
 " No, mother. No. No " 
 
 " But listen to me a minute, chile." Jane's voice 
 sank into a whisper so full of guile. " They Cled- 
 worths have a-set a trap. Why not we? First, 
 your father 'ull try all he can to buy the constable. 
 Mind, he can't pay down, there right. That can't 
 be expected. An' they Cledworths can never move 
 once they do let the time pass."
 
 THE DECISION 205 
 
 Jane paused, but Tamsin spoke not a word. 
 
 " If that should be, an' you do act prudent like, 
 an' Master Philip none the wiser, why, in a week 
 you can win your father round to consent, an' all 
 be well. Can't you see that, Tamsin ? " 
 
 But Thomasine gave no comfort. 
 
 " An' if not that, your father'll gain time. You 
 to promise the young Isaac if needs be, but not 
 allowing the banns. Tis all out o' reason about 
 they banns. La! The time o' danger past, you 
 can break it off like, to be sure; many a maid do 
 an' thought none the worse. For they Cledworths 
 'ud take money then that or nothing you bet a 
 guinea. An' if they have a-talked, your father can 
 deny it outright." 
 
 Thomasine only sighed and wept. 
 
 " But if the banns must be, Tamsin, trust to your 
 mother. Your mother 'ull send 'ee away out of all 
 finding. We'll gie out as afore that you do always 
 ail o' the cold winter here. There'll be no surprise. 
 We'll swear the young Isaac took a word wrong an' 
 put in the banns unpromised. It 'ud fit to how you 
 did treat un, Tamsin. Lauk ! Against your father's 
 words, there's none would believe the Cledworths. 
 Not Master Philip. No fear. An' then your father 
 would gie consent. Can't you see it, Tamsin ? " 
 
 Thomasine could see it. Her eyes were opened 
 to the crafty world around her, in which she had 
 grown up in innocence without suspicion of any- 
 body. And Jane stood awaiting her approval.
 
 206 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " Say no more of Philip, mother. Never men- 
 tion his name to me again," cried she, and turned 
 away and hid her face. 
 
 Jane did not understand. 
 
 " Do as your father do wish, I do beg o' 'ee, 
 Tamsin," she implored. " You be everything to 
 we, my dear. You have a-been you be an' you 
 shall be. Can 'ee think what your father said in 
 the night, chile? I tell 'ee what your father said. 
 He stood out there in the kitchen, an' he pointed 
 his finger 'pon the floor, an' he said, ' Afore God ! 
 If Master Philip did stand there, an' swear he'd 
 wed her come what may, I'd dare 'em to their 
 worst, if I was to be hanged for it.' An' he would, 
 Tamsin. He would." 
 
 The words went to Thomasine's heart. In spite 
 of all she knew them true. 
 
 " It shall be as you wish, mother. I will go and 
 tell Philip not to come."
 
 207 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 THOMASINE TELLS 
 
 " LEAVE me to myself," pleaded Thomasine. " I 
 shall do quicker alone." 
 
 For Jane had stayed to help her get ready, and 
 Jane was full of fears and haste. Her fingers trem- 
 bled so that she not only did but undid. Thomasine 
 noted the frequent glances which her mother cast 
 from the window, as if expecting at any moment to 
 see Philip ride into the barton. And all the while 
 Jane continued to counsel prudence, to explain and 
 repeat and assure that all would come right in the 
 end, if Tamsin would only act a little bit careful and 
 wise like. 
 
 This constant reiteration of the same pitiable 
 arguments wearied Thomasine. She must tell 
 Philip that her father withheld consent, but how 
 could she tell him or hide from him she was never 
 to marry him. She felt herself entangled in the 
 meshes of the universal prevarication and un- 
 truth. 
 
 " Yes. Leave me to myself," she repeated in 
 utter weariness. 
 
 Conscious of her inability to be of use, Jane wept 
 and withdrew.
 
 208 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 Left alone, Thomasine set herself, as far as pos- 
 sible, to remove the traces of her sleeplessness and 
 of her tears. Although the sun was shining, a 
 biting wind swept through the sheltering trees, and 
 dead leaves went drifting across the barton and 
 before the house. Winter was in the air. A chill 
 clung around her heart. Thomasine shivered. 
 From a drawer she took the long cloak of dark 
 green freize, which had been put away ever since 
 the spring, and wrapt it around her. She drew the 
 hood over her head. Thus disguised, she hurried 
 downstairs and started upon her way. 
 
 As she went through the garden there came a 
 step in the barton. 
 
 She stopped her heart beating in fear lest it 
 might be Philip. 
 
 Her father, coming in from the fields, had already 
 passed between the stacks and through the gate 
 into the yard before he caught sight of her. He 
 believed himself unobserved. Thomasine was just 
 in time to see him step hurriedly aside and hide 
 himself behind one of the projecting buttresses of 
 the old barn. 
 
 The terrors of her mother had not brought before 
 her mind the humiliation of the Scutts more 
 forcibly than did this little touch of conscience- 
 stricken cowardice. Tears rushed into her eyes. 
 With head averted, Thomasine strode across the 
 barton to the lane leading to the moor. 
 
 Often forced to stop to regain breath, she toiled
 
 THOMASINE TELLS 209 
 
 up the stony rift where once she had gone so gaily, 
 and reached the Beacon Head. She mounted the 
 cairn, from the top of which she could see for miles, 
 but no horseman could her eyes discover upon the 
 broad moor. The wind came sweeping across the 
 sea, everywhere breaking its surface into short, 
 fretful waves. At that height it was blusterous, 
 unceasing and very cold. 
 
 Since Philip was not yet in sight Thomasine must 
 have some time to wait. Nor had she the heart to-day 
 to watch from the crest of the beacon and wave a 
 welcome to Philip from afar. She drew her cloak 
 more closely around her, and crouched down under 
 the shelter of the boulder which had formerly 
 served them for a seat. The wind rushed whistling 
 by. The swish and moan of waves, breaking and 
 receding amongst the rocks below the cliffs, alter- 
 nated with sad monotony. They seemed to call to 
 her and promise a sure way out of a life wherein 
 what appeared most certain proved illusion and no 
 hope was to be trusted. 
 
 Thus Thomasine waited long, until at last, what 
 with the noise of the wind and the hood deafening 
 her ears, Philip came unheard and found her 
 behind the stone. His first thought was that she 
 was playing hide and seek with him. 
 
 His voice startled her. 
 
 " I have found you then. I thought I was here 
 first. It would have served you right, you 
 little deceiver, if I had overlooked you and 
 
 p
 
 210 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 ridden away down to Hatchbarrow in search of 
 you." 
 
 He came in the best of spirits, glowing with love, 
 full of news the Philip of the day before yesterday, 
 but further elated with his gallop across the moor, 
 for lawyer Marshall's horse was reeking with sweat. 
 In his light-hearted way he began at once to carry 
 on the story where it was broken off at Netherton- 
 town. 
 
 " And what do you think ? Such news ! Old 
 Marshall, giddy old widower, is going to marry my 
 mother. Their elderly hearts are softened towards 
 all lovers by the influence of Love. Therein lies the 
 explanation of the mystery. My mother is more 
 than anxious for me to have Court. So is he. He 
 tells her it will be the making of me to get me 
 settled. But, Thomasine, dear, I have come as 
 soon as I could. Poor child, to be waiting in the 
 wind. How wise to wrap yourself up. If you had 
 been standing by the beacon, upon my word, I could 
 scarcely have recognized you " 
 
 He had dismounted and taken her in his arms. 
 He pressed her to his heart. 
 
 Thomasine could neither resist nor speak. 
 
 Her misery disclosed itself in a great sob. 
 
 " But what is the matter, Thomasine dear ? 
 Poor child, to wait so long. But you might have 
 been sure, dearest, that I would not delay one 
 moment. If my case seems to lack evidence, look 
 at the horse. Look at him. The dear old amorous
 
 THOMASINE TELLS 211 
 
 old Marshall would drop down and die of a fit if he 
 could see." 
 
 The girl could not make a direct reply. 
 
 " There is a linhay in the corner by the gate 
 below. The wind is cold. The horse will be in 
 shelter there. I must not stay long." 
 
 "Not stay long, Thomasine? My own love! 
 Why are you talking like this? Not stay long! 
 I am coming home with you, am I not ? " 
 
 " Don't kiss me, Philip ! Don't. I have come 
 to break it off," she sobbed. 
 
 " Break it off ! What has happened ? Every- 
 thing has changed for the best, Thomasine. I have 
 no longer to think of my mother. She wishes us 
 to marry at once what do you mean? Break 
 it off!" 
 
 He pressed her head against his breast and bent 
 over her, kissing and comforting her as one does a 
 frightened child. 
 
 " Don't, Philip," she begged of him. " It makes 
 it so hard." 
 
 " What is it, little one," he whispered. 
 
 She could not find words to tell him then. For 
 answer she only drew him toward the path. They 
 went down the rocky descent, he leading her and 
 supporting her. Once she almost fell. But he 
 caught her. His arm around her waist, he half 
 carried her over the stones, with the panting, 
 weary-legged horse dragging on the rein and 
 stumbling behind. Thus they got to the bottom of 
 
 P 2
 
 212 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 the hill. Whilst he stabled the horse in the shed, 
 she sat down, on a heap of dried bracken, that had 
 been cut that autumn on the moor and brought 
 down to serve as bedding for cattle. 
 
 She had come meaning to tell him the fable that 
 her father refused consent. Now that the moment 
 was come, in the unselfish purity of their love she 
 recovered her simplicity of soul. She must tell all. 
 Her native sincerity, which, throughout the years 
 of her simple girlhood, had grown and matured un- 
 hurt by the presence of a single weed of suspicion, 
 reasserted itself. One thing only remained true 
 and real. She still trusted to Philip's love. It 
 compelled her. She could neither deceive him nor 
 withhold one syllable of the truth. 
 
 " Don't touch me, Philip. Don't don't say you 
 love me. Sit dowa*. I have something very ter- 
 rible something beyond all that you can believe 
 to tell you." 
 
 She nid her face in her hands and yielded to a 
 paroxysm of tears. Philip stood silent and motion- 
 less in the presence of an emotion so profound. 
 Once Thomasine attempted to speak, but her 
 tongue faltered. The words choked her and failed. 
 At last she controlled herself, and her voice, although 
 very low, was steady and calm. 
 
 " When I promised to marry you, Philip, I 
 thought I thought that the Scutts were as good as 
 anybody better better than many, seeing that 
 my father had been so successful and made a way
 
 THOMASINE TELLS 213 
 
 for himself. Now, at last, I know the truth. Now 
 I know how Hatchbarrow was got in part, at 
 least. We are sheepstealers. We are horse-thieves. 
 We the Scutts that I boasted were so honest. I 
 come of no stock to marry a good man. If I could 
 have hidden it from you, I should. always know it 
 myself. If it could be hushed up now) after years 
 it might come out to your Shame." 
 
 " John Scutt a sheepstealer ! Nonsense, Thomas- 
 ine. A thief is never an industrious man. Who 
 said so ? This is a place full of idle tales. How do 
 you know this? " 
 
 " The two Cledworths lay in wait and caught 
 them in the act.",- 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " In the sea-fog the night before last." 
 
 In misery and shame her eyes were turned away 
 from him. She did not see it, but the face of Philip 
 became very grave. Inconceivable as the state- 
 ment had been, it was no longer possible to dis- 
 believe. 
 
 Suddenly alive to the danger of John Scutt, he 
 asked quickly : 
 
 " Has the constable taken action? " 
 
 " He is coming to-night, he and Isaac presently. 
 The sheep were theirs. There were ponies, too. 
 The old man is pretending to identify the ponies. 
 And, Philip! He will only keep silence if I will 
 marry Isaac. Oh! What can I do? If I do not 
 promise to marry him at once, they will take father
 
 214 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 to-night. If I promise, the constable will let 
 it pass." 
 
 " The scoundrels ! " 
 
 For a while Philip was silent. 
 
 " Did your father agree? " 
 
 The old spirit of loyalty still lingered in Thoma- 
 sine's heart. She tried to shield her father to 
 save him, as far as possible, in the estimation of 
 Philip. 
 
 " No. He did not agree," she replied eagerly. 
 " He did not know of our love. He left it to me. They 
 are coming to-night for the answer. I was told to 
 come and meet you, but to keep you from the 
 house. I was to tell you that father will not con- 
 sent to our engagement, and so gain time. Then 
 father will try to buy them off. If so, we were to 
 be engaged, and you none the wiser. But I cannot 
 do it, Philip. I cannot marry you to deceive you 
 when you love me so much. And they will not be 
 bought for money. They say Hatchbarrow shall 
 be given to me. They will not be bought for any 
 sum. I know they will not. Oh! What can 
 I do?" 
 
 " Tell me everything just as it happened." 
 
 He spoke calmly, something like a lawyer en- 
 deavouring to extract the last word from a reluctant 
 client. His self-possession strengthened her confi- 
 dence. Thomasine told the whole story, slowly, 
 clearly, in all its squalid details just as her mother 
 had told it to her.
 
 THOMASINE TELLS 215 
 
 " Were you going to promise Cledworth, 
 Thomasine? " 
 
 "What could I do?" 
 
 " To marry him? " 
 
 " Oh, no. I would never have married him. 
 No," she shuddered. 
 
 " The scoundrels ! " cried he again. 
 
 He paused a moment and then continued: 
 
 " I have no doubt you may completely set your 
 mind at rest, Thomasine, so far as the Cledworths 
 are concerned. Now listen. You will have to do 
 exactly what I tell you. So listen very attentively. 
 You may have to promise, but you can never be in 
 any real danger whatever. At what time are they 
 coming ? 
 
 " After work is done. Quite late in the after- 
 noon, or at least in time to act without letting 
 another night pass." 
 
 " Where are your father and mother now ? " 
 
 " They will very soon be out milking." 
 
 " The talk will be in the kitchen ? " 
 
 " Yes. In the kitchen." 
 
 " Well, go home, Thomasine dear. Keep quietly 
 out of the way, so that you need not speak to your 
 people. At any rate, tell them nothing about me, 
 or say I saw the wisdom of not seeing your father 
 to-day. Everything is quite safe. Have no fear. 
 Be present at the interview. Refuse as long as you 
 can. Let your father offer money. If they are 
 tempted to take it, well and good. There is an end
 
 216 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 to the matter. If not, go on refusing. Make them 
 bargain. Gain all the time you can. Make them 
 threaten. Constable has no time to waste, for he 
 has delayed the information quite long enough 
 already. Hold out until he comes to a dangerous 
 point. Then give way. Promise as if you meant 
 it. But have no fear. The Cledworths will soon 
 find that they have a little matter of their own to 
 settle. You'll never hear more of the promise 
 after to-night. The Cledworths will be off their 
 bargain almost as soon as they have made it. Your 
 father will hear no more about it. But if they will 
 take money, leave them alone. If not well, you 
 will see. Before they have time to rejoice, there 
 will be a surprise for them. Believe me, this is so 
 certain that I could take a grim delight in their con- 
 fusion, if you were not so unhappy, Thomasine dear." 
 
 He spoke so confidently, almost cheerfully, that 
 Thomasine gained courage. 
 
 " We must leave all the rest for the present, 
 Thomasine. Have we not said a hundred times 
 that nothing can ever change our love. I shall see 
 you again very soon, dearest perhaps late to-night, 
 after the Cledworths have gone. So good-bye. A 
 very short good-bye. As you sometimes say, 
 Thomasine au revoir. You had better go alone. 
 We will not be seen together. Have no fear. I 
 have not spent years grubbing in the office of old 
 Marshall for nothing. Truly I could laugh at the pre- 
 dicament of the Cledworths, if you were not so' sad."
 
 THOMASINE TELLS 217 
 
 Philip respected her wish. They parted without 
 endearment or caress and without a single word of 
 love-making. 
 
 Philip hurried back into the shed and remained 
 out of sight until Thomasine was gone. 
 
 Thomasine, comforted with his promises of help 
 and assurances of safety, found courage and very 
 quickly disappeared in the lane between the high 
 beech hedgerows.
 
 218 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 THE SURPRISE 
 
 THE kitchen at Hatchbarrow presented no sombre 
 aspect whilst awaiting the arrival of the old Isaac 
 Cledworth and his son. Whatever the fears of the 
 Scutts, they had determined to put a good face on 
 the matter and brave it out as long as they could. 
 Candles had been lighted. A good fire of logs 
 blazed on the dogs. The kettle was boiling merrily, 
 and a spirit decanter, with glasses, sugar and spoons 
 had been set out on the table as if in anticipation 
 of jollity and to assure a hearty welcome to the 
 arriving guests. 
 
 But each one, after a different fashion, betrayed 
 an agitation which it was hopeless entirely to sup- 
 press. 
 
 Jane had taken her seat in one corner of the 
 settle, her hands under her apron, her head bent, 
 her eyes fixed upon her lap. 
 
 But her hands twitched, her head shook and her 
 eyes shed tears. 
 
 John was in his armchair by the side of the hearth. 
 The face of John Scutt was stern and rigid, and his 
 jaw more square than ever.
 
 THE SURPRISE 219 
 
 Scarcely to be noticed, Thomasine had taken 
 a seat between the dresser and the clock, far from 
 the fire, in the gloom, where the dark oaken beams 
 and furniture drank up the dim candle-light. 
 
 So they waited and listened in silence. 
 
 The Cledworths were long in coming. Their 
 want of eagerness seemed to forebode the worst. 
 
 The delay pressed heavily upon Jane, and she 
 sighed and sighed. She was for ever raising false 
 alarms. " Here they be. Here they be," when 
 there was nothing. 
 
 Such weakness angered John. 
 
 " If you do mean to show fear, you had better 
 get out o' the way. Sit up, can't 'ee ? " he growled 
 angrily. 
 
 Jane sighed deeper than ever, swallowed her 
 fears as best she could and made distressing efforts 
 to sit still. 
 
 At last the approach of visitors was undeniable. 
 The clatter of feet on the stones the last muttered 
 conference by the mouth of the porch the 
 scraping and rubbing of boots at the door then 
 the latch lifted. 
 
 John Scutt rose hastily, went to the door, and, 
 with a welcome less boisterous than usual, but 
 a welcome all the same, invited the Cledworths to 
 come in. 
 
 The little tithingman was in the familiar cord 
 breeches with the flat buttons at the knee, but the 
 young Isaac had changed his working garments for
 
 220 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 his Sunday clothes, and, with a white dahlia as big 
 as a tea-saucer in his buttonhole, assumed the 
 jaunty self-satisfaction of a village bridegroom. 
 They entered with the innocent air of neighbours 
 looking in of an evening to smoke a pipe. 
 
 " Good evening, Jane." 
 
 The face of the constable was unusually merry 
 and bright as he shook hands with Jane with the 
 warmth of an old friend. 
 
 "How be, Tamsin? " 
 
 The countenance of the young Isaac wore a more 
 than ever self-satisfied grin as, with this greeting, 
 he held out his hand to Tamsin, who neither looked 
 at him nor spoke. 
 
 At this refusal to answer him his lips drew apart 
 into a smile half cruel, half tolerant. He enjoyed 
 that greatest luxury of a mean spirit a knowledge 
 of the power to enforce his will and inflict pain upon 
 the weak. In her pale, tearful face he foresaw the 
 triumph of his threats, and though he believed he 
 loved her and did, as best he might the sight of 
 her tears filled him with inward j oy . 
 
 " Make room for Isaac, Jane. Take the settle, 
 neighbour," said John Scutt. 
 
 Gladly enough Jane gave place, and retired out 
 of the way to the chimney-corner. The Cledworths 
 sat down side by side on the settle, full in the 
 firelight and opposite to John Scutt. 
 
 The constable did the talking and began at once. 
 If the young Isaac had the muscles, the little
 
 THE SURPRISE 221 
 
 tithingman had the wit. But he talked about 
 everything except the business in hand. No man 
 of sense will ever dive head-first into delicate nego- 
 tiations. It is better to creep in and make no 
 splash. A moorland farmer begins by talking 
 about turf-cutting or stag-hunting, or the addition 
 of a twin to some neighbour's family, when he 
 hopes to bring about the purchase of some promis- 
 ing young bullock. 
 
 " Wool is dropped again," said the old Isaac, 
 thoughtfully looking at the ceiling. 
 
 " So they do tell me," replied John Scutt, as 
 usual rubbing his square chin. 
 
 " You got out o' yours, neighbour, just after 
 shearing, so I do believe." 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " But you be always in the right, neighbour, 
 either by luck or judgment." 
 
 To which congratulation John Scutt replied only 
 with the snort which often dismissed unwelcome 
 reference to his wealth. 
 
 " Or maybe both," added the old Isaac with a 
 very bland smile. 
 
 At which compliment John Scutt shook his 
 head with impatience, as if considering it not 
 worthy of a reply. 
 
 " You be thoughtful, neighbour," laughed the 
 constable after a pause. " Thoughtful enough to 
 put out the bottle, but too full o' thought to ask 
 us to drink."
 
 222 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 Without a word John Scutt rose and went to 
 the table to mix the grogs. 
 
 " Not a drop," said Cledworth, raising both his 
 hands. " Twas but a joke. Tis early yet. Be- 
 sides, there 'ull no doubt be a better reason afore 
 the night is much older." 
 
 He turned merrily round to Thomasine. 
 
 " So you be back again, Tamsin. True, the misk 
 did not last long, so you had no need to think o' 
 your health. Besides, a fine young man came along 
 to look for 'ee, eh, Tamsin ? To be sure, any maid 
 'ud soon be home then. No doubt your folk have 
 a-gied 'ee Isaac's message, an' here he is, so fine as 
 a bird o' Paradise in the mating season, to fetch the 
 answer." 
 
 Then John Scutt spoke out in his old blunt 
 manner. 
 
 " What I want to know is this have you brought 
 back my ponies ? " 
 
 " Keep to one thing at a time, neighbour. Take 
 the pleasant first. Always through life do that. 
 A trouble feared may never come in the end. 
 How many times, haymaking or harvest now, do 
 a man fear rain an' the clouds blow over after all ? " 
 
 " Then I must believe from your own words that 
 you've a-found out your error. No Cledworth for 
 love or money could wed the maid o' a thief. Then 
 act the man own yourself wrong." 
 
 The old Isaac perceived the difficulty and pre- 
 tended to reflect.
 
 THE SURPRISE 223 
 
 " Did I say so much as that ? How could any 
 man know? Truly now, come to think o' it, I 
 must ha' said ' convicted thief.' " 
 
 He glanced round and winked at young Isaac. 
 But John Scutt caught sight of the wink, and it 
 hardened within him his old spirit of resistance and 
 stubbornness. 
 
 " Our Tamsin is not ready wi' a ' Yes ' or a ' No,' 
 Isaac Cledworth," said he roughly. " She is not 
 the sort to marry in haste. An' we are not the 
 sort to bundle her into church like chucking a sheep 
 into a sheep wash. That must be left." 
 
 " Very well, then. Why talk more ? " said old 
 Isaac calmly, and rose from his seat. 
 
 John Scutt, taking no notice, went on doggedly 
 talking. 
 
 "As to the two sheep, they were yours, as the 
 marks did prove. That was my mistake. I own 
 to that. Forty shillings a-piece is the outside 
 value o' " 
 
 " But the ponies, neighbour ? So we do come to 
 the ponies after all." 
 
 " the outside value, I say, of a far better sheep. 
 As to the ponies as you know by this time they 
 be mine. I had a-picked 'em up for fair an' kept 
 'em shut away in a linhay. I was fetching 'em in 
 for the morning " 
 
 " Why talk an' explain so much about it, John 
 Scutt? There's no need. What I do know, I do 
 know. An' for that matter, so do you, too."
 
 224 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " I do know that " 
 
 " None can know better 'an you, John Scutt. 
 So why so much talk an' so many questions? " 
 
 His manner had become threatening, but he turned 
 to Thomasine and dropped once more into jocularity. 
 
 " I shall talk to none but Tamsin. I've a-got 
 a partic'lar fancy for Tamsin always had. I shall 
 tell Tamsin some o' the wonders o' the world. 
 Tamsin, my dearie, your father is so rich that your 
 mother do burn a skin worth full a crown when- 
 ever he do kill a sheep at midnight. Your father is 
 so lucky, Tamsin, that a strange mare 'ull mother 
 every one o' his ponies. All the parish is full o' 
 your father's luck, Tamsin. Have a-been for years. 
 'Tis said every one o' his mares do litter just like 
 any old sow. For every mare he do own, so they 
 do say, he can sell ten suckers of a season. Oh! 
 They do talk, I 'sure 'ee about he, an' you an' 
 the sea-fog. You'd be well off married to a honest 
 man. Now. I've a-brought no charge. Say the 
 word, my maid." 
 
 " No no no," sobbed Thomasine. 
 
 " We be doing well, Isaac. Many ' Noes ' is the 
 beginning o' ' Yes.' All good maidens be bound to 
 blurt out a few ' Noes ' at the outset." 
 
 " To save talk, ask any price you like for the 
 
 sheep " began John Scutt, with an impatient 
 
 wave of his hand, as if he could stand no more of it. 
 
 " Any price you heard that, Isaac," cried the 
 constable.
 
 THE SURPRISE 225 
 
 But he took no notice whatever of John Scutt, 
 and continued to talk to Thomasine. 
 
 " I do want Tamsin to understand. One o' we 
 two must go a errand afore folk be a-bed. We've 
 a-changed our coats for the purpose. There's no 
 time to lose. Either Isaac do ride up to parsonage 
 to put in the banns or I myself do ride to the 
 justice to take out the warrant. Either one o' us 
 should be back in a hour. T'other could bide to 
 keep 'ee all company. If your father should run 
 meanwhile, might be held to prove his guilt. Now 
 then, Tamsin! What do 'ee say? Say the word, 
 maid." 
 
 " No no " repeated the girl. 
 
 " Very well, then. Here's off." 
 
 In a very determined manner the old Isaac took 
 two steps towards the door. Then he stopped. 
 
 "I be off, Tamsin. Gwaine. Say the word, 
 Tamsin . Gwaine gwaine gwaine ' ' 
 
 With each word he raised his voice and took a 
 further step towards the door. With his hand 
 almost on the latch, he paused again. Like an 
 auctioneer, who delays the falling of the hammer, 
 he argued very quietly, with convincing pauses and 
 self-restraint. 
 
 " You do know an' fully understand no doubt 
 the possible consequences, Tamsin, of your decision. 
 The jury might believe your father's tale but if 
 by chance not the worst is the gallows and the 
 best is overseas for life." 
 
 Q
 
 226 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 Suddenly he lifted his voice again. 
 
 " Gwaine gwaine " 
 
 One more step and once more he softened, almost 
 coaxed. 
 
 " Now let young Isaac ride up to the passon's 
 an' all settled. Where could 'ee ever find a 
 healthier, vittier young man? An' there'll be 
 none no, not one'iii.the whole county that will 
 so much as cast eyes on 'ee after next assize." 
 
 Tamsin felt her courage sink. A terrible misgiving 
 seized hold of her. She feared that in telling Philip 
 she had not spoken about the banns. If she 
 let young Isaac go., the banns would be in before 
 Philip could act. 
 
 " Gwaine gwaine very well then, Isaac. All 
 over. John Scult offered any price. You as a 
 witness. You stay an' watch John Scutt. Here's 
 off." 
 
 " Promise ! For God's sake ! Promise, Tamsin, 
 my child. Save us, Tamsin. Save your father 
 an' your mother what bore 'ee. Save us same as 
 we both said." 
 
 It was the cry of Jane. 
 
 Unable longer to endure the cunning torture of 
 the tithing-man, or to control her fears, she had 
 leapt to her feet. She rushed forward to the middle 
 of the floor, and held out imploring arms towards 
 Tamsin. 
 
 The courage of Thomasine had wavered at the 
 mention of the banns, but her heart grew firm at
 
 THE SURPRISE 227 
 
 this terrified appeal of her mother's despair. She 
 dared not let the constable go. If the banns must 
 be called they must. Philip had promised to 
 save her. And Philip had clearly told her to 
 promise if she must. 
 
 "Will will that settle everything? " she stam- 
 mered. 
 
 The constable saw that he had won and came 
 back into the room. Soft as a cat's paw with a 
 kitten, gently persuasive and clearly explanatory, 
 he went on talking to Thomasine. 
 
 " Everything, Tamsin, my dear. There's not a 
 soul outside this room can ever get hint o' what's 
 gone an' past. Say the word. 'Tis dead and 
 buried. Dead an' buried, did I say ? It never 
 was born. Tis nothing. Melted like a smoke. 
 Gone like a dream." 
 
 Then his crafty mind saw the cHance to snap up 
 one more small advantage, and whilst continuing 
 to talk to Tamsin, he turned his head towards John 
 Scutt. 
 
 " Though, to be sure, your father would only wish 
 to lay down the forty shillings apiece the mere 
 value that he his own self put upon the sheep. 
 Always a honest man, sure, your father would be 
 the first to wish to pay for his mistake. Then all's 
 done and settled." 
 
 " I consent," murmured Thomasine. 
 
 John Scutt quickly drew a bag from his pocket 
 and counted four sovereigns on to the table. It was 
 
 2
 
 228 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 quite wonderful to see the dapper way in which the 
 constable stepped forward and transferred them to 
 his own. 
 
 " Now then, John Scutt, is the time for a drop 
 out o' your bottle. Come, come, Isaac. Get up an' 
 gie your young woman a kiss. Then all drink 
 health to the young couple. Then off to the 
 passonage. Passons be birds do roost early some 
 o' 'em at least. Hark ! What's that ? " 
 
 Something had certainly moved behind the high- 
 backed settle. 
 
 In a corner of the kitchen in the recess formed by 
 the projecting chimney-breast, a large cupboard 
 had been made by the addition of a door. That door 
 had creaked. 
 
 Then with a quick step an unsuspected listener 
 walked out into the open room. 
 
 " You scoundrels! " cried a voice. 
 
 The men all leapt to their feet and stood aghast. 
 
 "Master Philip!"
 
 229 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 DISCOMFITURE 
 
 BEWILDERMENT fell on everybody present. 
 
 At the appearance of Master Philip all the men 
 knew that the matter was now by no means settled; 
 but not one of them realized at once the importance 
 of this sudden intervention of a reliable, disinterested, 
 well-instructed witness of the whole proceedings. 
 
 " Scoundrels ! " cried Philip louder than before. 
 
 At this repeated insult the young Isaac, his fists 
 clenched, advanced towards Philip. In any mo- 
 ment of doubt that was his argument, and it often 
 proved sufficient. But old Isaac nimbly stepped in 
 front of his son. 
 
 " Stand back, you fool," said he in a hoarse 
 whisper. " Keep the law wi' a lawyer, or you'll 
 come off worst." 
 
 John Scutt, a fist resting on the table, stood 
 frowning. He knew that Tamsin must have told 
 her lover, but the end of that he could not foresee. 
 As to Jane, after her scream of " Master Philip! " 
 she sank back again into the corner. The coming 
 of Philip to her was a romance. In her mind 
 Master Philip, beside himself at being parted from 
 Tamsin, had crept into the house in order to see
 
 230 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 her once more. But all her plans were broken. 
 All her schemes were now of no avail. All her 
 hopes were gone. She threw her apron over 
 her head in shame of all that Master Philip must 
 have heard. 
 
 The little tithing-man was the first to recover his 
 self-possession. Master Philip was the lover of 
 Tamsin. He had no doubt that he had been com- 
 pletely outwitted by the superior cunning of John 
 Scutt, advised by Master Philip. He saw quite 
 clearly that the game was up. But old Isaac was 
 not easily put out of countenance. 
 
 "So ho ! " cried he, making as if to go. "A 
 plot, then ! An' a very mean plot, too, I do call 
 it. Come on, Isaac. There'll be no need to trouble 
 passon. Tis the Justice we must visit. 'Tis a 
 warrant we shall want " 
 
 With such loud talk as this he thought to be 
 implored, or it might be even paid, to keep a still 
 tongue, and so to get out of the house with some 
 show of bravery, and hear no more of a matter 
 which, if known, might get him into trouble as a 
 tithing-man and make him the laughing-stock of 
 the whole country-side. 
 
 Master Philip stepped between him and the door. 
 
 Then there is something to be got, was the imme- 
 diate thought of Cledworth. 
 
 But Master Philip took a most unexpected and 
 astounding view of the proceedings. 
 
 " You're quite right, Cledworth," said he calmly.
 
 DISCOMFITURE 231 
 
 " You've no time to lose waiting about here, drink- 
 ing the brandy of the man you ought to be appre- 
 hending. After forty-eight hours it will look none 
 too well. But I'll walk along with you and lay my 
 information at the same time. Then you and 
 Isaac and John Scutt can stand your trial at the 
 same assize." 
 
 "I and Isaac?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " You do not suppose that any gentleman on 
 earth would stand in with you rascals in such an 
 infamous deal as this, do you? You can call me 
 as a witness, as well as Isaac, as to Scutt offering you 
 money. And you have put his money in your 
 pocket, mind that. I can call Miss Scutt against 
 you. Come along." 
 
 " But what's it all about? " gasped Isaac, for he 
 felt he was out of his depth. 
 
 " Why, Scutt 's robbing the common, and you 
 and Isaac condoning the felony. And you a 
 tithing-man ! The doings of Eddyford will be mak- 
 ing quite a stir in court next spring. There will be 
 pleasant reading for the parish. Come along. 
 Eddyford seems likely to lose sight for a time of 
 a few most important parishioners, if I know any- 
 thing about it. Or if you would rather not have 
 company, we can go apart." 
 
 Old Isaac narrowly scanned the face of Master 
 Philip.
 
 232 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 He had known him all his boyhood as a merry, 
 good-humoured youth, but now his features were 
 as hard and stern as a county-court judge, with 
 whom old Isaac had once made acquaintance in 
 respect of a warranty of a horse. He knew nothing 
 but gossip about Master Philip and Tamsin. He 
 did not believe in any serious courtship. The 
 lip of the tithing-man quivered. He was not sure 
 that a gentleman, like Master Philip, might not feel 
 in honour bound to expose a crime against the com- 
 mon. At the same time a doubt arose in his mind 
 a doubt of considerable weight as to whether a 
 young lawyer, with his way in the world to make, 
 might not expect to derive advantages from cases 
 carried into court. He wavered between fear of 
 integrity and a deeply rooted belief in universal 
 guile. Yet how did Master Philip get there ? Some- 
 body must have told him. Had John Scutt been 
 in to consult the old lawyer Marshall? He had 
 been to Netherton for certain. Old Isaac glanced 
 at John Scutt's face, so gloomy and perplexed, then 
 at the back of Jane's apron, but found no con- 
 solation. 
 
 " Come along, Cledworth." 
 
 By a flash of genius the old Isaac perceived that 
 his only safe plan was to stand by neighbour Scutt. 
 He was as full of wiles as a fox. Never long with- 
 out a resource, even though a poor one, his tongue, 
 once wound up, would run as long as an eight-day 
 clock.
 
 DISCOMFITURE 233 
 
 " Bless my heart, Master Philip, how black you 
 do look. Felony! What felony? There's no 
 felony. An' can be no condonation without. Pack 
 o' nonsense ! Well, now, 'tis too bad so 'tis. You 
 ought to know me by this time. All the years I've 
 a-kep' my own parish church to Eddyford. An' 
 poor old passon, your very own father, kirsened all 
 the one an' twenty, an' prepared for confirmation, 
 Isaac there an' all. I take it very much amiss o' 
 you, Master Philip, I do. For I did but come to 
 take the money for a couple o' sheep that neigh- 
 bour Scutt picked up by mistake. Didn' I, Isaac ? 
 I don't blame neighbour, come to think o' it. They 
 was very slovenly marked, I own that; Wadden 
 'em, Isaac ? Two I bought an' marked wi' a brush, 
 an' the tar had a-runned down from the brush, or 
 wi' the heat o' the sun. Hadn' it, Isaac? An' 
 turned the C into a sort of a S like. Didn' it, 
 Isaac? An' you can come roun' to my place an' 
 see 'em if you be a-minded. An' as to neighbour kill- 
 ing by night, 'tis well known why. He do kill when 
 Tamsin do go to Netherton-town because Tamsin, 
 being so delicate, is so nice in her mind, she can't 
 ate the meat if she have a-cast eyes on the carcase. 
 All the parish do know that. Don't 'em, Isaac? " 
 
 In admiration of such stupendous ingenuity 
 John Scutt looked up. 
 
 Jane quickly uncovered her head and stared. 
 
 " But the ponies," interposed Philip in Cled- 
 worth's own words and manner.
 
 234 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " Say no more. Now, there, Master Philip, I 
 must an' will own I was wrong. Isaac an' myself, 
 I being the tithing-man, do often look roun' a bit. 
 'Tis nothing but right. An' I said, ' Isaac, you be 
 crazy wi' love for Tamsin Scutt, an' though she's no 
 worker an' to my mind no good for a farmer's 
 wife an' a lot too proud in her ways for any wise 
 man, you'll be no good for victuals nor work till 
 you do know your fate like. We'll take the oppor- 
 tunity to step into Hatchbarrow an' speak. Now 
 to see John Scutt bring in suckers as he did, did 
 rouse a fair suspicion like. Didn' it, Isaac? An' 
 we thought nothing but right to take they suckers 
 in the name o' the law. We took 'em up on com- 
 mon for the mares to own 'em. Sure enough the 
 little mares runned to 'em, pretty quick. They 
 did. No fear. Oh! They owned 'em every one 
 an' gied suck. But look-y-'see, 'twas John Scutt's 
 own little mares, every mare o' 'em, with the S 
 plain marked on her rump. Oh no ! There's no 
 felony, Master Philip. An' that cleared up in our 
 minds about the sheep." 
 
 Master Philip grew more than ever impatient. 
 
 " To use your own words, why talk and explain 
 so much, Cledworth? I am not the jury." 
 
 But the old Isaac was not again to be put out of 
 countenance. His own words, as he poured them out 
 so glibly and without premeditation, had convinced 
 him beyond a doubt of the security of his position. 
 
 " What good to talk about a jury, Master Philip ?
 
 DISCOMFITURE 
 
 2 35 
 
 There's no evidence. You can't have law without 
 evidence. What wi' the fluster o' the little mares, 
 the suckers got away. We couldn' catch 'em, 
 mares or suckers, do what we would. They be 
 loose. We felt wonderful shy to come back an' 
 face John Scutt. I said so at the time. Didn' I, 
 Isaac ? An' Isaac up an' said, ' Look here, father ! 
 They hooked you up to crook why!' Bless my 
 heart ! You was here back sheep-shearing, Master 
 Philip ! So you was. Maybe you had a-went first 
 through anyway, they hooked I up to crook 
 there, up to that very self-same beam, a-tied up 
 in a sack-bag. Why, the flour idden out o' my 
 best suit yet well, my second best then. An' 
 Isaac said, ' Let's say I must wed wi' Tamsin to 
 set all straight.' An' that's the prank you heard, 
 Master Philip. Idden it, Isaac? Too bad, I own, 
 for it brought tears. I own it. Still, Master Philip, 
 you must know your own self, there's no standing 
 ground for law without evidence, an' that's the 
 true explanation 
 
 " Will you swear that ? " asked Master Philip. 
 
 The question was most ironical, but Cledworth 
 did not appear to mind. 
 
 " Take my oath o' it. Why not ? So can 
 Isaac too, for certain sure." 
 
 "You scoundrels!" said Philip for the third 
 time. 
 
 In great haste the old Isaac pounced upon his hat 
 and stick.
 
 236 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " Come, Isaac. This is no place for we. I take 
 no such words from any man, gentle or simple. 
 I've told the truth and I've owned myself wrong. 
 So no need for names. It is not the way of a gentle- 
 man. I sha'n't stay here to be called 'em. Not a 
 minute. No. Not a minute. For you are not 
 the gentleman, Master Philip, that your father was. 
 Come, Isaac. Over nothing but a harmless joke, 
 too. An' when a man has spoken out and owned 
 himself wrong " 
 
 Deeply injured, the old Isaac Cledworth departed 
 in haste. With impressive dignity and a great 
 show of self-respect, both he and his son passed out 
 of sight and hearing beyond the walls of Hatch- 
 barrow.
 
 237 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 HUMILIATION 
 
 JOHN Scutt drew a deep breath. 
 
 He was not such a fool as to suppose that the 
 falsehoods of old Isaac could have found any accept- 
 ance whatever in the mind of Master Philip. He 
 stood there no better than a convicted thief, knew 
 it, and was ashamed of it. But it was a relief to 
 know himself beyond danger of the law. 
 
 Jane rose from her seat. In this mizmaze of 
 surprises she was lost. She pressed her hands 
 upon her forehead trying to collect her scattered 
 thoughts. It was no good. They evaded her. They 
 were all in conflict and upset each other. As one 
 came another fled. Her bewildered brain could 
 grasp nothing clearly. Presently, driven by the 
 housewife's instinct, since it must be drawing 
 near to supper time, and Master Philip had made 
 a journey, and Master Philip must be wanting 
 something to eat, she went to the dresser and began 
 aimlessly setting plates upon the table board. 
 
 " Sit down, Master Philip," said John Scutt, 
 and pushed forward a chair. He was very quiet, 
 very crestfallen, very humble. It was an invitation 
 to a conversation.
 
 238 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 " No, Scutt. I can't sit down, thank you." 
 
 To the lover of Tamsin the owner of Hatch- 
 barrow had been Mr. Scutt. He noted the change. 
 But the manner of Master Philip was so sad, that 
 it was hard to tell whether he spoke in pity or to 
 a man of inferior position. Besides, John Scutt 
 had always been Scutt to the Piltons when they 
 lived at Eddyford. 
 
 " Our Tamsin told her mother about your com- 
 ing " began Scutt, and stopped 
 
 Master Philip was not there. He had gone to 
 the cupboard and came back bringing his hat and 
 whip. 
 
 John Scutt tried again. 
 
 " Yes. Our Tamsin, as I was saying, told her 
 mother and and mentioned about Court. Master 
 Philip, 'tis the best of land. You could do well 
 at Court." 
 
 But Master Philip gave no answer. He was 
 paying no attention whatever, for he had laid 
 his hand on Thomasine's shoulder and was whisper- 
 ing something in her ear. Ah ! Then he would 
 not forsake Tamsin, cold and distant as he might 
 be to her father. John Scutt found thus much 
 consolation in this neglect of himself and began to 
 excuse himself. 
 
 " You mustn't think too much of a sheep or two, 
 Master Philip. A man must pick up a few now and 
 again to get his own back. Otherwise he'd soon 
 come to ruin. If every neighbour was in jail who
 
 HUMILIATION 239 
 
 has picked up a sheep in a sea-fog, there'd be neither 
 Cledworths nor anybody else but the women-folk 
 in church of a Sunday." 
 
 " There is no defence," replied Master Philip 
 coldly. Then, looking upon the changed bearing 
 of the man whom he had always respected, he could 
 not forbear a lament. " And I took John Scutt 
 to be as honest a man as I know." 
 
 The owner of Hatchbarrow had lost his sharp, 
 decisive manner. He began to plead with the 
 humility of a man who has seen better days and 
 fallen into misfortune. 
 
 " It can never be known, Master Philip," he 
 whispered eagerly. " The Cledworths can never 
 open their mouths." 
 
 " You know it. I know it. If we all know it 
 ourselves, is not that enough? " asked Master 
 Philip dryly. 
 
 " Tis no fault o' our Tamsin's. We should 
 have done no wrong, not so much as a penny-piece, 
 if we had gone always according to her mind. All 
 our doings might be open as the day then. I 
 wouldn' have her to suffer so much as one sigh. 
 You marry our Tamsin, Master Philip. Marry 
 her. She's good as gold an' better. I give Hatch- 
 barrow to Tamsin free the day of her marriage." 
 
 " I cannot possibly make terms with you, 
 Scutt. If you think of it, you must recognize 
 that," replied Master Philip. 
 
 " You take Court, sir. You'll have both Court
 
 240 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 and Hatchbarrow. Tis a holding for a gentleman. 
 Twice as much as your father had. You do love 
 hunting. You will be able to hunt as much as you 
 like." 
 
 Master Philip shook his head. 
 " Or I'll give Hatchbarrow to our Tamsin and rent 
 it of you if you like that better. Or I'll take Court. 
 You can live in which house you like best, Master 
 Philip ! Don't go, sir. To the day o' my death, 
 I'll be your man for no more than a living, sooner 
 than Tamsin should be hurt. Both Jane and I will 
 work for 'ee both for a roof, an' clothes an' keep. 
 We can't want no more. What good could more do 
 us ? For a roof, an' clothes an' keep, Master Philip, 
 till we do drop of old age, Master Philip Master 
 Philip- 
 It was not Master Philip who had moved. 
 Thomasine had risen from her chair. To hear her 
 father he! who had never been anything but 
 masterful and self-assertive to any but herself 
 begging to be nobody, willing to part with every- 
 thing, after his years of hard work and hard dealing, 
 filled her heart with deep pity. His humiliation, 
 when he slunk away from her in the barton, 
 haunted her memory. Then she saw the wreck of 
 all that her imagination and affection had pictured 
 him to be. Now her soul perceived only his love for 
 her and his contrition. Hopeless and broken-hearted, 
 by no fault of her own, she saw him conscience- 
 stricken and broken-spirited by self-reproach.
 
 HUMILIATION 241 
 
 Thomasine loved her. father. They had always 
 loved each other not with sentiment and caresses, 
 for his rugged nature did not ask for them, but 
 with unspoken, unwavering affection. He had 
 sinned for love of her. Moved by an impulse of 
 infinite pity, she ran to him and threw her arms 
 around his neck. 'J 
 
 " Don't, father," she sobbed. " You do not 
 understand." 
 
 Still less did John Scutt understand, but con- 
 tinued more eagerly. 
 
 " There's all the stock, Master Philip. I never 
 afore in my life had such a clean handsome lot o' 
 stock nor so much. An' the best harvest for 
 twenty year. There a stack o' wheat more than 
 ever was, the best year ever known. All 
 
 But Master Philip had turned away and was pay- 
 ing no heed. 
 
 " Come and speak to me, Thomasine. Come at 
 least to say ' Good-bye.' ' 
 
 Thomasine was still clinging to her father 
 
 " Come, Thomasine." 
 
 And Jane came from her plates and the table 
 that was never to be laid, and, whilst timidly 
 stroking Tamsin's arm, added in her ear a word of 
 counsel. 
 
 " Go an' talk to Master Philip, chile. Sure he 
 do deserve our thanks." 
 
 Good-bye ! Good-bye ! indeed ! 
 
 It was the hardest trial of all, but it must be done. 
 
 R
 
 242 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 Thomasine yielded to her mother's touch and left 
 her father. Philip laid his hand upon her arm, and 
 together they went out into the clear starlight and 
 the cold wind, and closed the door behind them.
 
 243 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 ONCE MORE THE HEARTH 
 
 JOHN and Jane sat down before the hearth as 
 they did on the night of the sheep-shearing, when 
 they first knew that Hatchbarrow was bought. 
 
 Jane moaned and uttered disconnected thoughts. 
 Not intentionally for the ear of John, but because 
 they would be uttered. 
 
 " Ah ! We've a-ruined all. Wicked sinners that 
 we be! Th' Almighty put it all in reach o' the 
 labour of our hands every bit an' crumb, just to 
 our wish an' liking but we ourselves have a-dashed 
 it to the ground. We must have Hatchbarrow for 
 our own. No matter how. An' Hatchbarrow we've 
 a-got an' a bellyful o' trouble all the same. What 
 did I tell 'ee, John ? Our Tamsin is a maid to die 
 for love. I have a-said it. An' I do know it. Ah ! 
 Wear the willow! Master Philip'll never wed wi' 
 her now. Wear the willow pine an' die. I can 
 see it clear." 
 
 With Jane alone, John found his old self. 
 
 " So clear as a owl in the daylight," he said 
 roughly. " Master Philip is a man, an' I don't 
 doubt a man of his word. He'd marry our Tam- 
 sin. Tis we an' ours that he won't touch o'. Tis 
 
 R 2
 
 244 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 our Tamsin is going to say ' No ' to he. Words 
 won't change her. What her mind do find right 
 she'll do. Tis good-bye for Master Philip." 
 
 " 'Tis good-bye all, to my mind, all we ever 
 hoped for. All our wishes, John, all flowered. 
 Every one o' 'em kerned every one o' 'em riped 
 and in the end every one 'o 'em have a-slipped shell, 
 like nuts in the wind. An' our Tamsin do love un 
 love un like life. She'll take un, John. She'll take 
 un. I do know she'll take un." 
 
 " Never. Not in this world." 
 
 " But she do love un. An' he'll use words 
 words o' love. There's words o' love from the 
 tongue of a man, an' a maid in love can't help 
 herself." 
 
 " She'll never take un." 
 
 " She must ! She must ! " wailed Jane. 
 
 " Tis as you do say, Jane, Tamsin is so nice in 
 her mind like. She'll see herself soiled by we 
 There's no real, everlasting stain 'pon she." 
 
 " There can't ! There never can't ! " shrieked 
 Jane. 
 
 " But she'll see herself soiled. She'll grieve an' 
 cry, like she did as a chile, do 'ee mind? when she 
 was out to play in barton an' got the dung 'pon her 
 little hands." 
 
 "An' none to run to now," moaned Jane. "For, 
 so sure as God's in Heaven, we be the dung. Wicked 
 sinners when all went well. An' we be nothing 
 better 'an dung, John. "
 
 ONCE MORE THE HEARTH 245 
 
 She bent forward like one in intense pain, until 
 her face almost touched her knees, and rocked to and 
 fro and wept. 
 
 " An' none to run to now," she sighed between 
 her sobs. 
 
 Suddenly, as if by an inspiration, she stood 
 upright. She raised her head. Her eyes were 
 fixed upon the great oaken beam, and in a loud 
 voice, Jane prayed. 
 
 "Oh! God A'mighty, join 'em. Join 'em, dear 
 God A'mighty, join 'em. Join 'em one." 
 
 And just as hastily, alarmed, ashamed in the 
 presence of John, she sat down again and wept. 
 
 For a long time they did not speak, but Jane was 
 the first to break the silence. 
 
 " Hark ! Here she is." 
 
 They listened. It must have been the wind in 
 the chimney, for Tamsin did not come. 
 
 " They must be o' one mind, sure," said John in 
 a low voice. " Our Tamsin could never bide so 
 long, unless they was agreed." 
 
 And still the time passed on. They became 
 restless, and within the heart of each of them arose 
 fears too terrible even to mention. Each one 
 thought of going out to look. Each one feared to 
 be the first to speak the thought. 
 
 But Tamsin came. 
 
 She lifted the latch, almost as if by stealth, and 
 crept in noiselessly and without a word. The 
 traces of her struggle might still be seen upon her
 
 246 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 cheeks, and she was pale with the deathlike white of 
 a half -burnt ashen log when the fire has gone out. 
 But Thomasine was self-controlled. She had brought 
 herself to a determination and was calm so calm, 
 that, with a glance at the half -set table board, she 
 began to occupy herself with household work. 
 
 Neither her father nor her mother could summon 
 the courage to ask of Tamsin what had taken 
 place, but Jane's black eyes almost glittered as 
 they watched her eagerly and scanned every 
 movement. 
 
 There was no longer a ring on Tamsin's finger.
 
 EPILOGUE
 
 249 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 IT was an afternoon towards the middle of Novem- 
 ber. Looked at from below, the Beacon Head was 
 scarcely visible behind its wreath of cloud. Yet 
 in the morning, soon after light, two people, a 
 middle-aged man and woman, had toiled up the 
 crooked, stony path, and still they waited hour 
 after hour in the dim, comfortless mist. 
 
 At times during the day a drizzling rain had 
 fallen, so fine that it was only evident in the beads 
 of moisture that gathered like dew on the old 
 russet-green jacket of the man and the woollen 
 shawl of the woman. Whenever the cloud promised 
 to clear, they climbed to the very summit of the heap 
 of stones that once served as a beacon hearth, knit their 
 brows, and stared intently in the direction of the sea. 
 When the crest of the hill became hopelessly wrapt in 
 mist, and they could see nothing, in very weariness 
 they sat down on the great boulder by the broken post. 
 
 " Tis no good," said the man. " We shall but 
 get wet to the skin an' cold to the bone." 
 
 " We can but stop," sighed the woman. 
 
 At rare intervals a gleam of sunlight pierced a way 
 between the clouds and lighted up both hills and sea. 
 Once, for a brief interval, the day became quite clear. 
 
 " Maybe 'tis not too late, Jane," said the man, 
 " if it should but hold bright." 
 
 " Maybe," sighed the woman. 
 
 More cloud, more mist, more drizzle came drifting
 
 250 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 up to cling around the headlands, and everything 
 was lost in haze. 
 
 " 'Tis going to end in a sea-fog," said the man 
 gloomily. 
 
 During the bright intervals there was usually 
 some craft in sight. They knew nothing about ships. 
 Such as became unveiled when the mist lifted they 
 discussed ignorantly, querulously, even angrily. 
 
 "There, John, there. Sure now, that must be it." 
 The woman pointed eagerly with her lean brown finger. 
 " Don't be a fool. She's only for Barnstaple or 
 Bideford. That's to what we do look for that's 
 no more 'an a a walnut shell." 
 " How do you know ? " 
 " See, can't I ? " 
 " But how can you tell? " 
 " Got eyes, I s'pose." 
 
 The woman was never satisfied that the man knew. 
 Early in the afternoon, at the end of one of their 
 discussions, a wayfarer came climbing over the hill. 
 They were greatly at odds, and the man had sworn 
 at her for a fool. But the woman could not keep 
 silence. Pointing away over the waters, she made 
 bold to stop the stranger and put him questions in 
 a manner to induce him to answer as she wished. 
 
 " Wouldn' that be a very big ship, sir ? A ship out o' 
 Bristol, sir ? Maybe for America ? Can you tell me ? " 
 To see her half wild with eagerness the stranger 
 smiled, but he laughed outright as he looked at the 
 patched brown sail. 
 
 " That ? That's nothing but some old tub of a 
 coasting schooner," said he.
 
 EPILOGUE 251 
 
 " What did I say, Jane ? Only you can't listen 
 to sense," said the man roughly. 
 
 " But there is a fine ship expected down. I 
 passed a look-out place a mile back. The man was 
 watching for her a fine clipper ship her first 
 voyage. He thought, judging by wind and tide, 
 she ought to have been down before this." 
 
 " Then she's not passed by unbeknown." 
 
 The woman's voice cracked with anxiety, but 
 the man, now as eager as herself, held up his hand 
 to silence her, then pushed her aside and took her 
 place. 
 
 " Maybe the fog have a-kept her back ? " 
 
 " There's no fog to stop her," explained the 
 stranger. "It is clear as noon down below under 
 the clouds that gather around the hill top." 
 
 " Then she can't ha' gone by unbeknown," re- 
 iterated the woman. 
 
 " No. He would have seen her." 
 
 " Certain sure, must be the one," sighed she, 
 with a sinking of the heart. 
 
 " 'Tis her first voyage, so he told me. ' The 
 Bonaventure,' he said was her name " 
 
 " That's she ! " cried the man. 
 
 " That's she ! " echoed the woman. " The Bony 
 the Bony what, young man? Say it again." 
 
 " ' The Bonaventure.' " 
 
 " Spell it out," cried the woman. 
 
 The stranger spelt it. He was so amused he almost 
 laughed outright, but having no more to tell them, 
 he only smiled, nodded good-day and trudged on his 
 way.
 
 252 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 The man seized the woman by the arm, and half 
 led, half pushed her back to the boulder. 
 
 " Sit down, Jane. Read out the letter once 
 again." 
 
 Jane fumbled in her pocket, and at last drew 
 forth a letter creased and torn with many readings 
 in places almost blotted out with contrite tears. 
 The drifting cloud closed over them. The drizzling 
 rain came on again, and cast a mist on her glasses 
 as she slowly read: 
 
 " ' My dear Mother, 
 
 By the time you get this I shall be married to 
 Philip. Nobody knows it. We have not told 
 a soul, or be sure, dear mother, I should have 
 told you instead of letting you believe I was only 
 going for a visit to Netherton-town. We are on 
 our way to be married by licence in a church at 
 Bristol. It is far better so. For in her heart 
 Mrs. Pilton was very much opposed to it, and 
 if Philip had taken a farm, it would not have been 
 pleasant to be so near her.' ' 
 
 " That's our Tamsin all over," interrupted the 
 man. " There's never a word o' fault wi' we." 
 
 " ' I shall always love you, dear father and 
 mother, for all the good you have meant for me 
 and the schooling you gave me. We are sailing 
 for America, not to strangers, but to some of 
 Philip's relations. We are going in a new ship 
 called "The Bona venture," that has never been 
 to sea before, to a new country to make a way 
 for ourselves. We shall pass so near to Hatch-
 
 EPILOGUE 253 
 
 barrow and yet never see it. That will be on 
 Thursday, not later than noon. We shall know 
 the place by the Beacon Head, and Philip and 
 I shall watch it out of sight. If you and father 
 are there, you will know the ship because there 
 cannot be another on that day so big. With 
 a fair wind, they say, we shall be much earlier. 
 Go up to the top and wish us well until we see 
 each other again. For I shall come back. Philip 
 says if all goes as well as he hopes, we will come 
 back in five years. And I shall write very soon. 
 I shall always write to you. And I shall be 
 happy, dear mother, very happy, for Philip and 
 I love one another heart and soul. I could not 
 give him up. He would not let me give him up, 
 and I could not ask him to stay, for he was bent 
 on going. So you must forgive me, mother, and 
 be sure I shall come back ' ' 
 
 Choked with tears, she broke off in her reading. 
 " But she'll be happy," she cried. " She've got 
 her love. Our Tamsin'll be happy." 
 " Read on," said the man sternly. 
 
 " ' There is only one thing, dear mother and 
 father, and I do not know how it can be done. 
 I should be so glad if you could make amends. 
 If you could think of some way to give to others 
 until all is fair, you would ease your minds and 
 mine. Try to think of a plan to make everything 
 honest that was wrong. If there is no other way 
 give it to those that want. And when I come 
 back all will be past and gone. And, dear mother,
 
 254 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 there is one thing I want you to do for me. Keep 
 my room all ready, with nothing altered; just 
 as if you were looking for me to walk in to- 
 morrow from Netherton-town. For we shall 
 get on, and I shall come, or perhaps if all turns 
 out well here, if you should not any longer be 
 happy at Hatchbarrow, you could come here " 
 
 " Hark ! " suddenly interrupted the man. 
 
 He had bent his head to listen, for in the dense 
 mist around them it had been no good to stare in 
 the direction of the sea. 
 
 " There she is." 
 
 The stranger was calling from the distance and 
 pointing over the cliff. 
 
 " That's the ship. That's ' The Bonaventure.' " 
 
 The rain was still falling upon them, but a rift had 
 broken in the fog, making, as it were, an open window 
 towards the sea, through which they could look upon 
 a stretch of smooth water blue as the hidden sky. 
 
 Not more than a mile from the shore, but just 
 emerged from behind a jutting peninsula of cliffs, 
 was a ship with every stitch of canvas spread to 
 the light breeze. The sun shone full upon her, and 
 her maiden sails, bent from a fair wind, were white 
 as the round breasts of a sunlit April cloud. They 
 could see her clearly glorified both by the sun- 
 light which was hers and the cloud that appeared 
 to encompass her spars and rigging, even the 
 group of people upon her deck. Although she 
 scarcely seemed to move, a ripple of white foam 
 parted before her bows.
 
 EPILOGUE 255 
 
 The woman jumped to her feet and stood trans- 
 fixed as if astonished at the vision. Then tears 
 rushed into her eyes. 
 
 The man only said: 
 
 "Our Tamsin!" 
 
 " But she is happy, as I said. I can see it. In tears 
 she may be but she's happy happy at heart." 
 
 They stared and stared, until very slowly a dark 
 mass, drifting across the sea, blotted out the window 
 and swallowed the vision up. 
 
 The man rose from the boulder, turned away and 
 started homewards. 
 
 " Come along, Jane," he said in a voice husky 
 and low. " There's no more. I always said it 
 would end in a sea-fog." 
 
 Down the hill, together, yet apart, the man some 
 dozen yards in advance of the woman, they trudged, 
 back to the homestead that came into view as they 
 descended out of the cloud. 
 
 The woman cried her thoughts after the man, 
 who said nothing. 
 
 " She's gone. Our Tamsin's gone. But she's 
 gone to happiness. We drove her away our own 
 selves. She was the light and soul o' the house. 
 But we drove her away. We be sinners. Sinners 
 both. We be transgressors. All in haste to be 
 rich, we've a-lost an' drove away our soul by our 
 sins. God A'mighty forgie us. Sinners. Sinners 
 we be. An' we drove her away the light an' the 
 soul. Ah! The joy o' us! She's gone. 'Tis 
 to me as if the soul was fled an' the body not dead. 
 An that's how the house'll be as I do move about to
 
 256 THE REVENUES OF THE WICKED 
 
 my work. But she's happy. Happy an' good 
 she do carry her happiness where she do go " 
 
 At the foot of the hill the man, turning silently 
 away, strode across a field to cut a truss of hay for 
 his stock. " Amends," muttered he. " How can 
 a man bear in mind to make amends? There was 
 none ever missed it." 
 
 The hay was sweet and green. It smelt as fragrant 
 as a meadow in June. But the man did not notice it. 
 He could not see how to make amends or how to get 
 free. For the moment he saw nothing before him 
 but discontent with Hatchbarrow, the drudgery of 
 the farm work and the enmity of the Cledworths. 
 
 The woman kept on to the house. All the while, in 
 detached sentences, she continued talking to herself. 
 
 " Ay, she's gone. Gone to her love 
 
 " Come back, Tamsin, my dear, the light an' the 
 soul o' us. Come back to find all ready 
 
 " Lord help me ! There shall never a cobweb 
 hang the day through 
 
 " I'll sweep un, an' dust un, day by day, wi' my 
 own hands, I will 
 
 " I'll scrub un out 'pon my knees every week o' 
 my life 
 
 " I'll have mason to white un out every lady-day 
 so reg'lar as rent 
 
 " Be happy, Tamsin, my dear ! Ah ! you can, 
 for you do carry it in your heart. Come back, 
 Tamsin, my dear. Come back, little soul. You've 
 a- wrote it you will an' I know you will " 
 
 And so, not without faith, Jane Scutt disappeared 
 within Hatchbarrow porch.
 
 000 
 
 127 697