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 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE
 
 THE THIEF OF 
 VIRTUE 
 
 BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS 
 
 Author of "The Haven," "Children of the Mist, 
 "The Three Brothers," etc. 
 
 lGi39 
 
 NEW YORK 
 JOHN LANE COMPANY 
 
 MCMX 
 
 SANTA BARBARA. CALIF.
 
 Copyright, 1910, by 
 JOHN LANE COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS PRINTING COMPANY, NEW YORK
 
 XLo 
 MY WIFE
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Cloud-shadows swept a desert, and beneath their stains 
 the bosom of the waste appeared to rise and fall, as 
 though, not earth, but some enormous, animate creature 
 of earth, panted here, and stretched its rugged immensity 
 upon the midst of that wider world outspread around it. 
 Dartmoor, beheld from a height above her central plains, 
 sprang to a crown of tors, and rounded mightily on many 
 a hog-backed hill. Within this amphitheatre twinkled 
 the eastern arm of Dart, straggled a wood, and clustered 
 a few cottages beside the river; while at distances remote 
 from the central dwellings, sunk humbly beside this 
 streamlet or beneath that steep, there shone out roof- 
 trees of little farms. 
 
 The Moor encircled them in billowy plains of pallid 
 yellow and dim green. Its faces rolled upon each other ; 
 they fell here to water-side; they ascended and broke 
 where the granite burst through them in peaks and ra- 
 vines; they brightened where the ling bloom spattered 
 their leagues with light. A lesser fret of inherent colour 
 was manifest under that mightier robe where sunshine 
 blazed and shadows sped. One garment covered all things 
 in permanent mosaic of herbage and stone, stark peat 
 and sparkling water — the intrinsic raiment of the Moor,
 
 2 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 that altered only to the call of the seasons, vanished only 
 at the fall of the snow. But the other, cast down by med- 
 ley of light and cloud, spread, moved, and flowed along 
 in a pattern more vast and grand. 
 
 At midday in summer, shadows, very purple under the 
 ambient splendour of the hour, roamed over Dartmoor, 
 sometimes in thronging companies and sometimes alone. 
 They leapt the rivers, raced tiie level heaths, and climbed 
 the hills. Upon the sky there worked two separate winds, 
 and each drove its own flock. At lower level advanced 
 the cumuli and threw their shades upon the earth; and 
 above them great lines of transparent but visible vapour, 
 filmy against the blue, sailed in upper zones, and by their 
 direction marked another stream of air. The cirri, like 
 fingers that rose out of a palm beneath the horizon, spread 
 fanwise from a point unseen. Then to the zenith, in 
 majestic and unfolding perspective they ascended. Be- 
 neath the sun these cloud-lances of the height, flying 
 arrowy, burnt like flame, and by contrast dimmed the 
 round, golden heads of the greater clouds beneath them. 
 Most delicate and dazzling bright were they — ^mere flakes 
 of fire upon the solar face that no way dimmed the down- 
 beat of his glory-, but that they, too, flung shadows and 
 spread invisible gauze of shade among the darker um- 
 brage might not be doubted, though the unseen passing of 
 them cooled no cheek. Upon their aerial way they went, 
 and closed their ranks again and narrowed as they sank 
 to the farther horizon. 
 
 In the sunlit, lower strata the full sky pageant cul- 
 minated. Here cloud-billows like bergs first floated along 
 the edge of earth in level lines, wind-steered. Then they 
 approached; their magnitude increased and they bulked 
 enormous. Now, like volcanic isles, they loomed — like 
 isles all built of mountains — and though light glowed 
 upon their peaks and precipices, darkness and storm 
 dwelt in the caverns beneath them. Concavities of 
 gloom receded depth upon depth within their top- 
 pling and burning cornices; and many a convexity 
 of light spread molten upon the inner darkness and set 
 its neighbour cloud on fire. Out of the surges spired
 
 THE THIEF OP VIRTUE 3 
 
 new pinnacles and spread new tides of vapour, now 
 shadowed by other masses that whirled between them and 
 the sun, now open to the ray, leaping and splashing in 
 feathers and foam of fire against the blue. A thousand 
 transient passages of waxing and waning splendour mod- 
 ified these fierce exchanges of light and shadow. Ever and 
 anon they clashed indeed in fleeting battles, but more 
 often each melted into the other ; the radiance was over- 
 laid with tender colours that pervaded and qualified ; the 
 gloom was shot and arched with bannerets and streamers 
 of pure light. The breasts of the rolling legions blazed 
 and faded, blazed and faded again; and their heaviest 
 murk was apparent only, not real. For the least cloud- 
 shadows racing over earth were darker far than the deep- 
 est, stormiest stains upon the cloud-cliffs ascending above 
 them. There the darkness was light — the whole sky a 
 relation of great and lesser light ; and clouds that lowered 
 sombre against some glory of fire-steeped vapour round 
 about, or upon the azure of the firmament, sailed lustrous 
 and luminous contrasted with the bosom of the earth- 
 mother that bore them. 
 
 The intricate movements of these tangled and wind- 
 tormented multitudes passed all telling. The staple of 
 them furnished a loom for light direct and reflected ; their 
 substance also displayed violent and rapid motion. Only 
 the remoteness of the clouds made it possible even to 
 calculate the terrific turmoil of the flying masses, or guess 
 at the extent of their furlings and unfurlings, their tot- 
 terings and fallings, their uprisings and accumulations 
 and their downfalls, dislimnings and destructions 
 wrought by the hurricane aloft. They huddled together, 
 ascended, collapsed; and before one might chronicle the 
 overthrow of some cloud-palace a mile high, the levelled 
 ruins spread for fresh elevations to lift upon. Above 
 vaporous marshes arose castles, with silver flags flying 
 from their towers and battlements ; and ere the last pin- 
 nacle soared to its place, all burnt away again and shot 
 in tattered wisps aloft or sank in radiant wreckage 
 below. The pageant unrolled, hung three miles above the 
 earth, and swept onward in ruin and renascence — a
 
 4 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 symbol of the suspected principle that all things shall for 
 ever be coming but never be come. 
 
 The wonder of the clouds diminished, the cumuli 
 humped and dwarfed ; there grew increase of density and 
 dimness along their faces and a lessened splendour upon 
 their retreating heads. They shrank and dwindled. They 
 departed, and distance at length hid all the wonder of 
 their hearts until, mildly, gently, as ships on a summer 
 sea, they sailed down to the distant earth-line. The 
 snowy alps and tortured cloud-crests vanished ; all detail 
 died out of them ; the glory and passion of them and their 
 storms and strivings were merged into long, still lakes of 
 pearl, that outlined uttermost earth and stretched above 
 one faint thread, where sea met sky afar off in the south. 
 
 So they passed, to the shepherding of herald Hermes ; 
 and in their procession and recession they offered an 
 image of that mightier duty trusted to the plume-footed 
 son of Maia. For his the task, not only to lead the clouds 
 from on high to their dissolving places in the deep ; but 
 also to guard those other vapours — the shades and shad- 
 ows of mankind — ^upon their last pilgrimage from light 
 into darkness, from the upper world to that nether 
 kingdom where no sun shines.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A MAN who loved well enough to watch clouds now 
 beheld them. His face was tilted to the sky, for he lay 
 supine in the heath on Hartland Tor, and gazed upward. 
 But for once he perceived nothing; and though the tur- 
 moil above was miniatured on his blue eyes, mind had 
 drawn a shutter between the image of these things and 
 Philip Ouldsbroom's brain. Therein clouds of another 
 pattern ran together, but a sudden incident aroused him 
 out of his thoughts. There was a rush and hurtle of 
 wings overhead and a frightened scutter of lesser wings. 
 A great bird recovered itself after a futile stroke, and 
 soared away gleaming; a lesser bird sped by and dashed 
 with trembling speed into the heart of a furze brake. A 
 kestrel had struck at a linnet and missed her. 
 
 The man laughed. 
 
 "Ah! my bold hero, you must hawk better than that 
 if you want a dinner, ' ' he said. 
 
 Then his eyes followed the quarry. 
 
 ''Good luck to the little un!" he added. 
 
 The man's heart was accurately revealed in this atti- 
 tude to pursuer and pursued. He could find it in him to 
 view both with friendliness and sympathy. 
 
 His thoughts turned inward again, lighted by the inci- 
 dent. 
 
 Again he laughed to himself, drew a pipe from his 
 pocket and wiped his head, which was hot from long 
 basking in the sun. 
 
 "Hope I shan't strike and miss, like thicky criss- 
 hawk!" he thought. 
 
 He smoked, and his mind mirrored a fellow creature. 
 He saw a sturdy, strongly built girl of two-and-twenty.
 
 6 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 clad in earth-colours — a Moor woman whose features 
 were regular, whose dark grey eyes were bright, whose 
 hair was black, whose bosom was deep and large. She 
 had no great beauty in his opinion; but she possessed 
 what he lacked, and he had thought of her as a wife. 
 
 "Unity!" he said out loud, and stretched in the hot 
 heather and felt the sun burn. "A brave name that. 
 'Unity Crymes'; but 'Unity Ouldsbroom' come she 
 takes me. ' ' 
 
 His thoughts rambled backward; he looked at a black 
 band on his coat and remembered a hawk that had struck 
 and not missed. 
 
 ' ' Too old, some might say — too old for a wench in her 
 early twenties; but none who knows me. Forty — what's 
 forty to the likes of me? Forty years wise and twenty 
 years old — that 's what I be. " 
 
 This man's widowed father had recently died and left 
 him lonely. He dwelt at Hartland Farm above the ham- 
 let of Postbridge, and upon his parent's passing became 
 the owner of that tenement. 
 
 "The old chap was seventy-eight, barring two days, 
 when he dropped," thought Philip — "and he died a boy. 
 At least, that's how Barbara put it. And me — why, 
 she'd say I wasn't old enough to marry!" 
 
 After a gap in his thoughts, he rose suddenly. 
 
 "Talking of Barbara — I'll go and see her. 'Tis the 
 middle time of day, and the shop 's like to be empty. ' ' 
 
 He shook himself and strode off down the ferny slope 
 above his home, where it stood at the foot of the tor. 
 To the valley he went, passed beside Dart, crossed the 
 bridge and entered a low, slate-roofed and whitewashed 
 house close at hand. 
 
 Here a department of the State had local habitation, 
 and the business of the Post Office was pursued through 
 that strange odour only to be smelled in such little gen- 
 eral shops as Barbara Hext controlled at Postbridge. 
 
 At one end of the counter, behind an open wire grille, 
 was the postal apparatus of ink-bottles, pens, red blot- 
 ting-paper and the rest. Advertisements and announce- 
 ments hung here, and an unusual air of neatness and
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 7 
 
 briskness characterised the place. Even to the tele- 
 graphic forms and the pencil fastened to a string beside 
 them, all was tidy and trim. 
 
 The shop counter spread from this sanctity, and here, 
 too, there lacked the usual confusion of mingled goods. 
 Everything proper to such a place appeared ; but every- 
 thing was orderly. Tubs of lard and butter, sides of 
 bacon, sections of cheese, tins of sugar, raisins and tea, 
 boxes of chocolates and bottles of sweets came in the first 
 department. With them other comestibles were ranged, 
 and then a barrier separated the next division, and one 
 turned to china, ornamental and useful, saucepans, 
 mouse-traps, oil cans, tools, string, knives, ditchers' gloves 
 and sickles, various contrivances such as corkscrews and 
 beer-taps on cards, wire nails, and countless other prac- 
 tical matters. Beyond again were woollen and cotton 
 goods, men's braces and women's sun-bonnets, together 
 with children's garments and the rough raiment in de- 
 mand on Dartmoor. 
 
 The mingled odours of these things hung in the air; 
 but even that was modified by their skilful distribution. 
 A suggestion of ample accommodation implied by so 
 much variety, in reality did not embrace it. The shop 
 was very small, yet so perfect and systematic were the 
 arrangements, that the mistress of it was never in a 
 hurry and never at a loss. On a large card that extended 
 half the length of the shop, were these words, '7/ you 
 don't see what you want, ask for it.' 
 
 The mistress of this establishment was called Barbara 
 Hext. She came of old Postbridge stock, but had lived 
 a part of her life in London and elsewhere. Scandals 
 were rumoured concerning her past, but her wits none 
 questioned, and when she returned to her native village 
 as a peace-loving, still handsome woman of fifty-five; 
 when she succeeded the retiring postmaster and opened 
 a little shop, she was well received and no questions asked 
 concerning her career. Many liked and a few disliked 
 her, but none doubted her sense or the value of her opin- 
 ions, even though they ran counter to the accepted, 
 seasoned wisdom of the village.
 
 8 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 She sat now eating a sandwich of bread-and-cheese be- 
 hind her counter, and casting figures in a long narrow 
 ledger. Her face was furrowed somewhat at the cheeks, 
 but her eyes were beautiful ; her mouth possessed the firm, 
 full lines and fine colour of a young woman 's ; her hair 
 was only streaked with grey, and she wore a plain stuff 
 dress over a neat and bird-like figure. The fascination of 
 sex still strongly marked her, and many a man of middle 
 age had begged her to share his life. 
 
 There entered now Philip Ouldsbroom, a jovial and 
 Dionysian spirit. He was fair and flaxen, with crisp, 
 sand-coloured hair. He shaved his ruddy face clean and 
 displayed a full throat, that went without a collar as 
 often as possible. His teeth were white and perfect; his 
 mouth was large and easy, and readier to expand than 
 tighten. His fine limbs were clad carelessly in worn gar- 
 ments. Though forty years old, the man's heart was 
 younger, and his trust was fuller than often happens at 
 that turning-point. He was the only son of parents who 
 had not married until somewhat late in life. An untrou- 
 bled, prosperous existence had fallen to him, and he sel- 
 dom looked ahead of the passing hour. But now, his aged 
 father dying suddenly, he was turned from his revels and 
 playthings to the reality of mastership. He liked women 
 well, but with a regard very general until now. They too 
 were fond of him and spoiled him. He was often on their 
 tongues. At present not a few wondered where his choice 
 of a wife would faU; for the time was come. Oulds- 
 broom indeed wanted a wife, and he knew the girl most 
 likely to please him. 
 
 "Can I have a tell, Barbara?" he asked. "I thought 
 I'd very likely catch you alone." 
 
 *'And welcome. But put your pipe out first — I won't 
 have smoking here — not when I can prevent it, ' ' 
 
 He obeyed her, took a chair, turned its back to the 
 counter and straddled his legs across it. A dog came up 
 and greeted him with effusion. It was a liver-coloured 
 spaniel and belonged to Miss Hext. 
 
 Philip helped himself to biscuits from an open tin and 
 began to talk with his mouth full.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 9 
 
 ** 'Tis like this — I never was fond of putting all my 
 eggs in one basket. ' ' 
 
 " So I 've heard the women say, ' ' she answered drily. 
 
 "Bless 'em! But here I am — husband old; and I 
 want a wife. ' ' 
 
 She looked at him and took off a pair of spectacles. 
 
 With her glasses Miss Hext appeared to cast aside not 
 a few years also. 
 
 *'A wife, Philip?" 
 
 "And why not? I must have somebody to leave my 
 farm to. And 'tis time I set about thinking on him. I 
 talk plain to you, because you're the sensiblest female in 
 these parts." 
 
 "Might be that and not very witty. Well, who's the 
 poor woman ? ' ' 
 
 Miss Hext's spaniel was sitting up with her eyes on 
 Ouldsbroom — the image of patience but determined 
 mendicity. 
 
 "You beauty!" he said, and stooped down and rubbed 
 his cheek against her muzzle. Then he gave her a biscuit. 
 
 * ' The very dogs see through you. ' ' 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 * ' Let 'em. Well, what d 'you say to Unity Crymes ? ' ' 
 
 Barbara did not answer, and he helped himself again. 
 
 * * Those biscuits are for sale, ' ' she said. 
 
 "You're a dear woman, and the loveliest eyes on Dart- 
 moor still," he declared irrelevantly. "But Unity?" 
 
 "You say Unity; I say Henry Birdwood." 
 
 "Damn Henry Birdwood! 'Tis idle talk, for I asked 
 her brother a week ago and he knew nought of it. At 
 least he only said there might be something in it. They'm 
 all Methodies together ; and Unity and young Birdwood 
 meet in that psalm-smiting hole up the village and shout 
 from the same hymn-book — that's all." 
 
 ' * You know you 're lying. ' ' 
 
 He grew hot and his face turned a shade redder. He 
 clenched his fist and banged it on the counter. 
 
 "There's nothing in it, I tell you; and if there is? 
 Him a shepherd and nought to hope for and nought 
 saved; and me — a solid man with a farm of my own."
 
 10 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "And forty to his twenty-five." 
 
 * ' What then ? 'Tis fair fighting, Barbara ; and if she*s 
 the woman I think, she'll know which side her bread's 
 buttered." 
 
 Miss Hext did not speak, and he went on again. 
 
 * ' D 'you like Birdwood ? — honest now. ' ' 
 
 ** That's neither here nor there." 
 
 "You know you hate aU Methodies. And Unity — I'll 
 soon stop that tomfoolery when I've got her." 
 
 "Think twice," she said; "though I'm a fool to tell a 
 man to think twice who so seldom thinks at alL Don't 
 you offer to marry Unity Crymes. ' ' 
 
 "Why d 'you say that?" 
 
 "Because she's the sort will throw over the other and 
 take you; and he's the sort " 
 
 "Stop!" he shouted out. "You're aU wrong and out 
 of bias every way. How can she throw over the man 
 afore they'm tokened? Don't I tell you he's nought to 
 her?" 
 
 "Yes, you tell me so, you silly chap; but what do you 
 know about it? Do the men and maidens give you all 
 their secrets? If they are tokened, does it follow they've 
 let all the world know it ? They are the silent, sly sort — 
 both of 'em; and they'U doubtless agree to wait a bit till 
 his prospects better " 
 
 He was tramping up and down with his blue eyes 
 sulked over by yellow eyebrows. 
 
 "You're wrong; you're wrong," he said. Then a 
 thought struck him. "Anyway, if I offer and she's 
 tokened to t'other, she'll have to tell me so." 
 
 "And then what? Then, because you can't have her, 
 you'll raise heaven and earth and fall out with Birdwood 
 and make a lot of silly trouble." 
 
 "I will have her if I'm minded to it!" 
 
 * ' If you could have her for the asking — and I dare say 
 you can, whether she's promised the other man or not — 
 still, I'd say you were terrible mistaken." 
 
 "Why — why? What folly to talk to a grown man as 
 if he was a boy. ' ' 
 
 * * 'Tis worse to talk to a boy as if he was a man. But
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 11 
 
 I'm thinking of her, not you. You're not the husband 
 for her." 
 
 There came an interruption; a pony clattered to the 
 door and a man dismounted. The beast was rough, its 
 rider was rougher. He wore scanty, sun-tanned clothes 
 fretted to holes and rags ; his hat was green with age and 
 battered ; his shirt was also tattered and scarcely covered 
 his bosom. Upon one boot he carried a spur. 
 
 ' ' Talk of the devil and you 11 see his man, ' ' said Philip. 
 "Here's Ned Sleep, from Teign Head." 
 
 The newcomer entered, pushed back his hat, and with- 
 out speech brought out a red handkerchief and began to 
 untie a knot in the corner of it. He was grizzled and thin 
 as a winter hedge. His teeth were broken; his cheek- 
 bones thrust forth above the bush of his black beard, 
 and his small eyes were also obscured by the long hairs 
 that hung over from his eyebrows. Forehead he had 
 scarcely any, and black hair descended to within an inch 
 of his brows. 
 
 "And how is it with you, Sleep?" asked Ouldsbroom. 
 But the man made no answer. He untied the laiot in his 
 handkerchief and produced a coin. 
 
 "What can I do for you, Mr. Sleep?" inquired the 
 postmistress. 
 
 The customer debated the question with a certain 
 furtive caution. It was half a minute before he an- 
 swered ; and then in a hoarse voice he spoke. 
 
 "Penny stamp," he said, and put down his penny. 
 
 Philip laughed. 
 
 "And have 'e ridden all the ways from Teign Head 
 for that?" he asked. 
 
 Again Mr, Sleep weighed his answer with prolonged 
 caution, but at length replied. 
 
 ' ' For that, ' ' he said, like an echo. 
 
 "And how's Henry Birdwood?" asked the master of 
 Hartland. 
 
 Mr. Sleep took his stamp, tied it up in the handker- 
 chief, and prepared to depart. 
 
 "Give the man a drink of cider, Barbara," directed 
 Ouldsbroom. ' ' Wilt have a drink, Ned ? ' '
 
 12 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Sleep reflected ; but the answer was long in coming. 
 
 "Thank you — 'tis drowthy weather," he answered. 
 
 "And draw me a mug too; there's a dear soul. I've 
 ate your biscuits till I be so dry as an old bone. ' ' 
 
 "While Miss Hext obeyed, Philip asked another question. 
 
 "And what for do you want a stamp, Ned? I didn't 
 know writing was in your line." 
 
 The Moor-man looked round doubtfully, and, after 
 private consideration, drew a newspaper from his pocket. 
 
 "One of they fishing gentlemen left it on the river," 
 he said very slowly. ' ' And I come by it. And I read it. ' ' 
 
 He stopped, weary of words, and called Ouldsbroom's 
 attention to an advertisement. 
 
 "'Shepherd wanted — no incumbrances,'" began 
 Philip. Then he read on to himself. 
 
 Miss Hext returned with two pint mugs of cider upon 
 a tray. 
 
 "Ned here's going to leave Teign Head," began the 
 farmer ; but Mr. Sleep put up his hand in deprecation. 
 
 ' ' I don 't say that — only — well — there 'tis : eighteen 
 shillings a week. ' ' 
 
 ' ' And don 't Gregory Twigg give you that ? ' ' 
 
 The other shook his head. 
 
 "Be damned if I'd stop an hour," swore Ouldsbroom. 
 
 * ' Does he laiow you think to leave him, Ned ? ' ' 
 
 Sleep drank half his cider and the others talked to- 
 gether. Then, when the postmistress had forgotten her 
 question, he answered it. 
 
 "I showed him the paper." 
 
 "And what did he say?" 
 
 ' ' He said — he said 'twas a free country — no more. ' ' 
 
 "Free!" scoffed Miss Hext. "Even Twigg knows 
 that's a lie. Show me a free man." 
 
 Mr. Sleep shook his head. 
 
 "Freedom's a very dangerous thing, ma'am," he said. 
 "For my part I wouldn't trust it. I ban't wishful to 
 feel what 'tis like, I 'm sure. Still, I 've a right to lift my 
 eye to eighteen shillings." 
 
 "This paper's three weeks old, however," .said Philip. 
 
 Sleep drank the rest of his cider and nodded while he
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 13 
 
 did so. Then, when he had wiped his mouth on his neck- 
 kerchief, he replied : 
 
 " 'Twas but two days old when I corned by it; but a 
 man doesn't change his state of life without a power of 
 thought. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Bah ! You ought to have been a toad in a hole, ' ' said 
 the farmer. ' ' Get along with you ! ' ' 
 
 Ned without more words put his paper back in his 
 pocket and prepared to depart, but when he had reached 
 the door, he returned, lifted his boot on a box and re- 
 moved his solitary spur. Then he put it upon the other 
 boot. 
 
 "I kicked pony on left side coming down," he ex- 
 plained; "but I'll kick un 'pon right side going back." 
 
 "A fair-minded fool," laughed Ouldsbroom. "And you 
 
 can tell Birdwood " he broke off while Ned stood still. 
 
 ' ' 'Tis no odds, ' ' concluded Philip. " I '11 tell him myself. ' ' 
 
 "And what were you going to tell him?" asked Bar- 
 bara when the horseman had ridden away. 
 
 "Why — just to keep his paws off Unity Crymes; but 
 then I thought I 'd do wiser to see her first. ' ' 
 
 "A very clever thought for certain." 
 
 "And what was you going to tell me against her?" 
 he asked suddenly. "You'd got something to say when 
 that zany come in and threw it out of your head. ' ' 
 
 "As well he did belike. You mind your own business, 
 Philip, and I'll mind mine." 
 
 ■ ' Mine 's simple. I 'm going up to Stannon this instant 
 moment. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Mine 's simple too. You owe me twopence for cider. ' ' 
 
 He paid her and then challenged her. 
 
 ' ' Look here now : I '11 bet you a side of bacon to three 
 of them big boxes of chocolate that Unity Crymes will be 
 tokened to me this time to-morrow. And, if I win, she 
 shall have the sweeties to-morrow night, and if I lose, 
 you shall have the bacon afore Michaelmas. ' ' 
 
 She declined the wager. 
 
 "I'm more like to lose than win," she answered. 
 
 "Ha-ha!" he crowed; "that's a pretty good compli- 
 ment to me, Barbara."
 
 14 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ''It may be; but 'tis a pretty poor one to the woman. 
 Just think of that. If she refuses you, then she 's a better 
 piece than I take her for; and if she don't — the Lord 
 help you ! ' ' 
 
 "The stuif even a wise creature can talk! D'you 
 think I don't know all about her and her sense and 
 cleverness ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' You know all about a woman ! ' ' she answered. 
 "That bitch knows more about 'em than you do — or 
 ever will. ' ' 
 
 The spaniel wagged her tail and cringed to his hand. 
 
 "Will you dance at the wedding, whether or no?" 
 asked Philip. 
 
 Some children entered the shop, and the farmer, diving 
 in his pocket, found three halfpence for them, called 
 them by their names, picked up a very small boy, set him 
 high aloft on an empty shelf and then went off. The 
 children shouted with laughter, and Miss Hext had to 
 fetch a pair of steps before she could rescue the baby 
 from his perch.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Certain tenement farms of Dartmoor lie in the rich 
 regions about East Dart, and save where the Duchy of 
 Cornwall has acquired them, they continue to be free- 
 holds independent of the surrounding Forest. 
 
 Hartland's most ancient walls still rise under the tor 
 that names them, and beneath, as the vale opens south- 
 ward, stand the snug and clustered homesteads of Lower 
 Merripit; Runnage, risen from its ashes with fine, dawn- 
 facing front; the ruin of Walna; Dury in the mire — 
 black and white behind its oaken grove; Peshull's three, 
 massive dwellings, their mediaeval walls in places five feet 
 thick. With this venerable abode and Hartland, the ad- 
 jacent Bellaford's deep-eaved homesteads vie in age; and 
 lower yet, where Dart approaches her sister stream from 
 the west, stand the old mill of Babenay, Redden, not far 
 distant, and Brimpts upon the river's western bank. 
 
 Under ancient laws the heirs of these old-time tene- 
 ments, or those who might purchase the inheritance of 
 them, were at liberty to enclose eight further acres of the 
 waste upon payment of an annual shilling for the use of 
 the reigning monarch. These additional acres were called 
 'the newtake'; and as a result of the privilege, there 
 sprang up an order of enclosed lands with dwelling- 
 houses upon them. Such extensions have in process of 
 time become farms on their own account, and we find 
 now, in addition to the homesteads mentioned above, not 
 a few centres of husbandry sprung from them. Of these 
 may be named Higher Merripit and Stannon, near Post- 
 bridge ; Bellaf ord Combe and Laughtor Hole in the great 
 valley below. 
 
 15
 
 16 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Another group of tenements shall be found nigh West 
 Dart; but our concern is with a few of those already 
 mentioned. 
 
 To Stannon farm, beneath the hill of that name, Philip 
 Ouldsbroom now turned his steps, tramped the modern 
 thoroughfare of the i\Ioor for a space, then left it half way 
 up Merripit Hill and struck out northerly over the heather. 
 
 Presently, far beneath him, appeared the little farm. 
 
 Seen from these lofty slopes, where they extend and 
 form a giant easel for sunset to paint upon, little Stannon 
 lay under its parent hill amid small crofts. The home- 
 stead looked like a grey hen with wings outspread above 
 her chickens, for the walls sloped to right and left of 
 the main mass in a manner simple and symmetrical. 
 Dwarfed to a spot appeared the farm under the tor that 
 swept to the sky above it. A brook wound beneath and 
 descended from its cradle of rushes upon White Ridge. 
 Its fountains glittered in a lace of silver that, crossing 
 and recrossing, w^ove patterns upon the hill, then tumbled 
 into one channel and began their work by carrying sweet 
 water to Stannon. 
 
 To the south, below the farm, the valley opened and 
 wound toward Postbridge through marshy bottoms of 
 mire and scrub. But the birch and alder that aforetime 
 flourished here are gone, though often a turf-cutter digs 
 their ghostly limbs, still cased in silvery bark, from 
 guardianship of the prophylactic peat. 
 
 Ouldsbroom descended the hill, fell into a rutted road 
 that woimd to the farm, crossed the brook and opened 
 the wicket. He made no ado at the door, but entered to 
 find the folk of Stannon at their dinner. Four people 
 sat beside the table and consumed the second course of 
 their meal — suet pudding with treacle. 
 
 Quinton Crymes was a thin, brown man of thirty ; but 
 the robust and ruddy Gertrude, his wife, numbered sev- 
 eral years less. They had been married a year, and she 
 was with child. Unity Crymes, the farmer's sister, and 
 his labourer, one James Coaker, completed the house- 
 hold. The girl was clad in colours that had once been 
 bright, but were now faded into dingy harmony. Green,
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 17 
 
 blue and grey were felt as tones of her raiment; yet so 
 modified and stained had they become, that she might 
 have passed unperceived among the stones, dead heath, 
 and fading brake fern of the waste. Her dark hair was 
 rough, her skirt was short, and her legs sturdy. Her full 
 figure suggested maternity, her face was not unhand- 
 some, largely modelled, and strong. She was a creature 
 indigenous to the Moor as rock or fern. She could read 
 and write ; she possessed great decision of character and 
 a secretive mind. Will power had run through the 
 woman-mould in her family. The men were feebler and 
 their wives generally ruled them. Two elder brothers 
 and two elder sisters she had; but none save Quinton 
 offered her a home. One of her sisters was married to a 
 huckster at Chagford ; the other was in service at Exeter. 
 The head of the family, John Crymes, worked in the 
 granite quarries nigh Princetown and lived there with 
 his wife and children; while to Quinton the farm of 
 Stannon had descended from his grandfather. Unity 
 abode here for the present, but Mrs. Crymes indicated 
 that space at Stannon would be precious anon. 'When 
 my third comes,' she said with prophetic assurance, 
 'her '11 have to go.' 
 
 It seemed probable, however, that Unity might find a 
 home of her own before that event. The shepherd, Henry 
 Birdwood, was courting her, and albeit she kept her own 
 counsel in a manner very steadfast, Quinton and his 
 wife both guessed that their neighbour from Teign Head 
 would be the man. The farmer marvelled that such a 
 good-looking youth as Birdwood could think twice of a 
 woman in whom his fraternal eyes saw nothing; but he 
 was none the less glad; and he and his wife did what 
 they could to further the match. 
 
 "Pick a bit with us, Ouldsbroom," said Quinton. 
 " 'Tis a longful time since you was over here." 
 
 "I'll drink, if Unity will fetch me a mug," said the 
 visitor. ' ' Then, if she 's done her meat, I want to speak 
 to her." 
 
 Everybody was well used to Philip 's direct and abrupt 
 methods. Though a man who hated business, he was,
 
 18 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 by this accident of impatience, not a bad business man. 
 His nature took him to the root of things. In love, in 
 work, in pleasure, in pain, he went to the point by the 
 shortest road he could find. Nevertheless, this attitude 
 to life did not prevent him from wasting the greater part 
 of his time ; but when something was to do, he did it with 
 the utmost expedition ; delay was suffocation to him a,nd 
 patience a virtue beyond his temperamental powers to 
 practise. 
 
 His demand to speak with Unity surprised nobody, 
 therefore. The families were old friends and had inter- 
 married in a past generation. 
 
 Philip drank, uttered a few vague speeches, hoped that 
 all was well with his neighbours, and exhibited uncon- 
 cealed impatience. But Unity made no haste. She 
 smiled out of her dark grey eyes at her sister-in-law when 
 the visitor arose and strode to the window ; then she took 
 some more of the pudding. 
 
 Ouldsbroom ceased to speak, but gave off a vigorous 
 puff or two and, at last, sitting down again, began strik- 
 ing his leathern leggings with his stick. 
 
 Quinton whispered under his breath to his sister. 
 
 ' ' Get on ! Don 't keep the man waiting ! ' ' 
 
 Still she took no notice. 
 
 Then the master of Stannon strove to make conver- 
 sation. 
 
 ' ' Foxes be plenty for the hunters this autumn, Oulds- 
 broom. ' ' 
 
 "Ess fay — and geese will be few," said his wife 
 feelingly. ''Another of my fine goslings gone. The 
 bowldacious varmints come down over in broad daylight. 
 Unity seed one lying watchin 'em, like a rich man watches 
 his money, didn't you, Unity?" 
 
 ' ' Yes, I did, ' ' said the girl. Then she drank some water, 
 wiped her mouth on the fall of the table-cloth, and rose. 
 
 " I 'm ready now, Mr. Philip, ' ' she said. 
 
 "Come on then," he answered, starting up. "Best to 
 get your sun-bonnet. ' ' 
 
 "No, I don't want it. The sun can't come through my 
 hair."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 19 
 
 He looked at her admiringly — her heavy locks curled 
 neatly up, her clean-turned brown face, her firm mouth, 
 and her big bosom. 
 
 They went out together, and Gertrude wondered what 
 fancy was got into Ouldsbroom 's head. 
 
 "He've always been friendly enough to her — and to 
 everything personable in a petticoat, for that matter. It 
 surely can't be that he cares a jot about her?" she asked. 
 
 Quinton shook his head. 
 
 " 'Tis beyond reason. I can't picture the man mar- 
 ried. And yet like enough now his father's gone Of 
 
 course 'twould be a terrible fine thing, ' ' he mused. 
 
 "Don't fancy such nonsense," answered the woman. 
 " 'Twould be terrible fine, as you say, but terrible fine 
 things don't happen in your family. Besides, we know 
 very well she 's so good as promised to Henry Birdwood. ' ' 
 
 Meantime Philip and the girl left Stannon. 
 
 * ' Come as far as the sheepf old, ' ' he said. ' ' 'Tis out of 
 the way and a nice bit of shade in the ruin. ' ' 
 
 She laughed and did not guess his purpose, 
 
 "Lord love it!" she cried; "don't travel so fast, I've 
 just had my dinner. ' ' 
 
 He stayed his speed. 
 
 "To think — to — think " he began. "How old are 
 
 you — twenty- two — eh ? ' ' 
 
 "Twenty-two last month." 
 
 ' * And I never gived you a gift. ' ' 
 
 "Why should you?" 
 
 "I'm forty." 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 "Well, 'tis so, unless the front leaf of our old Bible's 
 a liar. Forty ; but don 't feel it, or anything near it. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Nor look it, I 'm sure. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Glad to hear you say that. ' ' 
 
 "You've worn well." 
 
 * ' Ess, I have — along of being in the open air and keep- 
 ing an open mind. I often go at this time of year and 
 sleep up in the hills — just for love of the wakening. I've 
 got holts like the foxes up-along. I'll show 'em to you 
 some day."
 
 20 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 He rambled on and she still wondered. 
 
 "D'you know what I'd like to happen best in the 
 world ? " he asked suddenly. 
 
 "How should I?" 
 
 "Why!" he burst out, "for me and you to sleep all 
 night together in my den up under Cut Hill !" 
 
 ' ' Be you out of your mind ? ' ' 
 
 "Not I. My mind's made up firm as a rock; and, 
 look here, damn it, I can 't wait till we get to the fold ' ' 
 
 He cast a glance round about the empty Moor, then 
 turned to her. 
 
 "Sit down 'pon this stone and listen to me. I want a 
 wife, and there 's only one woman will do. Only one. And 
 you're the woman — you — you! Don't stare as if 'twas 
 a thunderbolt. I will have it so. Unity. I've thought of 
 it time and again since father died. I love you — every bit 
 of you. I 'm well to do. You shall have a servant. Some- 
 how it's come over me with a rush these late days. It 
 must be. I'm not half good enough for such a rare fine 
 girl; but all the same it must be. It shall, I tell you." 
 
 He sat down, and she felt his heavy hand on her shoul- 
 der, pulling her beside him. Her frame grew suddenly 
 weak and limp from head to heel at this amazing pro- 
 posal. She sank near the man, then wriggled farther off 
 as he made to put his arm round her. But her nerve 
 steadied quickly. 
 
 ' ' This be too awful sudden, ' ' she said, and he saw that 
 though her voice was steady her breast was not, and her 
 colour was not. She panted and she glowed. Then she 
 grew pale and put her hand to her bosom, where these 
 sudden emotions had raised an oppression. 
 
 "Everything with any taste to it comes sudden — good 
 or bad. I'm always sudden. But I'm a good laster. 
 You won 't repent it. Proud I '11 be to fetch and carry for 
 you, Unity, and make you the first woman in Postbridge. ' ' 
 
 She did not answer, but her mind moved with swift 
 calculation and she weighed all that this must mean. Here 
 was a man very eligible in her eyes and a man easy to be 
 ruled. She had known him for five years and appraised 
 his temper very accurately. He only needed the right
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 21 
 
 hand and the light one. But the other man — the man 
 she loved — would try to rule her. She had always realised 
 this, and had fancied that to be ruled was easier than to 
 rule, and probably in the long run pleasanter; yet now 
 the new prospect thrust so fiercely before her suggested 
 that to reign over a rich man might be a finer thing than 
 to be ruled by a poor one. Roughly that was the problem 
 cast before her ; but her knowledge of Philip Ouldsbroom 
 and Henry Birdwood complicated it. 
 
 Characteristic of the woman's devious spirit was the 
 fact that one paramount condition in this problem she 
 ignored. She had promised to marry Birdwood. 
 
 "Speak"! cried Philip at length. "I can't stand this. 
 I'm burning alive! 'Tis the first time, mind — the first 
 and the last, for 'yes' I will have. Who be you — a pretty, 
 dinky chit of a cheel like you — to know better what's 
 good for you than a grown man like me? You're the 
 first — the very, very first, Unity. God strike me down 
 this minute if you ban't the only woman that I've ever 
 axed to marry me. And d'you think I've waited forty 
 year to hear ' no ' ? Not I ! There 's only one answer for 
 me, and the quicker said the sooner comes my peace 
 again. 'Tis a bargain — quick ! ' ' 
 
 "What's the bargain then?" she asked — to gain time. 
 
 "That you come to Hartland and take all I've got to 
 give you, and love me evermore through thick and thin 
 till the end of us. ' ' 
 
 * ' You '11 want somebody to look after your money ? ' ' 
 
 "The money looks after itself. I want somebody to 
 look after me. I want you — only you. Will you come? 
 I wish you could come now this minute. ' ' 
 
 Her self-contained nature withstood these shocks. A 
 mile off in the valley she saw a man slowly pushing for- 
 ward on a pony. Before him drifted half a hundred 
 sheep. Philip 's back was turned to the rider. 
 
 ' ' You must give me time, ' ' she said. 
 
 "Why — why — what d'you want time for? Time was 
 made for slaves. 'Tis only to waste it, if you take it. 
 The answer's got to be 'yes.' I will have you, I tell 
 you. ' '
 
 22 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "Go your ways and leave me," she said. "I won't 
 keep you waiting long — I promise that; but a maiden 
 can't decide the whole of her life in a moment. 'Tisn't 
 true love to want to make her. ' ' 
 
 He flogged his legs and stamped his heels into the earth. 
 
 * ' What a nuisance that you can 't see it and feel it like 
 me. A toad under a harroAV I shall be till you say ' yes. ' ' ' 
 
 "I'll make up my mind so swift as I can." 
 
 "I'll come over to-night then." 
 
 "That's too soon, Mr. Philip." 
 
 "Drop that 'Mister.' I won't have it — as if I was a 
 stranger instead of your husband. To-morrow morning- 
 then ? I don 't wait an hour longer. Why, what the hell 
 d'you want to keep me on tenterhooks all these hours 
 for ? And loving me all the time, I '11 swear. ' ' 
 
 "Go now," she said. "And come back to me to-mor- 
 row, if you must. And think terrible serious about it. 
 Belike you're making a fool of yourself so well as me." 
 
 "Kiss me then!" he said. "You shall — ^you shall, or 
 I'll give you no peace. I swore when I woke this morn 
 that I 'd kiss you afore night. ' ' 
 
 "There's a man in the valley." 
 
 * ' Let him rot there ! What 's any other man in the 
 world to you but me ? ' ' 
 
 Before she could stop him he put his arms round her, 
 held her tight to him and kissed her all over her face. 
 
 ' ' To-morrow ! " he said. ' ' And now I be going to ride 
 hell for leather to Tavistock for to buy you a proper ring 
 with a proper jool in it ! " 
 
 He went off to the west, and Unity remained sitting on 
 the stone where he had left her. She put up a lock of hair 
 from her face and considered the situation. Ouldsbroom 
 was soon out of sight on his direct road to Hartland, but 
 the man behind the sheep began to get nearer. He could 
 not see her where she sat, yet she marked him clearly, 
 and noted that he hesitated at a point where two tracks 
 met and ran into each other on the way to Postbridge. 
 
 One road would have taken Henry Birdwood by Stan- 
 non and given his sheep an additional journey before he 
 reached their destined pasture ; the other road was more
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 23 
 
 direct and led onward into the Moor past the ruined 
 sheepfold a few hundred yards from Unity's present 
 position. 
 
 Birdwood took the shorter way and denied himself a 
 possible glimpse of the woman he loved. She watched 
 him and, in her mind's eye, saw him. 
 
 Her bent of spirit rather sought than evaded him at 
 this crisis. The prospect of becoming Ouldsbroom 's wife 
 was far too splendid to ignore, even before the possibility 
 of treachery to a man she liked better. But for the mo- 
 ment it struck her that some hint of events, some shadow 
 of doubt, had better be thrown as quickly as she could 
 throw it over her betrothed 's life. 
 
 The opportunity had been thrust upon her, and oppor- 
 tunity she was not made to miss. 
 
 In her heart she knew already that she meant to 
 marry Ouldsbroom. She recognised no moral side to this 
 abrupt defection. She did not love Birdwood any the 
 less. She left the details to look after themselves. Her 
 present purpose was to tackle a painful and trying neces- 
 sity before she had leisure to think any more about it. 
 She was a sort of spirit who hated time to pass between 
 her and execution of things difficult or unpleasant, and in 
 this trait she resembled the man who had just offered to 
 marry her. 
 
 Unity waited until the elder man was out of sight; 
 then she went down to the sheepfold and surprised Henry 
 Birdwood as he passed it on his way homeward.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 The ruined sheepfold stood four-square on the western 
 slope of Stannon Hill. Built nearly a hundred years ago, 
 at the time when many enthusiastic spirits discovered 
 Dartmoor and dreamed dreams of prosperity to be dug 
 from her bowels or garnered on her breast, it adds one 
 to a long list of futile enterprises and lies forlorn among 
 the hills — historic evidence that even the toil of a Scot 
 may miscarry. Down the midst run parallel rows of 
 great stones, and at the eastern extremity still stand the 
 roofless remains of a dwelling-house. The place was 
 burned down long ago ; a little girl perished in the fire ; 
 and her harmless, small, sad spectre still haunts her 
 home, according to the fable of the folk. 
 
 Hither now came Henry Birdwood, and as he passed, 
 Unity stepped from the ruin and called him. 
 
 ' ' Good luck ! " he cried, ' ' and vartue rewarded too 
 for I was in a mind to call at Stannon to win a sight of 'e 
 then I held on my shortest way for the sake of the sheep. ' 
 
 He shouted a direction to his two dogs, waved his arm 
 and indicated his purpose. They understood it, and with 
 hasty excursions to right and left, with barking and riot 
 and occasional further messages from their master, they 
 gathered the sheep into the ancient fold. Here grew 
 plenty of grass, and the flock, footsore and hot, was well 
 content to rest. Many among them crept into the shadow 
 of the broken walls and panted themselves cool; others 
 began immediately to graze; the dogs took station of 
 vantage on a knap, and there sat down and kept watch 
 with lolling tongues. 
 
 24
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 25 
 
 Henry Birdwood was a slim, wiry man of five-and- 
 twenty. No special distinction marked his features. He 
 wore a close brown beard and whiskers; his nose was 
 straight and rather finely modelled. His eyes were slate- 
 grey and his forehead high. A general, lifeless, rectitude 
 marked his days. He was the son of a wandering preacher 
 and, albeit separated by many years from parental con- 
 trol, had preserved the lessons of youth, lived a self-re- 
 specting life and practised the precepts of his father. He 
 was alone in the world, save for his parent, and now 
 worked under one of the Duchy Moormen — Mr. Gregory 
 Twigg — in the Eastern Quarter of the Forest. 
 
 The cot of Teign Head at^midmost Moor was his home, 
 and there he dwelt, alone save for the company of his 
 underling, Ned Sleep. But Henry had sociable instincts. 
 He knew the folk of Postbridge, and thither he rode twice 
 or thrice weekly. On Simday he never failed to attend 
 at the whitewashed meeting-house of the Little Baptists. 
 He was young in heart, very ignorant of life, and ardent 
 under a reticent exterior. He had fallen in love with 
 Unity, and hoped that he might be able to marry her 
 after two years. For the present they had agreed to keep 
 their betrothal a secret ; but it was an open secret in more 
 directions than one. Henry generally sat with the people 
 from Stannon at Sunday service, and shared Unity's 
 hymn-book. 
 
 In the light of his love the forms of religion had taken 
 on more colour for him; and with his betrothed beside 
 him he felt exalted in the act of praise. 
 
 Now broke a storm that was to test the strength of 
 this youth and prove whether the roots of his faith were 
 nourished on any enduring stufit; or but loosely twined 
 through conventional traditions imparted in childhood. 
 Henry had promised his father to remain a steady chapel 
 member; and he had found the promise easy enough to 
 keep. He was a methodical man and fell naturally into 
 a regular mode of living. Thus life had so far hidden 
 the realities of himself from him. 
 
 He dismounted, kissed Unity, held her with one hand 
 and stroked her cheek with the other. These endearments
 
 26 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 appeared indecent to her spirit at that moment ; but the 
 indecency lay in her own heart, not his actions. 
 
 She separated herself from him and took a plunge into 
 the facts. 
 
 ' ' Did you see Philip Ouldsbroom ? ' ' she asked. 
 
 "No— what of him?" 
 
 "He left me twenty minutes ago. Like a whirlwind 
 the man came, and went. He's just asked me to be his 
 wife, Henry." 
 
 "There!" he exclaimed. "That comes of keeping 
 secrets. I felt, somehow, 'twould have been better to let 
 everybody know the truth when we were tokened. ' ' 
 
 "No, ' ' she answered. ' ' 'Twas I felt that I wanted it to 
 be kept quiet, till we could get a little nearer to mar- 
 riage. ' ' 
 
 "Be it as 'twill, 'tis no secret really," he declared. 
 "Everybody knows it well enough — everybody but that 
 great rattle-pate. He chatters so that he's got no time 
 to listen ; and so he 's gone without this bit of news. He 
 didn't like taking 'No' for answer, I'll warrant." 
 
 She spoke, then set her teeth for the battle. 
 
 "As to that, Henry, the man didn't get 'No' for 
 answer. ' ' 
 
 ' ' What d 'you mean ? " he asked in blank astonishment. 
 
 "Be reasonable. Try to look at it all round — all round. 
 A surprise like this — I 'm a woman, not an angel. ' ' 
 
 He stared at her, and she did not drop her eyes. 
 
 ' ' You mean 1 You can 't — you can 't, Unity ! That 
 
 man — all top and no root — a blusterous, silly soul born 
 with a silver spoon in his mouth — never known to work — 
 never known to pray — never known to think. And your 
 word — your solemn word — given to me. Oh, Unity, what 
 are you saying?" 
 
 "Look at my side and understand. I love you and I 
 always shall; but 'tis no good thinking that a farm of 
 my own and such great advantages as he offers to me, are 
 nought. 'Twould be selfishness to stand between me and 
 them." 
 
 ' ' ' Selfishness ! ' ' Selfishness ' betwixt me and you ! 
 You've promised. Unity."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 27 
 
 "And because I've promised, I didn't say 'Yes* to the 
 man. I love you — mind that. "Whatever betide I always 
 shall. But I want you to let me off marrying you." 
 
 "You barefaced wretch!" he cried out. "You can 
 look me cool and calm in the face and say that ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' That I can. Truth 's truth, ugly as it may look to you. 
 I swear afore God this minute that I care for you. All 
 the same, I want to marry Philip Ouldsbroom. That's 
 how 'tis, and I dare say 'tis terrible strange; but it's 
 true." 
 
 Henry walked from her and took a turn up and down 
 the sheepfold with his hands behind him and his eyes on 
 the earth. She sat and watched him. She had spoken 
 truth as it appeared to her at that moment. She had 
 weighed the aspects of Birdwood on the one side and 
 Hartland on the other. There lay the choice: between 
 a man and a farm, not between one man and another. 
 The slight passion in her went out to the shepherd; the 
 foresight in her yearned for Hartland and comfort and 
 power. Philip Ouldsbroom himself did not much affect 
 the argument. 
 
 Birdwood came slowly back to her. He had grown 
 calm. He even smiled. 
 
 "I'm sorry I used coarse words," he said. "After all 
 that we 've been to each other, 'tis a pity to have done it. 
 Even such a clever girl as my Unity can get bewitched, 
 it seems. And who can't when money's the matter? 
 Of course 'twas a natural thing. To have Hartland flung 
 in your lap — a startler. But I know you better than you 
 know yourself. Yes, I do. Unity. Cool down, and you '11 
 find that the farm will soon look very small against the 
 love we have got for each other." 
 
 "No," she said stubbornly. " 'Tis not a bit of good 
 talking like that, Henry, and I won't leave it there. I 
 want you to let me be free. I must be free. I'm in 
 earnest, and I'm cruel cool. Call me all the names you 
 can lay your tongue to. I wish you would. I ask you to 
 free me once for all. ' ' 
 
 "And you'll blush to think you've asked such a thing, 
 when night comes and you go on your knees. ' '
 
 28 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "I blush to think it now," she said. "But I don't go 
 back on it. I shan't change." 
 
 Silence fell for a moment between them. Then he 
 spoke again. 
 
 "I won't release you. Because you're mad — that's no 
 reason why I should be. We're to be wed in the sight of 
 God. I've promised, and I won't change. You don't 
 know what you're doing or dreaming about. I'll go — to 
 Ouldsbroom — this moment. ' ' 
 
 "You'll be too late. He's riding to Tavistock." 
 
 "I shall catch him if I gallop for it." 
 
 Then he mounted and turned to his dogs. 
 
 "Bide there — watch!" he shouted to them, and they 
 obeyed. 
 
 Without speaking to Unity again he trotted off, and 
 such was his speed that he reached Ouldsbroom 's home 
 but a few moments after the master had arrived. 
 
 Hartland's ancient fabric stood with white front and 
 roof of thatch among the high-climbing hills by Dart. A 
 squat chimney rose at each end, and the thatch was 
 drawn down over the deep porch. The small windows 
 glimmered from heavy embrasures; the farmyard ex- 
 tended before the door; and at the entrance was a thick, 
 clean mat of red fern. From within came the chirrup of 
 chickens that had run through the opeway and were 
 pecking up crumbs on the blue stone floor of the kitchen. 
 A few garden plants — ribes and a wind- worn lilac — made 
 shift to live under the windows of Hartland, and the beds 
 that contained them were separated from the rough pave- 
 ment of the yard by a wall. Behind the homestead sloped 
 a furze-clad hill to granite peaks and ledges, while be- 
 neath twinkled Dart, winding through Postbridge and 
 onward under Lakehead Hill. 
 
 Ouldsbroom heard the shepherd arrive and, as Henry 
 dismounted, came out to meet him. He carried a hunk of 
 bread-and-cheese in his hand, and his mouth was full. 
 
 ' ' The very man I wanted to see, ' ' he declared. ' ' Come 
 in and have a drop of beer." 
 
 Birdwood refused, nor did he take the hand offered to 
 him.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 29 
 
 "I've just left my sweetheart, Unity Crymes, " he 
 answered. 
 
 ' ' Have you ? So much the better ! "Well, 'tis in a nut- 
 shell — a free world and I mean to marry her. ' ' 
 
 "You don't see what you're saying, Ouldsbroom. 
 Can't you understand English ? "We 're tokened. ' ' 
 
 "Then let's come to it hammer and tongs! 'Tokening' 
 — what's that? Ban't mind of man or woman free to 
 change? Marriage is different. I'm honest as any man, 
 and marriage is marriage. But 'tokening' — 'tis no more 
 than a word. To-morrow I'll be tokened to her — ^yes, by 
 God ! I will. The battle 's to the strong, Henry. I 'm no 
 enemy to you or another; but I want that woman, and 
 I'll have her if fighting can get her." 
 
 "You ought to have come to it sooner. Too late 
 now. ' ' 
 
 "Don't you say that. 'Tis never too late this side 'o 
 marriage. When you're at your fighting best, do your 
 fighting best and gather to you all you can out of the 
 world with both hands. That's my motto. When we go 
 down and get old, then others will come along and take 
 from us in their turn, like enough. But now's my time. 
 I 'm strong ; and I 'm up top for the minute ; and I want 
 that woman ; and I 'm going to get her — fair fighting and 
 all above board. ' ' 
 
 "You call it fair!" 
 
 ' ' Yes, I do then. And where 's your fairness in trying 
 to keep her away if she likes me best?" 
 
 "Yow/ She's just this moment told me she loves me. 
 Told me since she saw you. ' ' 
 
 " I '11 not hear that, ' ' declared Philip. ' ' The news have 
 come on her a trifle sudden. I don't ax her to do what's 
 not possible. I'm a reasonable creature. She's larned 
 in secret to be fond of you. Well, now she'll larn openly 
 to be fond of me. As a man I'm so good as you, though 
 no chapel member, and I 'm a long sight better than you 
 as a husband, because I 've more to offer than you. ]\Iind 
 this : there's nothing against you. I like you well enough 
 and your master — that peacock, Gregory Twigg — can 
 testify that I do. But, in a word, we've run on to the
 
 30 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 same hare, and I shall bring her down and win the course 
 as sure as death. ' ' 
 
 "Don't you see the right and wrong side of using your 
 riches against a poor man to steal the only treasure in the 
 world he 's managed to get ? ' ' 
 
 "Eight or wrong don't come in. I'm hunger-starved 
 for a woman — for that woman, and only that woman. 
 I'm like a lion I seed in the beast show to Plymouth — • 
 running up and down dribbling at the mouth because he 
 knowed the hour for his food was come. What's right 
 and wrong to the himgry and thirsty ? They make their 
 own. They must drink and eat at any cost, and you can 
 talk of how they came by their victuals after. I don't 
 care a curse about right and wrong — dirty little silly 
 words, both of 'em. My right is to marry Unity Crymes, 
 and I'm going to do it." 
 
 "And I say you shall not!" 
 
 "That's better! Now we're on solid ground. I tell 
 you again that I've nought against you, more than the 
 wheel have against the stone it rolls over. But don 't come 
 in the way. Your servant, Birdwood — your servant in 
 everything but that ; but I '11 fight a thousand men your 
 size for her; — fight 'em and beat 'em all. So now you 
 know. ' ' 
 
 "You couldn't if she was against you." 
 
 "She's not against me. I defy her to be against me. 
 And if she's my side — that ends it." 
 
 ' ' She 's got a soul and knows right from wrong, if you 
 don't." 
 
 "Right and wrong won't help you — preaching won't 
 help you — no more than it ever helped anybody when 
 they was after a female. The thing's got to be." He 
 moved toward his stable, and Birdwood followed him. 
 
 "This won't come to good, Ouldsbroom. I urge you to 
 think again. Don't influence a young girl by dangling 
 your home and your money afore her eyes. Think of 
 t'other side. Even if she's weak enough to fling over 
 justice and truth to her word for what you can offer — 
 don't you see — don't you see you'll never be happy on 
 such terms ? ' '
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 31 
 
 "Hold off psalm-smiting, I tell you! I've got no use 
 for it. Comfort yourself, if you please, by cursing money 
 and the power of it. 'Tis good enough for me ; and when 
 you come to have two hundred pound a year like me, 
 you '11 tell different. I 'm going to Tavistock now, to buy 
 the woman a ring for her wedding finger. ' ' 
 
 "You'll mourn this day's work to your dying hour. 
 Stamp and bluster as you will, you must mourn it; and 
 you know you must. Laugh at right and wrong — call 
 'em dirty little words. Perhaps they are. But wait and 
 see what's bred out of 'em. Suffering and torture ban't 
 dirty little Avords, anyway; and that you'll live to know 
 so sure as you take that woman from her right and lawful 
 man. Torture — torture — that's what you're breeding for 
 yourself, and the last sting of it will be to know that you 
 deserved it all. ' ' 
 
 Ouldsbroom had brought a big horse out of the stable, 
 and now he saddled it and laughed at the other 's words. 
 
 "You'm thrown away at Teign Head, Henry. You 
 ought to have followed your father and gone preaching. 
 Words come out of you like feathers off a goose. But I '11 
 take all the future can do, very well content for the good 
 of the present. Only a fool's 'feared of the future. 'Tis 
 a hollow turnip with a light in it to fright childer. The 
 future be the present before it gets to us; and what 
 strong man ban 't ever ready for the passing hour ? I 'm 
 bursting with life, I tell you — such a fullness of it as you, 
 though you're boy to my man, very likely will never 
 know. Enough said. I 'm sorry to the heart that I come 
 between you and that girl. 'Tis damned bad luck for 
 you ; but I can 't help it — no more than the cart can help 
 running over the mouse in the dark. None 's to blame. ' ' 
 
 "You're a liar, and you know you're a liar," answered 
 the other. He spoke quietly and it was Philip, not the 
 wronged man, who first showed anger in this conver- 
 sation. 
 
 "Steady there! No man calls me liar to my face, 
 young chap. You're the liar to say it. You snivelling 
 chapel members ban't the only honest people in the 
 world. I warn you. And now I 'm off. And fight fair —
 
 32 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 mind that. Fight fair, or you'll find me an ugly cus- 
 tomer. ' ' 
 
 He prepared to start; entered his house, changed his 
 coat, put on a collar and turned his purse out of a locked 
 desk at a corner of the kitchen. 
 
 ' ' Shall be back afore supper, ' ' he said to an old woman 
 who was busy within ; and then he took a round hat from 
 a peg in the hall and went back to his horse. 
 
 Henry Birdwood had gone, and with his departure the 
 elder become instantly amiable. 
 
 ''Poor old Henry. Us must hit on something good to 
 take the sting out of this for the man, ' ' he thought. And 
 not a small part of his reflections upon the ride to Tavi- 
 stock centred in the shepherd and how best to improve his 
 lot. But this he did not do from feeble-minded desire to 
 meet his conscience in the way and compound therewith. 
 He felt no more uneasiness than the victorious hart feels 
 when a defeated rival falls or flies. 
 
 As for the younger man, he returned dazed and bewil- 
 dered to his flock. As yet he failed to grasp the signifi- 
 cance of the last hour. Experience had never shown him 
 any such nature as this — riding, as it seemed, on a whirl- 
 wind above right and justice. For the moment Birdwood 
 suffered neither rage nor grief, but only amazement.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 On the evening of this day Barbara Hext sat alone in her 
 kitchen. The hour was late ; the girl who worked for her 
 had gone home ; her sole companion was the liver-coloured 
 spaniel called ' Sarah. ' 
 
 Miss Hext was fallen into a reverie — an accident rare 
 in her life. Things had happened in the morning to 
 throw her back upon the past. A man in the storm 
 of love had done it; and when her private hours were 
 come, instead of planning purchases for the shop, consult- 
 ing dealers' catalogues, or mending clothes, she read old 
 letters. 
 
 None knew certainly concerning her youth save that 
 she was the daughter of a dead and gone and godless 
 water-bailiff. She had lived in London with a well-born 
 man for three years; then he married, and she left him 
 and returned to the Moor. Lovers came — some for her 
 little fortune and some for herself. And once she loved 
 and promised to marry. But when she told him the truth 
 in the hour that she accepted him, he made it a condition 
 that she should give away her money to the last farth- 
 ing. She declined to do so; the match was broken off, 
 and Barbara, who had no mind to the other suitors, dis- 
 appeared again. 
 
 For ten years she worked in London as forewoman in a 
 department of a large general store. She had no more 
 lovers, and became studious and contemplative. Then, on 
 the edge of middle age, she returned to the home of her 
 childhood and set up her little shop there. The folk 
 believed that she was rich, and they knew that she was 
 kind. But her goodness had always been a matter of 
 debate. None understood her ; Nonconformists and those 
 
 33 3
 
 34 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 of the Establishment alike feared her, and feared for her. 
 Herself she was fearless and was reported to believe in 
 nothing. 
 
 Barbara read the letters, and emotion shone in her 
 eyes. She spoke aloud in a gentle, murmuring voice that 
 none at Postbridge had heard. 
 
 "No lovers like that now," she said. "No men like 
 that now neither. How wise he was, and how straight 
 with me ! Never hid the truth — never told me a lie. ' Take 
 me or leave me, ' was his word. ' Marry you I can 't ; love 
 you I will, and make your life wiser and happier I will. ' 
 'Cold-blooded,' my old father called it. What then? 
 Better be cold afore than after. I got more than I gave — 
 .sense and knowledge, and the power to look all round 
 things, and patience with the fools. You can lie down 
 again, 'Sarah.' You've heard all this afore — and only 
 you. ' ' 
 
 The dog at sound of her voice had risen and, 'with 
 reverential eyes and pendant paws,' sat up beside Bar- 
 bara's feet. Miss Hext had taught the creature thus to 
 attend when she spoke aloud, and its semblance of under- 
 standing was startling and entertaining to chance specta- 
 tors. As the postmistress sometimes said, fifty years 
 earlier such an accomplishment would have earned her 
 the horse-pond and her dog the halter — for a pair of 
 witches. 
 
 She tied up the letters and put them away; then she 
 went into the shop and fetched herself a dozen raisins and 
 a biscuit. Her supper done, she was about to retire and 
 leave 'Sarah' as usual to run free in the premises, when 
 there came the sudden thunder of a knock at the shop 
 door. 
 
 Miss Hext opened it to find a man of rather less than 
 middle height before her. His hat was off, and he was 
 mopping his head. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Twigg!" she cried. 
 
 "Yes ; no wonder you're a bit surprised to see one that 
 goes by clockwork down here at this hour. Ten 'tis — in 
 fact, a bit after ten." 
 
 "Lucky I wasn't to bed."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 35 
 
 "Very; and if you had been, I should have roused you 
 up. I want some linseed for a poultice. My daughter 
 Millicent — or Millicent Mary, as we call her — is took ill. ' ' 
 
 "Poor little maid! You're sure linseed is right?" 
 
 ''Have no fear on that score," answered Mr. Twigg. 
 ' ' I 'm a scholar, as you know, and a reader and a thinker 
 also. The ' Mother 's Guide ' is perfectly clear. In a word, 
 Millicent Mary has got the croup. My wife 's working at 
 her ; but a linseed poultice I 've ordered, and as by chance 
 all my staff's away for the minute, I had to come and 
 fetch it myself." 
 
 Gregory Twigg was inclined to be stout. He had a 
 pugnacious nose, an assertive manner, and a ridiculous 
 conceit of himself. He had gathered together some long 
 words from the newspapers and enjoyed to use them. He 
 patronised all men, and some he angered and some he 
 entertained. Vanity was the mainspring of Mr. Twigg; 
 his religion, his possessions, his importance, his wife, his 
 children, and his mental endowments were the subjects on 
 which he preferred to discourse. He conducted a small 
 public-house and kept three horses. He farmed the East 
 Quarter of the Moor from the Duchy, and employed upon 
 it a few humble men. He had come to regard himself 
 as a sort of adjunct of the overlord, and believed that 
 not a little of the prosperity of Dartmoor depended upon 
 him. He gave advice generously, but took none. He 
 resented criticism, and a joke against himself was the 
 highest offence in his eyes. He pitied the people and did 
 not regard himself as one of them. His inn, 'The "War- 
 ren House,' a mile from Postbridge, was not very pros- 
 perous, but he set the fact down to his own superior parts 
 and high level of conversation. Money was very scarce 
 with him, but he believed that none knew the fact. His 
 ostler, however, had made no secret of delayed settle- 
 ments, and few were deceived by Gregory 's affectation of 
 prosperity. 
 
 He was a Nonconformist, and a tower of strength in 
 the local circle of the Little Baptists. 
 
 Miss Hext quickly produced the linseed, but she ad- 
 vised other treatment also.
 
 36 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ' ' Have no fear, ' ' he answered. ' ' As the father of four 
 I am always prepared. And don't hesitate to send in 
 your account, Miss Hext. I never like bills to run. 
 'Ready money' is my motto, and you'll not find a 
 better." 
 
 ' ' My little bill went to you last month. ' ' 
 
 "You surprise me," he said. "But in financial opera- 
 tions on the scale — on my scale — a trifle will often get 
 overlooked. ' ' 
 
 "There's no hurry." 
 
 "Don't say that. The labourer is worthy of his hire. 
 Why should you be kept waiting? Because you don't go 
 to church or chapel — eh ? No, no ; I 'm not that sort. We 
 must each make our peace with God in our own hearts 
 —eh?" 
 
 "Better be gone," she said, "or you'll have to make 
 your peace with Mrs. Twigg. ' ' 
 
 "I never hurry. It shortens life." 
 
 "But your child's life." 
 
 "You're wrong there," he answered. "I can't leave 
 you under that mistaken idea. There is not a shadow of 
 danger. Had I seen the symptoms were dangerous, 
 I should have brought out the gig. Hullo! who is 
 this?" 
 
 A galloping horse sped over the bridge and stopped 
 beside them. It had come fast ; and as it was pulled up 
 and stretched its legs and put down its head, the sweat- 
 ing sides of it steamed in the light from Miss Hext's 
 open door. 
 
 "Good-evening!" cried the rider. "Surprised you to- 
 gether, have I ! Here 's fine news for your wife, Greg I ' ' 
 
 He shouted with laughter, and proclaimed himself to 
 be Philip Ouldsbroom. 
 
 Of all men Philip was the one that Mr. Twigg liked 
 least, so he took a swift departure. 
 
 "I shall let it be known how the patient is to-morrow," 
 he said. "Good-night; good-night, Ouldsbroom. Try and 
 not make loose jokes at your age. Your horse is over- 
 ridden. It will be ill to-morrow, or I know nothing of 
 the subject."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 37 
 
 "You don't!" replied the farmer. "Horses! You 
 drive 'em like a lady." 
 
 Twigg departed into the darkness, and Ouldsbroom got 
 down. 
 
 "Can't you find nought better than that pious pea- 
 cock to ?" 
 
 "Be off!" she said. "And he's right for once, and 
 you're wrong. Have you been trying to ride away from 
 your stupid self? You oughtn't to push your horse like 
 that." 
 
 "The hoss be unharmed. He knows my ways. He'll 
 have good payment for his trouble afore I turn in. Look 
 here, Barbara — I've got it — the ring." He took a little 
 box out of his pocket and handed it to her. 
 
 She opened it, examined the ring, and gave it back to 
 him. 
 
 "You silly madman!" she said. "And so she took 
 you?" 
 
 "All but the word. To-morrow morning she's to say 
 'Yes.' Eight hours — eight mortal hours more have I 
 got to wait. At six I'll be over at Stannon, if I can bide 
 that long. Now 'tis ten. Let me come in and have a tell 
 along with you, Barbara, to shorten the time." 
 
 ' ' Get home, ' ' she said, ' ' and have a tell with your God, 
 and steady your mind a bit. ' ' 
 
 ' ' God — who 's he ? I didn 't Imow you believed in that 
 party. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, I do. Everybody does. I larned that long ago. 
 Thinking people make their own pattern of God. We've 
 all got one, even them that pretend loudest they haven't. 
 You're the sort I like, Philip — a pet of mine, with all 
 your stupid follies; and you know it very well. But 
 never a man stood in need of a God more. You take my 
 advice and set about finding one. ' ' 
 
 "Wonders never cease. Us will have you going to 
 church or along with the Little Baptists next." 
 
 ' ' No, you won 't. Their Gods are not mine. Jehovah 's 
 too hard and Christ's too soft for me. Get home and 
 read the Book of Job. Read it through, and if it don't 
 send you to sleep, 'twill do you good mayhap. That's my
 
 38 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Biblebook — the only one I read. They are live people in 
 it — all of 'em, down to that busy rascal, Satan. You can 
 match 'em in Postbridge. Now be off, and walk your 
 horse back. ' ' 
 
 " I '11 do diS you say. 'Tis a day of wonders. To think 
 of Barbara Hext preaching ! ' ' 
 
 She laughed, and shut the door upon him, while he 
 went off and led his horse by the bridle rein. 
 
 Arrived at Hartland, he tended the weary animal, then 
 went into his house and found his two labourers had re- 
 tired ; but the old woman who looked to his dwelling was 
 waiting up for him. He sent her to bed, supped heavily, 
 then lighted his pipe and went into the parlour for the 
 family Bible. 
 
 He read a few chapters of Job, but comprehended them 
 not. The mighty poem bored him and made him drowsy. 
 Soon after midnight he fell asleep and did not wake until 
 four o'clock, to find kitchen lamp and kitchen fire both 
 out. Then he lighted a candle, ascended to his room, 
 made a toilet there, and, at the first glimmer of dawn, 
 went out of doors. 
 
 He climbed Hartland Tor and, hidden to windward of 
 them, watched a brace of fox cubs playing together. 
 
 "You'll be standing afore the puppies in a month, my 
 brave heroes!" he thought. And then he scared them, 
 laughed to see them run, felt in his pocket to prove the 
 ring was safe, and went his way to Stannon. Grey light 
 soaked the air and earth as he reached Unity's home be- 
 fore half -past five o'clock. No life stirred, but he knew 
 the girl's bedroom window. It faced alone over the Moor 
 on the northern side of the farmhouse. Philip now 
 walked beneath it and flung stones at the window. She 
 was sleeping heavily after a sleepless night, and pres- 
 ently, in his efforts to waken her, he broke the glass with 
 a crash. A dog barked at the sound and came galloping 
 from the front of the house. It knew Philip, and greeted 
 him effusively. At the same moment the white blind 
 above was moved and Unity's eyes appeared. Oulds- 
 broom kissed his hand to her and she vanished. In ten 
 minutes she stood beside him.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 39 
 
 ''Well? "Well? Say it, for God's sake!" he burst 
 out. ' ' 'Tis ages ago since I saw 'e ! " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He shouted like a boy loosed from school, and em- 
 braced her. 
 
 "I knew it!" he cried; "I knew it from the first 
 moment I loved you. I knew it in my bones ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' But mark this, afore 'tis too late, ' ' she said, pushing 
 him from her. "Mark this, Philip, I know too little of 
 you — too little by far. And what do you know of me? 
 Still less. Leave it open; I pray you leave it " 
 
 ' ' Stop, ' ' he interrupted her. ' ' Stop there ; not another 
 word will I hear of that nonsense. I love you, and I'll 
 very soon larn you what love is. Ban't no slow-growing, 
 patient thing ; it comes full-grown, wi ' no more patience 
 than the lightning. And so 'twill be with you afore 
 you're a month older. Don't I understand? Didn't I 
 tell Birdwood yesterday how 'twas? Yesterday — yester- 
 day — I say 'yesterday'; but what's time? 'Tis a hun- 
 dred years agone that I sent the man about his business. 
 Think no more of him. Leave him to me. He shall bless 
 my name afore I've done with him. Ban't the strongest 
 thejustest?" 
 
 "Take time, Philip. Get to know me better. I'm far 
 off what you think. ' ' 
 
 "Leave all that. Haven't I seen through and through 
 you for a month ? Here — here 's your ring. That '11 show 
 you ! Does your brother know ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' There 's no hurry, I keep telling you. ' ' 
 
 "Ban't there, by God! A man on fire's generally like 
 to be in a hurry; and you'll be a woman on fire afore 
 many hours are over your head. Love ! There — but I '11 
 soon show you what love be like ! ' ' 
 
 He broke off and shouted to Quinton Crymes, who was 
 just passing into his plot of cabbage beside the farm. 
 
 "Here — come here and hear the news, boy! Great 
 news, I warn 'e ! " 
 
 ' ' Hullo ! ' ' cried the farmer. "What 's fetched you over 
 so early?" 
 
 "This here minx — who else should? And she will
 
 40 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 be obeyed, of course. Wants to marry me — will do it. 
 What d'you say to that?" 
 
 Crymes stared. 
 
 ' ' Then what about Birdwood ? ' ' 
 
 "Let be," said Philip. "Leave him to me. He's out 
 of it and never was in it worth mentioning. Can't a 
 woman make a mistake? A very understanding young 
 chap. Well, then, let him use his understanding and larn 
 that the battle 's to the strong. ' ' 
 
 Crymes regarded his sister with suspicion. Then his 
 slow mind moved and suspicion changed into respect. 
 From being nothing, she promised to become a power. 
 Gradually he found himself rejoicing. 
 
 ' ' This is big news, ' ' he said. ' ' Come in and take a bit 
 o' breaksis along with us, Ouldsbroom. " 
 
 " So I will then ; and let me tell her — let me tell your 
 wife. I like to startle a person. ' ' 
 
 "No," said Quinton firmly. "She ban't in a case to 
 be startled. Her babby's due in a month. I'll break it 
 gently. ' ' 
 
 But the breakfast was not successful, because Gertrude 
 Crymes liked Birdwood. She had as frank a nature as 
 Philip himself, and roundly told him that he was doing 
 wrong. He blustered and argued, but heard the other 
 side from one who felt no sympathy with his untutored 
 spirit. He lost his temper. 
 
 ' ' The sooner my wife gets beyond reach of your frosty 
 tongue, the better for her," he declared, and rose from 
 the table. 
 
 "Be at sheepfold towards evening. Unity," he said, 
 with the air of one commanding. 
 
 Then he was gone, and upon his departure a very vig- 
 orous argument broke out behind him. Gertrude and her 
 husband took opposite sides; Unity said nothing; Mr. 
 Coaker, who was a bachelor, entirely agreed with his 
 master that the rich and prosperous Ouldsbroom was a 
 better match for any woman than a poor shepherd, no 
 matter how high his principles or good his character 
 might be. Jimmy Coaker was a cynic and spoke accord- 
 ingly.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 41 
 
 "You've got to reckon up Hartland and two hundred 
 a year and a silly man against a very proper young 
 chapel-going chap — and nought," he said. "If you was 
 one sort of woman, I should say, ' Take the Little Baptist 
 and nothing'; but being as you are — a pretty strong- 
 minded fashion of female — I say, 'Go for the money, 
 with Ouldsbroom thrown in. ' He isn 't bad — only weak- 
 minded. If you're worth your salt, you soon will have 
 him under your thumb, and then you 're the better every 
 way, and he 's none the worse for a clever wife who 'U help 
 to keep his money in his pocket and hide his folly from 
 the sight of the neighbours. ' ' 
 
 "You speak like the sour old carmudgeon you are," 
 retorted Mrs. Crymes hotly. "Good powers! Can two 
 men think so mean and small? Haven't she promised 
 Henry? 'Tis horrid to know that any girl, worth calling 
 herself a girl, can sink to such a nasty deed. Speak ! ' ' 
 she continued, turning almost fiercely on her sister-in- 
 law. "Haven't you got nought to say to throw light on 
 this dark thing ? ' ' 
 
 Unity shook her head. 
 
 "I'm myself, and I've got nought to say, and I care 
 nought what any think. I see it from my own point of 
 view ; and I know this : love of man ban 't the only thing 
 to guide a woman's life. 'Tisn't everything to a woman 
 like me, any more than it is everything to most men. I 
 ban't going to live or die for anybody but myself. I'm 
 very fond of Henry, and always shall be fond of him, 
 because he's a fine chap, though he've nothing to look to. 
 And Ouldsbroom 's a fine chap; and whether I love him 
 or no, be his business, not yours. I told him square that 
 I knew nought about him, and that us must wait a bit; 
 and he shut my mouth. So I 've nought on my conscience 
 with him. And life's life, not love-making." 
 
 "You cold-blooded snake!" burst out the hot-blooded 
 Mrs. Crymes. 
 
 But here her husband interposed, and the argument 
 waxed high. 
 
 Gertrude exhausted herself, spoke of the disparity of 
 age ; the futility of linking life with such a man as Oulds-
 
 42 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 broom; the wickedness of breaking a troth; the shame 
 that must attach to a jilt's family at such a deed. Then 
 Crymes denied all the disabilities, and his sister left him 
 still arguing with his wife. Unity craved peace and 
 silence. She did her work of washing up and attending 
 to the poultry; then she explained to her angry sister- 
 in-law that she would not be back before night, and took 
 herself off into the Moor. 
 
 Until noon she tramped the lonely places, and once 
 climbed the heights so that Teign Head cot under Manger 
 Hill, in the very heart of the central waste, appeared be- 
 neath her eyes. Smoke rose above the dwelling, and she 
 knew that Henry Birdwood and Mr. Sleep were eating 
 their dinner together. The thought for some reason 
 served to comfort her, but she did not suffer her mind 
 long to dwell on Birdwood. 
 
 "I may be a hard woman," she said to herself; ''but 
 that 's like most of us ; and that won 't stop me from being 
 a prosperous one anyhow. 'Tis better to be of some 
 account than only happy like a sheep. And why for 
 shouldn't I be happy, come a child or two?" 
 
 She ate blackberries in the deep gorge of East Dart, 
 and then, having dawdled through many hours, set out 
 for the sheepfold. 
 
 Philip was there before her. He kissed her and ca- 
 ressed her like a lover; then he made her sit on his lap. 
 
 "Where d'you think I went to when I left Stannon 
 this morning?" he asked. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "To parson. Banns be going up Sunday. Don't you 
 break away! Too late now. Us '11 be married in the 
 Church. Little did I think when I was there and heard 
 'em read the burial service over faither that next time 
 I was in their shop 'twould be to hear 'em tell the mar- 
 riage service over me ! But so 'tis. I won 't be married 
 by they Little Baptists. I doubt if they can do it ac- 
 cording to law. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Of course they can. ' ' 
 
 "Well, I'm against 'em. Your parson, with his game 
 leg and his right-hand man, that puffed-out frog, Gregory
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 43 
 
 Twigg No; give me the Church for my job. You 
 
 don 't care ? ' ' 
 
 "It's all one to me." 
 
 "To-morrow Hartland will be ready for you to have 
 a look round. I've set my old woman and Tommy 
 Webber to work with soap and water, and I be going to 
 make a bonfire of my father's clothes and his old bed 
 gnd his old dog-eared chair. I couldn't sell 'em — haven't 
 got the heart to — and I can 't use them, so I '11 burn 'em. 
 You come after noon to-morrow and I'll show you over 
 the place. And I told parson that the first week in 
 October would be the time. ' ' 
 
 She pleaded for a little delay, but he would none of it. 
 
 ' ' 'Tis too sudden — who could face such a thing staring 
 at one, with less than five weeks to go ? " 
 
 ' ' Five weeks, you call it. 'Twill be fifty years to me ; 
 and you knew this morning, when you looked at your 
 ring " 
 
 She put her hand to her pocket. 
 
 * ' There ! ' ' she cried ; " in all the storm and trouble of 
 it, I've never even oped the packet." 
 
 "Do so then — 'twill show you a bit more of my ways 
 than you know, seemingly. ' ' 
 
 She opened the box and found a wedding-ring. 
 
 "That's the sort I am," he said. "Be life so long 
 that a month more or less don't count in it? Let's live 
 together every moment we can, and not throw away a 
 chance, nor yet an hour. The people that wait, when 
 they ban't bound to wait, don't know what love means. 
 I ain't got no use for betrothals and tokenings, and all 
 that. I want you, and I will have you inside five weeks 
 from to-day. ' ' 
 
 He rattled on in this strain ; he laid the future before 
 her painted in his own sanguine colours. She spoke a 
 little at first, but he overbore her with his noise and 
 exuberance, so that presently she simply sat on his lap, 
 stared before her, and listened. Now and then he took 
 breath and kissed her. 
 
 Two hours passed very swiftly; then he was reminded 
 of another labour designed for that day.
 
 44 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "I'm going to see Henry Birdwood to-night," he said. 
 "A fine chap is Birdwood, and I'll be a friend to him if 
 he'll let me. Yesterday, afore you took me, I was a 
 bit touchy in temper. And who shall blame me? But 
 now 'tis all done, I can breathe again and look round 
 at the world in general. You know him better than me. 
 What does he want in life? What's the ruling passion 
 of the man?" 
 
 "I was." 
 
 "You, and the moon, and a few other things, be out 
 of reach for him. We '11 leave that and talk about what 's 
 possible. He's a bit pious, I'm told, along of having a 
 preacher for parent. Well, that sort are dull; but he's 
 young yet, and may take life more cheerful later on. 
 We '11 see. Anyway, I might find him better money than 
 he gets from Gregory Twigg. ' ' 
 
 "You don't surely mean ?" 
 
 "To offer him a job? Why not? He's no fool. Not 
 just now, of course — plenty of time when he's got used 
 to things and we're married and settled." 
 
 "He'll never take anything from your hand." 
 
 "Won't he? Then let him go to hell for all I care, 
 if he's that sort. But perhaps he ban't. Anyway, I'm 
 going up to see him to-night and ax his pardon if I said 
 anything to hurt him an hour after 'twas spoken. And 
 I'll bid him to the wedding presently." 
 
 He put the wedding-ring on and found it fitted well. 
 She took it off, however, immediately. 
 
 " 'Tis unlucky," she said. 
 
 Whereupon he laughed. 
 
 ' ' We make our own luck by the sweat of our brow most 
 times, ' ' he answered. ' ' Ban 't I in luck this minute, and 
 won't the world know it Sunday when the banns be 
 called?" 
 
 "No," she replied. "Once for all, don't fool yourself 
 to think that. My brother's wife have a tongue in her 
 head, and very strong opinions about what I'm doing. 
 As like as not, the rest of Postbridge will be of the same 
 mind ; so you may count upon sour looks for me, if not 
 for yourself."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 45 
 
 He frowned. 
 
 ' ' Them as look sourly at you over this job shall mighty 
 soon look sour on their own account, ' ' he declared. " I 'm 
 not the quarrelsome sort, and will go a mile round to 
 avoid a row any day of the week ; but this be different. 
 There'll soon be bloody heads about if any man says 
 a word against you to me ; and you can tell your sister- 
 in-law that same. Let her mind her own business and 
 bring a brave babby into the world. And now I 'm off ! " 
 
 He was soon gone, and she watched him strike away 
 along the slope of the hill, breast it, and disappear be- 
 yond. She thought of what would happen between 
 Henry and Philip; and then she took off the wedding- 
 ring and dreamed of being a married woman. 
 
 A sort of savage satisfaction got hold upon her. For 
 the first time she felt a sudden, fiery regard for this head- 
 long man who was hastening her destiny at such a violent 
 pace. She admired him for it. There was something big 
 about him. He was a ship worth steering. She pictured 
 herself cutting a brave figure at the helm of him. 
 
 Day sank into night without one cloud. After hours 
 of hurrying vapour and high wind, the bustle and busi- 
 ness of the sky was over, and a great, burning zone of 
 orange-red now mantled above the vanished sun. It 
 faded upward, through paler orange, by passages of 
 waning splendour to the dark blue of the zenith; it 
 deepened downward to pure mauve stretched in a veil 
 above the purple of earth. Ghostly upon this light, yet 
 trembling into gold as the sunset faded from about her^ 
 there hung the crescent of the young, eusped moon.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 The folk streamed from their little meeting-house on a 
 Sunday evening of stars. Autumn had already touched 
 a grove that marks the year at Postbridge and signals the 
 first pinch of early frosts when September comes; but 
 this night was mild and still. A gentle haze hung in the 
 air, and through the windows of the chapel, sheaves of 
 light from oil lamps within struck the atmosphere and 
 lit it to mellow radiance. 
 
 The ritual of the Little Baptists was severe, and orna- 
 ment they eschewed. A rostrum at one end of the hall 
 and a large map of Palestine in a black frame at the 
 other, were the sole objects that arrested attention. The 
 meeting-house was a converted barn, the gift of a pious 
 Little Baptist in the past. Its lines were lofty and 
 simple ; the great beams of the roof stretched across a 
 whitewashed ceiling, and the glass windows, shaded by 
 red blinds, opened square and plain in the whitewashed 
 walls. 
 
 Quinton Crymes and his wife were among the first to 
 einerge from service, and not far behind them there 
 followed Ned Sleep of Teign Head. They stopped him 
 with a question. The evening had been marked by an 
 event most unusual, for Henry Birdwood was not in his 
 1)1 ace. 
 
 "What's wrong Avith him?" asked Gertrude Crymes. 
 "Surely something uncommon bad have catched him 
 and struck him down, to keep him away from the Lord's 
 House?" 
 
 Sleep stood still and considered. 
 
 * ' Well, when the time corned and I offered for to saddle 
 
 46
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 47 
 
 his pony along with niy own— there 'twas. 'No,' he 
 answered, 'I ban't going. I ban't going to pretend no 
 more.' Those were his very words." 
 
 Quinton looked at his wife and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "And thinking of it in my cautious fashion all the way 
 to chapel," continued Sleep, "it struck me, all of a sud- 
 den, that perhaps it might be along of your sister that's 
 jilted him." 
 
 Then he went down the hill to where his pony was 
 tethered in the yard of a friend's house. 
 
 A man coming the other way stopped Quinton. 
 
 "I didn't think you'd be let loose so soon," he said. 
 "Be your old minister too dog-tired to give you his full 
 dose to-night?" 
 
 ' ' It may interest you to know that Henry wasn 't there, 
 Philip," said Mrs. Crymes. "That's your bad work. 
 Mark me, the young man will break away from all that 
 he was taught now. And the sin will be yours. ' ' 
 
 ' ' 'Tis an ill wind blows nobody any good ; and if losing 
 Unity be going to keep the man out of that den, so much 
 the better for him," retorted Ouldsbroom. "I'd like to 
 see the shutters up in your prayer-shop, Gertrude, and 
 I'd say it to your minister so soon as you. A lot of snif- 
 fing, narrow zanies you be, and think yourselves the fat of 
 the earth. By the same token, where 's the peacock? I 
 suppose he puffed out the lessons in his usual style ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' He was there. He 's gone up the hill with his family 
 — if you mean Gregory Twigg. ' ' 
 
 "Who should I mean? I'll come back along by way 
 of Stannon presently and pick a bit of supper, if 'tis all 
 the same to you. I stuck my head round the door at 
 church this morning and heard 'For the third and last 
 time of asking.' I'd have called for three cheers if I'd 
 had cheek enough ; but instead of that I slipped away 
 and give the first beggar I met a tanner for luck. So 
 long till supper. I be going to send a cartload of good 
 eating over from Tavistock for the wedding feast." 
 
 "That's my job — you didn't ought to do that," said 
 Quinton Crymes in a voice somewhat half-hearted. 
 
 "Nonsense — nonsense! You with a family coming
 
 48 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 and plenty to do with your money. I'm off to talk to 
 Twigg about the drinks this minute." 
 
 He strode up the hill and caught Mr. Twigg, his 
 wife, and their elder children, before he reached the top 
 of it. 
 
 Mr. Twigg was, as usual, in a mood of placid self- 
 esteem. The sermon had pleased him, and, according 
 to his custom, he preached it over again with his own 
 improvements as he passed along. 
 
 ' ' The starry 'osts, ' ' said Mr. Twigg ; ' ' the starry 'osts 
 are as nothing; the moon is as nothing; and the sun is 
 as nothing before the True Light. Remember, children, 
 when they teach you about the stars and such like vain 
 items, that they are as dust in the balance. There is 
 only one True Light which lighteth every man that 
 Cometh into the world; and we have it. Who have it? 
 The Little Baptists have it. How humble is that word 
 'little' — the 'Little Baptists.' We may call ourselves 
 ' little, ' but our Master knows better. I say that we have 
 climbed the true, narrow road, and stand on the giddy 
 peak at the Footstool of Grace; and we look down — we 
 look down — not with pride but with thanksgiving — at the 
 others struggling upward by roads that all lead on to 
 precipices. ' ' 
 
 "You put it a lot better than him," said Mrs. Twigg. 
 
 "Perhaps I do. Is that to be wondered at? Look 
 at our heads. Mine is pretty near as big again as his. 
 I suppose if I had been a minister of the Gospel I should 
 have " 
 
 Here Philip Ouldsbroom reached the speaker. 
 
 "Twigg — isn't it? Can you give me five minutes, 
 Gregory ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes — if it's nothing that doesn't misbecome the 
 Day." 
 
 "To do a man a good turn don't misbecome the day, 
 or the night either, I suppose?" 
 
 "Certainly not. I think I can boast my share of that 
 sort of work. A tithe, Ouldsbroom — a tithe is my gen- 
 eral rule. I do not mention it for self -glory, but as a 
 statement of fact — and an example."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 49 
 
 ** That's all right then; we'll trot on a bit if your 
 missis don't mind." 
 
 ' ' Let my wife and my daughters trot on, ' ' said Gregory 
 Twigg. "I've a fine physic, thank God, and make noth- 
 ing of the hill; but I can't think and walk fast all to 
 once. You go ahead, Mrs. Twigg, along with Millieent 
 Mary and Ethel." 
 
 "Now look here — about your man, Birdwood," began 
 the farmer as soon as the publican's wife and children 
 were out of earshot. 
 
 ' ' He is my man, as you say — a member of my staff. ' ' 
 
 "What a joker you are — but yet can't see a joke or 
 take a joke. Your 'staff' would make a cat laugh — one 
 old woman and a crack-brained boy and they two at 
 Teign Head cot." 
 
 "Remember the Day, please, Ouldsbroom, and don't 
 laugh at me, because I'll stand that from no man living. 
 What about Henry Birdwood? You've done him a bad 
 wrong — a very bad wrong. As a man of wide knowledge, 
 of course nothing ever surprises me — ^still, it was wrong, 
 and you know it." 
 
 "Wrong? Stuff and nonsense. 'Might's right' where 
 the women are concerned, or any other sort of fighting, 
 and your blessed God's always on the side of the strong. 
 Look at yourself. Ban't you one of His pets and always 
 have been ? ' ' 
 
 "I hope so, and I believe so," answered Mr. Twigg. 
 "And if so, there's a very good reason. David never 
 saw the righteous man begging his bread. However, 
 you're not in the fold, and though I should be glad to 
 see you there " 
 
 "Your fold! I'd sooner go partner with a pack of 
 good sporting wolves than bleat along with your sheep. 
 But Birdwood 's the matter. What money does he get ? ' ' 
 
 " If I could be astonished, you 'd astonish me, ' ' retorted 
 Gregory; "and yet, again, you never would; for to be 
 astonished at a fool is to be a fool. And whatever I am, 
 in the course of nature and according to my skill and 
 gifts, fool is not the word. You ask me what wages I give 
 to Henry Birdwood. In anybody but you 'twould be a
 
 50 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 great impertinence, and perhaps at any time but this I'd 
 refuse to answer. But we took bread at the Lord 's Table 
 to-night, and I am at peace with all men, including my- 
 self. It may be over-generous, or it may not be, but, be 
 it as it will, Henry gets eighteen shillings. ' ' 
 
 "Don't you worry about being over-generous, Twigg. 
 Your best friend won't blame you there. Well, 'tis this 
 way : I 've beaten the poor devil out of the field — smoth- 
 ered him ; and now I 've got my girl, I just begin to see, 
 in a sort of dim way, what he must feel to have lost her. ' ' 
 
 "If your conscience speaks, listen to it." 
 
 " 'Tisn't conscience — I've got no conscience, and don't 
 want none. But I've got a fellow-feeling for every sort 
 of man down in his marrow-bones, and, in a word, I want 
 to do Birdwood a good turn." 
 
 "Well, that's your business, not mine. Many is the 
 good turn have been put into my heart to do, Oulds- 
 broom ; and I never turn a deaf ear to the prompting. ' ' 
 
 "If, now, Henry was to hear you'd raised his money to 
 a pound, 'twould be gert news for him. ' ' 
 
 "This is not the still small voice, and don't pretend it 
 is, ' ' said Mr. Twigg. ' * You deceive yourself. Anything 
 more sly and mean I never did hear. You want me to 
 spend two more shillings a week on one of my staff, and 
 you get the credit. You godless fellow — and the cheek 
 of it to a man in my position ! ' ' 
 
 Philip laughed. 
 
 " 'Tis just the other way," he answered; "and none 
 but a blockhead like you would have thought I meant 
 that. For the minute he 's cruel sore because I 've bested 
 him, and I can't do him any sort of a good turn openly 
 till he's calmed down a bit. In fact, I rode over last week 
 with an idea, and he behaved in a very manly way and 
 told me to go to blue, blazing hell. I could have shaken 
 hands with him at hearing those fine words in the mouth 
 of a Little Baptist." 
 
 ' ' Don 't say that, and don 't think it, ' ' interrupted Mr. 
 Twigg warmly. ' ' He 's left us. Satan 's led him into the 
 wilderness. We're all praying that he'll come back; but 
 for the moment he 's broke loose. ' '
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 61 
 
 *'Well, anyway, I can't do nought for him at present, 
 because 'tis poison to him to hear my name. He'd lie 
 behind a hedge for me, I do believe. So, until he gets 
 over the stroke of losing Unity Crymes, I can only help 
 him in secret. Therefore I ax you to put two bob a week 
 to his money and let me pay you privately. 'Twill cheer 
 the poor beggar up a little these dark days." 
 
 "I'm well used to financial operations large and 
 small, ' ' replied the other. ' ' At the last Duchy dinner the 
 bailiff said out before the throng that my accounts were 
 a marvel. Just a gift, and I thank the Lord for my 
 power of figures with my other possessions. To take 
 two shillings from you and add them to Henry's wages 
 can easily be done, of course." 
 
 "Then do it," said Philip; "and here's a florin, so 
 begin this week. It must go on till I find him a better 
 job, which I easily shall do come presently. ' ' 
 
 "If you're going to meddle with my staff " began 
 
 Gregory ; but the other cut him short. 
 
 "Chuck that. Now there's another thing that hits you 
 much closer. I'm going to be married Thursday, and 
 'tis a toss up whether I go down to Two Bridges for the 
 drinks, or come to you for 'em." 
 
 "I wish it wasn't the Lord's Day," answered Twigg. 
 "I suppose you couldn't walk home and have some sup- 
 per with me and talk about other things till midnight? 
 After the clock's struck, I'll go into drink in a manner 
 that will surprise you ; for I've a knowledge of the higher 
 drinks — wine, in fact — ^that you won't match this side of 
 Exeter." 
 
 ' ' Right, my old bird ! But I 've got to eat to Stannon 
 first and cuddle my girl for an hour. Then I '11 come over 
 to Warren House ; and I shall expect you to open a bottle 
 the minute your blessed Lord 's Day be over. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Not, of course, to go into figures till after midnight — 
 still I should like to know, in quite a general way, what 
 you propose to spend, Ouldsbroom ? 'Twill work at the 
 back of my mind unconsciously, and so the Sabbath won 't 
 be broken; yet, after midnight, I shall have it all ready 
 and be able to tell you what can be done."
 
 52 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "Three pound on the drink I shall spend, and ten 
 shilling on the tobacco. ' ' 
 
 "Not another word then! Leave it at that. I'll ex- 
 pect you between eleven and twelve. We '11 open a bottle, 
 too, since you command it, and drink to your good for- 
 tune in the married state. ' ' 
 
 "Eight; and mind you remember Birdwood and his 
 extra money, ' ' answered Philip. ' ' Take the credit your- 
 self. That won't be difficult to a man with such large 
 ideas as you. But of course my name musn't come 
 into it." 
 
 They parted, and Ouldsbroom went northerly to Stan- 
 non while the publican overtook his wife.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Two nights before his marriage-day Ouldsbroom went 
 to see Barbara Hext. He had planned a little jollity for 
 the Postbridge children, and Barbara was well content 
 to assist him. Others also lent their aid. A tea was to 
 be given in the village schoolroom, and all the local boys 
 and girls were invited. 
 
 ' ' I want for the little toads to remember the spread for 
 many a day," declared Philip. "Be the sweeties and 
 fruit got for 'em?" 
 
 " 'Twill all arrive to-morrow by carrier, and it's going 
 to cost you two pounds ten shillings, my man. ' ' 
 
 "More — surely? I thought 'twas to run to three?" 
 
 "No," she said. "I'm doing my share. The children 
 are all very good customers of mine, and I 'm glad of the 
 chance to help make 'em happy. ' ' 
 
 "I'm terrible fond of 'em, and so's Unity. A quiver- 
 full is what I want. Will you be gossip to the first ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 She shook her head at him. 
 
 "Don't meet troubles half way. How's the girl bear- 
 ing up ? " 
 
 He looked uneasy. 
 
 "She's all right. But a bit dazed, I think. Not too 
 good company for the moment. Full of her own thoughts, 
 no doubt, and what she's going to do at Hartland. A 
 terrible tidy woman, I fancy. Goeth long walks 'pon the 
 Moor alone, and won't let me come. I catched her cry- 
 ing, if you'll believe it — 'twas a pitiful sight, and I 
 didn't know what the mischief to do." 
 
 "Tears are new to you — eh? Got to forty years old 
 and never learned the truth about women's tears! Her 
 
 53
 
 54 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 tears needn't trouble you, I reckon. No — nor any other 
 female's. Don't I know their worth that have shed my 
 share? You might so soon pity a goose going barefoot 
 as a crying woman. Remember that. ' ' 
 
 "All the same she ban't the crying sort, and it didn't 
 ought to be a crying time. What 's she got to cry for ? ' ' 
 
 "Plenty, for that matter. She's done a dirty thing, 
 and — you needn't bounce and bluster here, Philip — you 
 know it — none better." 
 
 He flushed and snorted. 
 
 "I thought you, at least, had more sense. If she likes 
 me better than t'other, what law's to prevent her being 
 true to herself and to me?" 
 
 "True to herself very like; there's some who are only 
 true to themselves when they are being untrue to others. 
 Perhaps she's that sort, but I hope not, I'm sure. 'Tis 
 your strength is to blame. She was that man's ewe 
 lamb — his all." 
 
 ' ' What rot you people talk ! " he burst out ; ' ' why, 
 good God Almighty, I'm so friendly to Birdwood as any 
 chap living. I've got no quarrel with him. I couldn't 
 make the woman marry me. She 's chose me, and if she 'd 
 chose me first instead of second, and then gone over to 
 another man, should I have made such a dickens of a 
 row ? If the girl likes me better than him, why the mis- 
 chief shouldn't she change her mind? Isn't life full of 
 it? Don't we change our minds every hour about little 
 things; then why for shouldn't we change about big 
 things?" 
 
 "Talk won't better it." 
 
 "I'm sorry for the man, and I shan't forget him. I'm 
 strong; he ban't. Well, come presently, when his sore 
 heart be whole again, I'm going to make it up to him." 
 
 ' ' Take care he don 't make it up to you. ' ' 
 
 " I '11 take care. He 's got no more to say since I talked 
 to him." 
 
 An irrational attitude flashed out in Barbara. She 
 also had her prejudices. 
 
 "He's a Methody." she said; "a Methody and the son 
 of a Methody. Don't you forget that."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 55 
 
 "He's thrown 'em over. This thing have let a bit of 
 light and air into his mind. He 've got that much to thank 
 me for already. I 've larned him to take large views, and 
 he's chucked his chapel for a start. He'll thank me yet. 
 There's so good fish in the sea as ever come out. He'll live 
 to thank me, I tell you, for teaching him a lot o' things. 
 You '11 see us stout friends afore the spring comes round. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Once a Methody, always ^ Methody, ' ' repeated Miss 
 Hext. "I know 'em. Don't you think that five years 
 hence — or fifty years hence — that man will be any friend 
 to you. Some men might take it, and swallow it, and 
 look back after and even think that 'twas all for their 
 good ; but not Henry. If your wife turns out the worst 
 wife that ever came out of Postbridge, he'll still feel that 
 he has lost his all in her. He's a young man with a nar- 
 row upbringing and a narrow way of looking at life. 
 This is his first facer; and that he's given up going to 
 chapel on it don't mean any good to you. Did you read 
 Job a bit ago when I advised you to ? " 
 
 "I started, but mighty soon went to sleep." 
 
 ' ' You 're the sort — however, you don 't want my sense, 
 and I 'm not built to croak, I hope. But make that man 
 your friend at your peril. It can 't be in nature ; and if 
 you try to break nature, she'll turn round and break you. 
 I've seen the like in my life, and I've seen the sequel 
 to it. Don't try to win round him. Keep clear of 
 him." 
 
 "There! — There's charity! You'm enough to make 
 me turn church-goer," he said. "But you're wrong for 
 once, though not often wrong. I'll win him over; and 
 if he won't be won — then let him go to heel, and bide at 
 heel, for a cross-bred cur dog." 
 
 Other customers came in — a washerwoman and sick 
 nurse known as Betty Dury, and a tall, hunchbacked, 
 grizzly headed man called Peter Culme, a water-keeper. 
 
 ' ' Give me a pound of tea and half a dozen dips, if you 
 please. Miss," said the man. "And I do wish as you'd 
 marry somebody and take out a licence to sell beer and 
 baccy. 'Tis cruel that us can't get such common needs 
 in Postbridge, and I shan't be able to stand thicky blown-
 
 56 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 up fool at the 'Warren House' much longer. He talks 
 to the people as if they was all school-children at a 
 revel. ' ' 
 
 "He've got his points though, Peter," argued Oulds- 
 broom. "I was laying in liquor against my marriage 
 feed back-along, and the larning of the man where wine 's 
 the matter be a wonder. I will grant him that, though 
 a stuck-up peacock in most other ways." 
 
 Miss Hext laughed. 
 
 ' ' You silly creature ! ' ' she said. ' ' D 'you believe him ? 
 Any rascal with a big voice and a lot o' bottles could 
 hoodwink you. 'Tisn't what he knows about wines; 'tis 
 what you don't know. He's sold you a lot of poison so 
 like as not." 
 
 " 'Tis old, however, and age do build up a poor wine 
 into valiant drinking — so Twigg swears." 
 
 "Just a thing a Methody would swear," she answered. 
 "He never had no wine that would stand getting old. 
 I 've drunk wine in my time, and I know. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Well, ' Thursday you '11 be able to judge, ' ' declared 
 Philip. "He wanted to put me off with French wine, 
 and let me taste it. There! I thought 'twas a bottle 
 of ink he'd opened by mistake. 'Give me brown sherry 
 wine, as I can see through and know nought's hid in it,' 
 I said to Gregory. I '11 have none of this bewitched mess. 
 Ban't going to begin my married life poisoning my 
 friends and future relations. ' So brown sherry 'twill be, 
 and a bottle of champagne. I would have it, though 
 'twill cost five shilling. ' ' 
 
 "What can I do for you, Betty?" asked the post- 
 mistress. "If you expect another telegram, I'm afraid 
 'tis too late." 
 
 "He's dead," said the woman; "died last night. A 
 good job too, poor soul; and my husband went over for 
 to hear the will this morning. We'm down for ten 
 pounds, so Robert says that I must get a shadow o' 
 black." 
 
 "I hope it won't keep you from the wedding, or your 
 childer from the party?" asked Philip. 
 
 The woman was lean and wrinkled, but younger by
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 57 
 
 many years than she appeared. Bad teeth and a mole 
 under her eye spoiled a face that had been agreeable but 
 for these blemishes. 
 
 "We'm coming," she said. "Robert's brother wasn't 
 much to him. And he had a hundred and fifty to leave, 
 and no family, and only left us ten. For twenty-five 
 Robert said as he 'd have mourned and took us all to the 
 funeral ; but not for less. So we shall be at Stannon 
 and the children to the schoolroom; and thank you for 
 it, I'm sure." 
 
 ''I do hope, for the peace of your party, as you haven't 
 asked Twigg," said Mr. Culme. "Dash that man! he 
 puts me in a cool sweat o' fury every time I meet him. 
 'Neighbour Culme,' he calls me; and I won't have it — 
 I won't take 'neighbour' from the man." 
 
 "What is there in that 'neighbour' that lowers a chap 
 in his own conceit?" asked Ouldsbroom. "I know just 
 how you feel, and 'tis only a saucy gas-bag like Twigg, 
 or the silly gentlefolk, ever say it. I don't like it; yet 
 the word 's an innocent word. ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis the bowldacious way he speaks it," answered 
 Culme, "with his nose cocked in the air, and his gert, 
 stoopid eyes soaring over the heavens, as if he was ex- 
 pecting an angel with a golden crown for him. Always 
 right, that man — in his own opinion. But if he only 
 knowed what a lot he loses by being so damned cock-sure, 
 he'd sing a little smaller sometimes, I do believe, and 
 allow there was one or two above him in brains as well 
 as manners. ' ' 
 
 "If 'tis 'denshiring' a bit of land, or selling a hoss, or 
 breeding ponies, or mending a chair, or teaching a child, 
 or drawing a glass of beer — 'tis all the same," said 
 Philip. ' ' His way 's the right way, and everybody else 's 
 way's the wrong way." 
 
 "Yes, 'tis," declared the water-keeper; "and when 
 he comes to die, he '11 draw 'em round the bed, if he 's got 
 wind enough left, and say, ' Now watch me, and do it like 
 what I do, when 'tis your turn. ' ' ' 
 
 "Good for you, Peter — the very image of" the man!'' 
 laughed Philip. "And more — all he's got be the best.
 
 58 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 while the rest of the world have to put up with second 
 best. His drink and his wife and his brats, and his house 
 and his old sporting pictures, and his dog and his cat 
 and his false teeth — all can't be matched in the king- 
 dom." 
 
 ''And what is he?" summed up Culme bitterly. "No 
 more use to anybody than the hump on my shoulder. 
 He's hateful on week-days, but o' Sunday he'd make the 
 devil spit. Piety dribbles out of him, like gravy out of 
 a cut joint, till you want to cuss and swear. And his 
 beastly little children sniff just the same as him, and roll 
 their eyes the very image of his way. ' ' 
 
 "A common habit with Methodies," said Miss Hext. 
 "As for Gregory, I know the man — vain inside and vain 
 out — though 'tis ignorance makes him what he is — not 
 wickedness. But what's the result? He never gets a 
 bit of good advice from one year's end to another. None 
 will be at the trouble to give it him, because they know 
 he thinks nobody born can teach him in anything. ' ' 
 
 Culme picked up his tea and candles and went away, 
 but Mrs. Dury waited. Then a thought struck Oulds- 
 broom. It occurred to him that the water-keeper's days 
 were but grey and his life cheerless. Therefore he fol- 
 lowed Peter. 
 
 ' ' Culme ! " he shouted. ' ' Will 'e come to my wedding 
 feast at Staunon? There'll be a good rally o' neigh- 
 bours. ' ' 
 
 "Ess fay, and glad to!" 
 
 "That's all right then. And bring your old mother. 
 'Twill liven her up." 
 
 "Thank you kindly, I'm sure." 
 
 "Bring your concertina likewise!" 
 
 "That I will!" 
 
 And the crooked Culme went on his way rejoicing. 
 
 "A fine chap," said I\Irs. Dury when the men were 
 gone. 
 
 "So he is," admitted Barbara. "But I wish he was 
 as sensible as he is large-hearted. This is a terrible, bare- 
 faced thing he's done." 
 
 The other nodded.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 59 
 
 *'Pity he couldn't look elsewhere and leave them two 
 alone. However, he 's my sort. ' ' 
 
 "So he is mine. That's why I'm sorry for him. The 
 girl that would take him as that girl did, for his farm 
 and his riches, isn't going to be a good wife. We're all 
 bred to trouble as the sparks fly upw^ard, Betty, but he's 
 brewed a double dose for himself, after the manner of 
 all fools." 
 
 "He was strong enough to get Unity Crymes away 
 from t'other; so he ought to be strong enough to break 
 her in," argued the sick nurse. 
 
 ' ' Not he. He 's no woman-breaker. ' ' 
 
 "They ban't married yet, come to think of it. Per- 
 haps she'll bolt with t'other at the last minute, like 
 Jenny Webber did. And now I'll see some black, Miss 
 Hext, if you please. ' '
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 PosTBRiDGE is more ancient than the road of Roman 
 straightness that strikes through it. Round about are 
 numerous medieval monuments. 'Clapper' bridges and 
 miners' smelting houses, ruined dwellings and symbols 
 of the Christian faith all stand within a walk of the 
 hamlet; while, more ancient yet, though of yesterday 
 contrasted with the stone man's relics, shall be seen a 
 fragment of the Great Central Trackway or Fosse way, 
 which extended from Caithness to Mounts Bay before 
 the Roman landed. Fragments of this ancient, cobbled 
 road still lie northerly of Postbridge, and traverse Dart 
 at a shallow beneath Hartland Farm. Next, plunging 
 into the prehistoric past, your antiquary enters behind 
 the veil of time to trace Neolithic man through Dart- 
 moor. Menhirs and parallelitha, hypaethral circles and 
 hidden graves, the ruins of lodges and the shattered walls 
 of many an aboriginal hamlet still stand upon these 
 naked hills. Much is obvious, much remains to be under- 
 stood of the vanished people. We have no Ariadne's 
 clue to the granite labyrinth, though time may yet wake 
 a dawn of knowledge upon the mystery and lift light 
 above it. To-day this land of tumuli conceals some 
 secrets still, and its monuments, behind their deep in- 
 vestment of the ages, challenge theory and defy proof. 
 
 Sunk in an eternal and frozen winter of antiquity the 
 old stones stand. Some are obscure and need skilled eyes 
 to mark their order for the work of men ; others serve to 
 arrest the attention of a child. 
 
 Twin, shattered circles, known locally as "The Grey 
 Wethers," are of this latter sort, and excite an instant 
 wonder in any intelligent mind. They stand upon the 
 
 60
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 61 
 
 eastern slope of Siddaford Tor, and, seen from afar, out- 
 lined against the sky upon the earth's shoulder, resemble 
 sheep so closely that no eye guesses the granite truth of 
 them. Unlike the usual monuments of this character, 
 that spring rugged and splintered from the heath, these 
 stunted pillars have been worked. Though no mark of 
 tool remains, and time has gnawed their contours into 
 roughness, the fact of fabrication can be proved. 
 
 Now, upon the autumnal heath at gloaming, some 
 stood like square tombstones in a water-logged burying- 
 place of eld, and some were fallen. Stern, mysterious 
 and significant they spread; and by the gathering dark- 
 ness round them; by the waste spaces all seamed and 
 scarred with storm; by the few that stood tirelessly 
 through the centuries and the many that had dropped ; 
 by the cryptic writing of ebony and silver scrawled on 
 their faces, and by the emblem of eternity they dimly 
 shadowed on the hill, they might be known. But the 
 hieroglyph of the lichen is not so obscure ; the story it 
 tells of nature's beginning is not so undecipherable as 
 that of the Grey Wethers themselves, and the thing they 
 stood for to men's hearts in the far-off morning of the 
 Age of Bronze. 
 
 Henry Birdwood sat on a stone in the midst of this 
 local sanctity and waited for Unity Crymes to come to him. 
 
 The first great experience of his life had swept over his 
 spirit and left it changed. Much was gone from it, and 
 the things that had aforetime flourished there were torn 
 out by the roots. Their place knew them no more. They 
 had prospered and made a fair show, as half-hardy vege- 
 tation under glass. But the frost of reality slew them and 
 probed with steel fingers the soil that had sustained them. 
 What sort of crop would succeed none could guess; 
 neither did any man know if root as well as branch of 
 Birdwood 's revealed characteristics had also perished. 
 Whether the old attitude to life would put forth again 
 from his stricken heart, or whether a new sort of seed was 
 sown when Unity jilted him — ^that was hidden in time. 
 But Birdwood himself perceived and encouraged the 
 coming crop.
 
 62 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 In the primeval forests that roll about the foothills of 
 the Himalaya, it happens not seldom that tempest or 
 man strips the indigenous pelt of the hills and leaves all 
 naked. A verdure whose duration extends beyond human 
 memory is swept from the face of the mountains; and 
 then, out of the naked earth, spring, not the progeny of 
 the vanished order, but seedlings of some autochthonous 
 flora that have been sown here in still earlier time. For 
 centuries they have rested dormant; yet now their long 
 sleep ends; they germinate; they root, and rise to cover 
 the hills with a vegetation unfamiliar to the age, but no 
 stranger to the unchanging earth from which it ascends. 
 
 A like mystery had happened in the case of Henry 
 Birdwood. Storms, as it seemed, had slain the direct 
 and first-hand inheritance of his father's blood in his 
 veins. That growth of Protestant instinct and simple 
 religious principle w^as to all appearance dead. The soil 
 that nourished it had been stripped bare by tornado; 
 and it remained to find whether germs of deep-sown, 
 antecedent heredities would spring to light under the 
 altered conditions, or whether what had apparently per- 
 ished at this onset, yet held life and would presently rise 
 again from its ruins. 
 
 One thing was certain : the real man, for good or ill, 
 must now appear. 
 
 Henry Birdwood looked down at his home far below, 
 beside the brink of Teign, while rosy light faded off the 
 hills and touched the river in the valley. 
 
 Footsteps approached him, but it was not Unity. Ned 
 Sleep appeared on his way home. ^ 
 
 "Have you seen Unity Crymes?" asked Birdwood; 
 and the other drew up, scratched his head, and considered 
 first the question and then the answer. 
 
 Henry, knowing his deliberation, did not attempt to 
 hurry him. 
 
 "No," replied Sleep at length, "I can't in honesty 
 say I've seen her. But a woman I did see, and she was 
 in a very excited frame of mind, as well she might be. 
 In a word, 'twas Mrs. Dury, the sick nurse. She was 
 travelling to Stannon so fast as her legs could take her. ' '
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 63 
 
 *' Why for?" 
 
 ''The very question I asked while she stood a moment 
 to blow. Mrs. Crymes be brought to bed. And Mrs. 
 Dury is a wonder for looking on into the future, I'm 
 sure; for, even at that great moment, her mind ran on 
 and she said, ' However will they manage about the wed- 
 ding? 'Tis the day after to-morrow!' *A home ques- 
 tion,' I said to her, 'and I'm glad I ban't the man to 
 answer it.' " 
 
 "That's their affair. Perhaps 'twill be put off." 
 
 "So it might, so it might. 'T would be a kindness in 
 you to advise them to do that. They may not think of 
 it ; yet 'tis a very good idea, ' ' declared Mr. Sleep. 
 
 Not the least irony lurked in the remark. He was 
 quite excited, and had been mildly wondering all the 
 way home what was likely to happen ; but the possibility 
 of postponement had not occurred to him. 
 
 Sleep crept forward over the darkening hill, and Bird- 
 wood waited for an hour; but much impatience marked 
 the vigil, and he walked up and down without ceasing. 
 The stars were beginning to shine, and he was about to 
 return to Teign Head when Unity Crymes appeared. 
 
 "I was just off; then Sleep brought news that things 
 had happened to delay you. So I waited till now. ' ' 
 
 "My sister-in-law have just had a child — only a girl — 
 worse luck for her. ' ' 
 
 "Will it make any difference?" 
 
 "No, seemingly. It's all happened so well as can be, 
 and she says she could get up to-morrow if the doctor 
 would let her." 
 
 "The marriage goes on?" 
 
 "Yes. How terrible patient you've been. To think 
 you can forgive me like this! Yet 'tis a worse punish- 
 ment than to scorn me. I feel a selfish wretch about it. ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis no odds. You'll get over that. Who knows 
 what may happen? You may live to find even a farm 
 isn't everything." 
 
 "Yes, I may." 
 
 "I love you too well to wish you anything but happi- 
 ness all the same. You've took everything from me — -
 
 64 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 everything ; and still I 'm only sorry I haven 't got more to 
 give. You've stripped me of my religion and my hope 
 and my trust; you've scattered me; you've done for 
 me. But you can't choke me off loving you. And you 
 can 't choke me off knowing that you love me, for all your 
 cruelty. ' ' 
 
 ' ' You '11 find love far better worth than mine. ' ' 
 
 "I've got yours — that's what I want to remind you. 
 He can't take that. It was all coming so steady if 
 you could only have waited. Why, last week Twigg 
 put two shillings more on to my money. I'm getting 
 known. ' ' 
 
 "You're a long sight too good for me. Of course 
 you're getting known." 
 
 "And getting known to myself, too. This is the first 
 knock-down blow I've ever had. You can't lose without 
 larning. I 've lost you ; but I 've larned a lot. ' ' 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 "Yes," he continued. "I've larned what was worth 
 a pang or two. Perhaps, as time goes on, I'll teach you 
 a bit. Your man be wiser here and there than I thought. 
 'Tis a fool's trick to ask Providence to help you. Prov- 
 idence haven't got time. After I talked with Oulds- 
 broom and tried to move his heart, and found that I 
 might so soon have tried to move this stone we're sitting 
 on, I went home; and the queer feeling in my mind all 
 the way was — ^not hate of Ouldsbroom — I couldn't hate 
 him for loving you — but wonder at the terrific power of 
 him. 'Twas like talking against a hurricane. The hur- 
 ricane hacln 't no ill-will towards me ; but if I got in the 
 way — well, then I had to feel it, not because I was Henry 
 Birdwood, but only because I'd got in the way. He 
 showed me that." 
 
 "He likes you very well, and means to let vou know 
 it." 
 
 "I'm sure he does. He likes everybody. But listen 
 what I done. 'You're strong, Philip Ouldsbroom,' I 
 said to myself; 'maybe you're stronger than me; but 
 I've got them on my side afore whose strength your 
 strength be weakness. ' Yes, I said that, and who clid I
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 65 
 
 mean? I meant Unity Crymes and my Maker. And 
 first I come down, as you know, and prayed to you. ' ' 
 
 "Don't, for God's sake, go over it all again." 
 
 "I'm not going to. I only want for you to understand 
 how 'tis. First I came and prayed to you, and you 
 wouldn't hear. So that was my first hope dead. And 
 then I prayed to God, and reminded Him as I 'd done His 
 work very faithful and steady, and put the case afore 
 Him out of a broken heart — for broken I was then. But 
 He didn't hear neither. And after a tidy week of tor- 
 ment, I began to see what the world really means and 
 how the fight goes to the strongest, and how victory be 
 won on our feet, not on our knees. D 'you understand all 
 that? If you don't, you will. Philip's right to go his 
 way; he's a lesson to such as me. Ride rough-shod and 
 don 't think to interest God Almighty in your affairs, be- 
 cause you won't — not Him nor anybody else. He only 
 remembers one thing about us, and that is when we've 
 got to die. Then He rules us out of the book. And all 
 this stuff about eternity is bosh too. For if He cared 
 for us anywhere He'd care for us here; and if He was 
 a just God He'd let us start fair and not handicap half 
 the world to hell from the beginning. I 've larned all this 
 wisdom from the ways of your husband to be. A great 
 teacher, him! And what's the outcome? I'm going to 
 be strong too; I'm going to get my way too. You'll see 
 — you'll see, Unity. And maybe I'll teach him a little 
 some day, in exchange for all I've larned." 
 
 "This is awful news to me," she said. "I'd got to 
 look on my soul as lost — but yours? Don't you go all 
 wrong because I have." 
 
 "Never bleat that stuff no more! Be strong. This 
 praying is tomfoolery — I've proved it. I know what 
 I'm going to do. But the thing is to do it — not talk 
 about it. Look at Ouldsbroom. Who is there don't like 
 him and think highly of him? He's smote me into the 
 dust. Who thinks the worse of him for doing it ? Who 
 comes to help me up? Nobody. I thought that mine 
 was just a pattern ease for God to handle; but 'twasn't. 
 'Tis just a pattern case to show what a man's worth in 
 
 5
 
 66 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 himself. And, afore another year's gone, I shall find 
 out — and you will. ' ' 
 
 "I know very well what you're worth. But don't 
 let it drive you away f rpm chapel, Henry. ' ' 
 
 "Drop all that. 'Tis worse than cant from you. Be 
 strong, I tell you. Did you get the strength to throw 
 me over at chapel? Was it God Almighty gave you to 
 Philip? No, Ouldsbroom took you. Be strong — like 
 your future husband is — and like I mean to be. ' ' 
 
 "I'll never forget all you've been to me." 
 
 "You never will. A lot's going to happen to surprise 
 you yet— if I'm strong enough. If I'm not — then Sleep 
 will find me some day hanging by the neck to the roof- 
 tree in the barn down there; and he'll stand and look 
 and wonder for an hour or two whether 'twould be the 
 proper thing to cut me down. And he'll think it out and 
 decide that he'd better not take too much upon himself 
 and meddle in other people's business; and then he'll 
 saddle the pony and ride off to Postbridge — or maybe 
 over to Hartland — with the gay news." 
 
 ' ' You '11 drive me mad. ' ' 
 
 "I'll drive you — but not mad. Let the future look 
 after the future. I'm a new man. The strongest physic's 
 the nastiest. So all's said. I'll go a bit of the way back 
 with you. Philip wouldn't mind that. I wanted to see 
 you first. I'm going to see him next — and tell him all 
 I 've told you. ' ' 
 
 "I don't understand. I only know I'm terrible miser- 
 able." 
 
 "That's your weakness. The strong are never miser- 
 able. You've done very well and been very wise. Each 
 for himself. I 've got something for you in my pocket — 
 a wedding present 'tis. That shows what a lot I 've been 
 larning. A funny world — I never thought to give you 
 any wedding present but myself. But now " 
 
 He took a parcel from his pocket and gave it to her. 
 
 " 'Tis just a little housewife's case with rows of 
 needles and a thimble and such like. I thought it might 
 be useful. ' ' 
 
 "What a man you are! You talk about trying to be
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 67 
 
 large-minded and forgiving. I didn 't know 'twas in men 
 to forgive what I've done." 
 
 "There's nought woman can do that man can't for- 
 give, if they love enough. You '11 use they needles ? ' ' 
 
 "And think of the giver." 
 
 "Why not? And if Philip offers to be friendly with 
 me, you won't forbid it?" 
 
 ' ' If you can be friendly — who are we not to rejoice at 
 it? You talk of learning from him — 'tis for him to learn 
 from you. ' ' 
 
 ' ' No — no ; I 'm not worthy to black his boots — not yet. 
 He's older — such a lot older, you see. I'll never be able 
 to thrust my shoulder through life like him. ' ' 
 
 Thus were Birdwood's perceptions quickening daily 
 and hourly. He felt them growing while he spoke to 
 Unity. He thought more than he said, and he remem- 
 bered that the fox can go where the hound cannot. 
 
 Now he walked beside Unity to the hill above Stannon 
 Farm, and left her there. 
 
 "I shan't see you afore the wedding; but I'm coming 
 to that. 'Twill be a plucky thing to do — about the first 
 plucky thing I've ever done." 
 
 ' ' You '11 be welcome, ' ' she said. 
 
 "You want me to come?" 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 "That's my reason, remember. I wouldn't come if 
 you'd rather I didn't." 
 
 " 'Twill sting me to the bottom of my soul to see 
 you there ; and yet I wouldn 't miss that sting, ' ' she said. 
 
 "Yes, I know what you mean. 'Tis the worn-out edge 
 of your conscience cutting ragged and hurting. I've 
 heard my old preaching father say that. Get rid of con- 
 science so quick as you can. Unity. Be like Ouldsbroom 
 and like me. We've got no conscience. You can't run 
 with the hare and the hunt. You can't do what you've 
 done and keep a conscience on a chain. Choke it and be 
 free. Get happiness out of life. Good-bye." 
 
 He shook her hand warmly and held it a moment. 
 Then he departed and left her to marvel at this amazing 
 change in the man. He was grown in a space of weeks
 
 68 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 from boyhood to maturity. He seemed to stand on the 
 ruins of himself. She admired him as she had never ad- 
 mired him. She told herself that had he spoken thus 
 when she met him at the sheepfold after Philip's pro- 
 posal, she could never have left him.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Philip Ouldsbroom entered into the state of marriage 
 with many and varied resolutions. He continued, how- 
 ever, to be himself, and within six months the resolutions 
 were forgotten. His wife, more stable, began the new 
 life quite conscious of its large significance and found 
 her nature well able to cope with the addition. She 
 created another atmosphere at Hartland. The rooms were 
 papered; the ceilings were whitewashed; broken walls 
 were mended ; broken gates were removed and new gates 
 hung in place of them. The garden showed her handi- 
 work; the very thatch on the roof signalled that Unity's 
 reign was begun, and flashed gold out of the silver where 
 it was mended. Old cracked crocks and cloam were 
 swept away; old worm-eaten furniture was hacked up 
 for firewood or given to those who coveted it. She set 
 about her task steadily and with method. She made no 
 violent alterations, but instituted a gradual and all-em- 
 bracing change. The task was easy, for she could do no 
 wrong in her husband's eyes. Each suggestion he hailed 
 with delight and declared that none but she could have 
 thought upon. His own ideas w^ere usually of a greater 
 size, involving no small expenditure; and the execution 
 of these she negatived or postponed with skill and tact. 
 
 A man of Philip's pattern w^as clay in Unity's hand, 
 despite her youth; and his transparent kindness and 
 childlike errors of temper and judgment w^ere readily 
 perceived and weighed by his wife before they had been 
 married six weeks. She liked him w^ell, and even 
 glimpsed the beauty of such a large spirit ; but she never 
 
 69
 
 70 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 respected him and never feared him. She made him 
 work harder; but seldom refused the pleasures that he 
 planned for her, and rejoiced him mightily by sharing 
 the things that he held good. She went to revels and 
 other gatherings with him ; she made no demur when he 
 asked friends to supper or, on Sundays, to dinner. She 
 was always willing and always cheerful and hopeful. 
 She hid exactly what she pleased from him, for suspicion 
 was foreign to his nature. They had not much in com- 
 mon at heart; but she affected to share his sympathies 
 more closely than was in truth the case ; and he believed 
 her absolutely, and never ceased to marvel at the amaz- 
 ing parity of emotion that existed between them. If he 
 was angry, she simulated anger; if he was amused, she 
 shared his amusement. She looked to his clothes, and 
 made him dress in a manner worthy of his position. She 
 worked with delicate touches to waken a wider self-re- 
 spect in him. She sought to raise him from his easy 
 attitude of equality with all men. Here, however, she 
 failed; but she did not blame him. She blamed herself 
 and cast about how to approach the problem in a light 
 more favourable. 
 
 They both loved children, and wanted them. But any 
 over-mastering desire is a weakness and throws the ob- 
 sessed individual open to attack. A passion, in what- 
 soever direction, argues appetite so strong that judgment 
 may fail before the strain and a fault in the armour ap- 
 pear. 
 
 Unity Ouldsbroom, having no doubt of the answer, 
 asked her husband after they were married whether she 
 might continue to attend the services of the Little Bap- 
 tists. He laughed and said, "Just so often as ever you 
 like ; but I lay you '11 soon get sick of 'em after you know 
 my way better. ' ' 
 
 He was right: the larger attitude of Ouldsbroom and 
 his contempt of her sect influenced her; while another 
 defection did more, and decided her. Henry Birdwood 
 returned not to his old worship, and none of his friends 
 could prevail upon him to do so. He had taken his dis- 
 appointment in a manner that puzzled the people; and
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 71 
 
 some held him a very wise man, and some called him a 
 coward. But the experience changed his life, added years 
 to his knowledge and self-reliance, and shook up the basal 
 ingredients of his nature, so that they began to appear. 
 
 His father, the itinerant preacher, hearing that he had 
 flung over the faith, came to see him, prayed long, and 
 strove to prevail with him; but he was firm, and the old 
 man Avent broken-hearted about his business. Oulds- 
 broom, who affected Henry 's company after his marriage, 
 and was not denied it, congratulated the shepherd on his 
 pluck and aired his own nebulous opinions at great 
 length, while Birdwood listened and flattered the elder 
 man. And Unity, compounding, woman fashion, with 
 convention and opinion, though she left the Little Bap- 
 tists, became a member of the church congregation. She 
 declared that since she had there been married, her sen- 
 timent determined her to worship there henceforth. 
 
 On a day in spring, Ouldsbroom met the shepherd upon 
 his way to Postbridge, and they walked together between 
 Hartland and the village. Sometimes Unity and her 
 husband drank tea at Teign Head on Sundays, when the 
 weather was fair and the Moor passable ; but more often 
 Birdwood accepted their hospitality. 
 
 " 'Tis nice going now up over," said Henry; *'why for 
 don't you and your misses come along next Sunday and 
 have a dish of tea with me ? I shall be lonesome, for Sleep 
 is away. He've heard of a job to Tavistock and nought 
 will do but he must see if he can better himself. He've 
 been conning over it for a fortnight and will find the place 
 filled, as usual, for he 's always a week behind the fair. ' ' 
 
 "He don't get enough," declared Philip; "no more 
 don't you, for that matter. Twigg's like all them Dis- 
 senters — hungry as a hawk for money. I should have 
 looked around afore now to try and get you a better job ; 
 but I should be awful sorry to lose you from these parts. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Thank you, I 'm sure ; and I should be awful sorry to 
 go. I can't see myself away from Teign Head. I like 
 the freedom and I like being in the saddle half my time 
 If the Moor-man — Twigg, I mean — would but raise it to 
 twenty-five shillings, I could set up to stop here for ever. ' '
 
 72 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "I'll see what I can do. But 'tis difficult now, because 
 you 've throwed over his meeting-house. ' ' 
 
 "That don't count really, though of course he's said 
 so. He knows exactly how far he'd have to look for 
 another shepherd like me. What does he care for a man's 
 soul so long as his body be doing his work well and cheap ? 
 If I was to strike for more, I believe he'd pay it; but I 
 shan't this year though I may a bit later." 
 
 "That's right," declared Ouldsbroom. "I like to see 
 you with a good conceit of yourself. I taught you that, 
 Henry. ' ' 
 
 "That and a lot else." 
 
 * ' Leave it till the end of this year, and then, if you and 
 me together can't squeeze a bit more out of him, I'll cast 
 about. Why, I might get rids of my chap and let you 
 have his place; but ban't your job ezacally." 
 
 "Like you to think of such a fine thing. But that 
 wouldn't do. I'll bide where I be for a bit yet. Who 
 knows ? Perhaps I'll go back to the Little Baptists again. 
 Nearly all the chaps here with sheep be chapel members." 
 
 ' ' Don 't you do that. Keep free of 'em ; hear Barbara 
 Hext tell about em. She 's so wise as a man in everything 
 else; but where they be concerned she's all woman, and 
 can sting like a hornet. ' ' 
 
 "Perhaps she've got good cause. I'd like to know her 
 history. 'Twould teach us a lot about women in general 
 if we did." 
 
 "You get a wife, Henry; that's the way to larn about 
 'em ! Second-hand larning be nothing to having a female 
 always on your hands — or in your arms. Pick the right 
 one, and your days will be such that heaven couldn 't beat 
 'em. I know — I know. Why, my dear man, we don't 
 begin to live till we're married; we don't know we're 
 born till we're married. And that's true, whether it 
 turns out well or ill. We mess along — poor, half-finished 
 things that we are — and we have a go at the girls off and 
 on, and amuse ourselves with the naughty ones, and try 
 and look as if butter wouldn't melt in our mouths when 
 we'm along with the good ones; but 'tis all moonshine, 
 and the naughty ones be just as much hidden from us
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 73 
 
 as the good — may be more. We don't know nought about 
 'em inside their skins. But you marry, and then you'll 
 begin to get a dim sort of an idea what a good woman is 
 — if you marry a good one. And no doubt t'other sort 
 let you see a bit of the naked truth too. ' ' 
 
 "No doubt, no doubt," assented Birdwood. 
 
 *' Yes, 'tis so. I never had much use for women myself ; 
 but looking back I laugh sometimes to think I went blun- 
 dering along, like a runaway hoop, all alone, and thought 
 I was cutting a good figure in the world. There 's only one 
 thing wanting, however " He broke off and sighed. 
 
 Birdwood did not ask for information upon the point, 
 because he knew to what the other referred. After a 
 silence he spoke. 
 
 ' ' Here 's my way. And I '11 count to see you Sunday if 
 the weather holds fair." 
 
 "Better lock up your place and come to us. Come for 
 the day. Ride over early. ' ' 
 
 "Your wife will want to go to church." 
 
 "I shan't." 
 
 "I'll come over then." 
 
 They parted, and Ouldsbroom, grown thoughtful at the 
 shadow in his heart, went forward to the post office. He 
 was soon cheerful again, and joined half a dozen children 
 on the brink of the river. 
 
 "What's the fun, Sally?" he asked of a girl who stood 
 holding a baby in her arms. 
 
 " Us be here to see my brother drown four chets, ' ' said 
 the child stolidly. 
 
 "No, no," he said, and raised his voice. "Come here, 
 you childer — all of you. I'll show 'e something better 
 than drowning kittens up at Miss Hext's shop. Quick, 
 the pack of 'e ! " 
 
 He strode off, knowing well that they would all fol- 
 low. Even the executioner did not delay. He flung the 
 blind, useless life into the river and hastened after 
 Ouldsbroom, 
 
 Fourpence was spent and the children departed ; then 
 Barbara asked Philip his business. 
 
 "Of course if there's a boy or girl in sight you must
 
 74 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 drag it in here and waste your coppers, ' ' she said ; ' ' but 
 what have you come for?" 
 
 "Wish to God there was a boy or girl in sight at 
 Hartland," he answered abruptly. Then he filled his 
 pipe. 
 
 "I haven't come for nothing in particular, but for a 
 bit of a tell with you. You 're the only creature with any 
 sense in Postbridge. " 
 
 "Thank you, I'm sure. 'Tis lucky there's more in my 
 shop than sense, or I shouldn 't have many customers. ' ' 
 
 "I've just been going along with Henry Birdwood. 
 You was out there, for all your wit. You thought I'd 
 never win the man; but we're as thick as thieves now." 
 
 ' ' Thieves always fall out sooner or late, however. ' ' 
 
 "We shan't. I want to better him presently. The 
 puzzle is how to do it." 
 
 "Find him a wife." 
 
 "Ah! just what I was saying, but easy to talk. 'Tis 
 a ticklish task that. Yet good advice, too. A bachelor 
 lives like a toad under a harrow. 'Tis a dog's life. But 
 men have got to choose their own wives. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Well, he did, didn 't he ? 'Twould be only fair if you 
 could find what you took away from him. ' ' 
 
 "So it would. Though he's not much set that way. 
 Rather sour, in fact, against females in general, though 
 very good friends with Unity, so far as I can see. Always 
 civil anyhow. ' ' 
 
 ' ' We can 't many of us see far. And 'tis the best wis- 
 dom of the rare, long-sighted people to keep their sight 
 to themselves." 
 
 "Another child coming at Stannon," broke off Philip. 
 "The luck some women have!" 
 
 "And never know it." 
 
 "A curious thing," he continued: "me and Unity do 
 think so much alike that we often guess t 'other's 
 thought. ' ' 
 
 "A man's a fool to go guessing at woman's thoughts. 
 He might so well pry into her cupboards." 
 
 "You don't know what 'tis to be one with a man 
 through and through."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 75 
 
 "No, I don't. — nor any other woman." 
 
 "Unity does. We're hungering for a boy. That's 
 what we both want more than anything on earth. ' ' 
 
 "I hope 'twill happen, I'm sure. Life must run easy 
 if you can spend time worrying about that." 
 
 "Perhaps you never wanted to be a mother yourself? 
 But a lot of women have a great hunger for it, and none 
 more than my Mdfe. 'Tis a bias of her mind. I'll catch 
 her sometimes just thinking and doing nought. You'd 
 never believe that she could be doing nothing unless she 
 was asleep — would you? But off and on— even in the 
 middle of her bustling days — she'll stand still and stare 
 afore her as if she was struck. She'll let a pot boil over 
 in them minutes; or a cat climb on the table. It comes 
 over her like that." 
 
 ' ' I should never have thought it. " 
 
 "You don't like her," he said, and his under lip stuck 
 out and his jaw hardened. "You never have liked her 
 since she took me instead of Birdwood. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I like a lot in her, Philip. She 's a lesson to this lazy 
 place in a hundred ways. But I don't like her so well 
 as I like you." 
 
 "She's worth a thousand of me. She's made me. I 
 look back at myself and feel ashamed of such a good-for- 
 noughfc as once I was. And gives way to me, too, mind 
 you! 'Tisn't all one-sided. She'll make holiday with 
 me gay as a lark, and put her cares out of her mind, and 
 sit on the green-side for an hour at a time by the river 
 while I'm catching a few trout, or anything like that. 
 If I tell her to come out, as I did three days ago, and 
 listen to a pheasant calling, she'll come and take as much 
 joy in it as I could wish. She's a wonder, and more won- 
 derful every day of her life." 
 
 "I'm glad to hear these things. I hope your wife and 
 me will know each other better." 
 
 "Come up," he exclaimed. "Come up Sunday and 
 eat your dinner along with us." 
 
 "No, I won't do that. Later on, perhaps." 
 
 "There's only one small thing that ever makes her 
 chide me," continued Ouldsbroom, "And that's my
 
 76 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 language. She can't abide a crooked word, for some 
 reason — well used to 'em as she is. ' ' 
 
 "More can I," declared Barbara. "You do swear a 
 great deal too much." 
 
 "I know — I know," admitted the farmer; "but there 
 is such a devil of a lot to swear at ! " 
 
 "You've just said all's as well with you as can be." 
 
 "With me — yes; but I ban't everybody. I mean 
 round about. There's Duchj, to begin with. Who's 
 going to help swearing at that? Then there's all these 
 new things starting on the Moor, and the cannons that 
 carry their beastly cannon-balls three miles, they say; 
 and there's they Little Baptists and their little ways; 
 and there's the hard trouble of getting labour. Why, 
 every young man worth his salt be going off the land, 
 so far as I can see. In fact, the times be enough to make 
 any man swear ; and they ought to make him swear. But 
 I will have my way through it all." 
 
 ' ' The times was always bad and they always will be, ' ' 
 she said. 
 
 He sprang to another subject with the customary weak- 
 ness of relation peculiar to his mind. 
 
 "I offered for to be gossip to Quinton Crymes, his 
 coming child. And he was content that I should be, but 
 Gertrude wouldn't have it. Why for? Because she 
 says I'm a man without God in my life. She wouldn't 
 trust her child to me to teach it things. Silly, moon- 
 faced creature! But I talked to her. 'If I haven't 
 enough sense to lend a hand to a green, young, newborn 
 child, 'tis pity,' I said; 'and whether or no, I'd larn him 
 to put a braver face on his own life and to start it with 
 a better conceit of himself than ever you slimy Little 
 Baptists will. You'll teach him to call himself a worm, 
 and a slave to sin, and a wicked, useless creature not fit 
 to be saved — not worth saving. But I 'd teach him to be 
 like me — a man that ban 't wicked and ban 't a worm, and 
 be quite strong enough and sensible enough to save him- 
 self!' That's what I told Gertrude Crymes, and she 
 stared like a stuck pig and said she hoped the Lord would 
 forgive me. ' '
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 77 
 
 ''All good sense," declared Barbara. "If you were 
 as clever as your words, I 'd have no fear for you. ' ' 
 
 " I am ; and a darned sight cleverer. However, I ban 't 
 clever enough to get a boy seemingly. Still I feel very 
 hopeful about it." 
 
 ' ' So you should. There 's the telegraph ! ' ' 
 
 A bell tinkled, and Miss Hext went to her work while 
 Ouldsbroom looked round him, found a little plum-cake, 
 shouted to Barbara that he had taken it for his wife, 
 and then left the shop.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 The colour strophe and antistrophe of the greater and 
 lesser gorse is nowhere more easily observed than upon 
 the slopes about Stannon farm. When the cuckoo cries, 
 the greater furzes glow, and the linnet makes her nest 
 in the fragrant acres of them; anon, after the blaze of 
 the spring has died out, the smaller plant awakens, lights 
 the rolling hills, and creeps to the very feet of its sleep- 
 ing brother, now sunk into uniform masses of jade green. 
 The lesser gorse twines into the rosy purple of the 
 heather, and spreads the pomp of August on the heights 
 and valleys. It shines with golden warmth; the cloud- 
 shadows scarcely lower its splendour of rich tone; 
 through it twines the pink network of the dodder, and 
 beside it twinkle the euphrasy and tormentilla and sweet 
 wild thyme. 
 
 Over this autumn splendour on Merripit Hill came the 
 man, Ned Sleep, upon his pony at an early hour. A 
 heavy dew was on all things, and each grey cone of 
 spider's web and blade of blue moor-grass glittered with 
 moisture. But though the time was yet short of six 
 o'clock, Sleep's passing had been observed from Stannon. 
 A friend marked him and shouted to arrest attention. 
 
 Ned saw himself beckoned, pulled up his pony, de- 
 liberated, and then turned to the vale beneath. The 
 distant man advanced, threaded Stannon stream, and 
 presently stood beside him. 
 
 ' ' Morning, Sleep ! I seed you going along the hill 
 and thought you'd be so good as to carry a message for 
 me to ' Warren House. ' ' ' 
 
 "I will do so," answered Sleep. "I'm going to More- 
 
 78
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 79 
 
 ton to-day, and you might very likely wonder why for I 
 travel this road; but I've got to call at Mr. Twigg's upon 
 my way." 
 
 "So much the better. I meant to see him myself, but 
 I'm terrible busy getting in fern afore the weather 
 breaks. ' ' 
 
 "The fern's plenty this year. Us be going to save a 
 nice bit I cut down back-along. And what might you 
 want me to say to Mr. Twigg 1 ' ' 
 
 Quinton Crymes explained his desires. 
 
 ' ' 'Tis like this : my wife be going to have another baby 
 afore long, and she ban't doing very clever just now, and 
 doctor won't let her go to chapel or anywhere. My little 
 girl have got the measles also. And Gertrude's down- 
 daunted and crying out for a bit of prayer and pious 
 discourse. You know her sort. You and me be religious 
 men, and so's Twigg. And pastor's away sick, and, as 
 you know, Gregory Twigg be praying for the people till 
 he comes back. So there 'tis. I call upon Twigg, as 
 standing in pastor's place, to come and have a tell with 
 my wife and give her a bit of religion. That is, if the 
 man ban 't too busy to do it. ' ' 
 
 "Let me go over what you say in my mind," said 
 Sleep; and for the space of two minutes he considered 
 all that he had heard. 
 
 "Mr. Twigg to come up over to talk along with your 
 wife and cheer her up, because she can't get to chapel 
 just at present?" 
 
 "That's it, Ned." 
 
 "Why for don't you pray? I've heard you fetch a 
 very tidy prayer more'n once of a Sunday." 
 
 "A woman don't want to hear her husband pray — she 
 knoweth a bit too much about him." 
 
 Sleep nodded. 
 
 "I daresay 'tis so. Their nature puts the stranger man 
 above the every-day one. Then it shall be done. I'll 
 give Mr. Twigg your message." 
 
 "How's Birdwood going on? Haven't seen him this 
 longful time." 
 
 'How's Birdwood,' " repeated the other reflectively. 
 
 X 4-
 
 80 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "You ask me 'How's Birdwood going on?' Well, not 
 to speak in a hurry, I reckon he's coming back a little 
 nearer to grace. Yes, Crymes, I see a mark about him. 
 'Twouldn't amaze me if he was to be viewed again to 
 chapel afore we 're all very much older. ' ' 
 
 " 'Twould be an answer to prayer." 
 
 "Not but what he's stiff-necked still, and I may be 
 wrong. 'Tis only an idea in my mind, and I beg you 
 won't let it go no further." 
 
 "No, no— I shan't do that." 
 
 ' ' As for me, ' ' volunteered Sleep, ' ' in confidence, I may 
 tell you I'm still on the lookout for a new billet. But it 
 don't offer." 
 
 "Well, good-morning, Ned. I must get to work." 
 
 ' ' So must I ; so must I. ' ' 
 
 The men parted, and anon Sleep delivered his message 
 at the 'Warren House' Inn. 
 
 As a result of it Mr. Twigg, who felt himself respon- 
 sible for the spiritual welfare of the Little Baptists dur- 
 ing their pastor's absence, Avalked over to Stannon late 
 in the afternoon, 
 
 Quinton Crymes saw the stout body of him descending 
 the hillside, hastened indoors, and gave his wife the word 
 that Gregory Twigg approached. 
 
 She sighed, with evident relief. 
 
 "Keep him at the door for two minutes," she said; 
 "and I'll just whip aside and turn my apern and ope the 
 parlour window. 'Tis a thought stuffy in there, as we 
 haven't used the room for a good while." 
 
 She aired the parlour, made herself tidy, and issued a 
 few orders to the girl that worked for her. 
 
 "Get the tea," she said; "hot up they cakes as I 
 made last Saturday, and then keep baby quiet. ' ' 
 
 When Twigg arrived, Gertrude thanked him warmly 
 for coming, and found that the versatile man had quite 
 assumed the habit of the pastor. 
 
 ' ' Thank Him who sent me, ' ' said Mr. Twigg. ' ' I have 
 been blessed with more gifts than what you '11 find in most 
 men, Mrs. Crymes; but there's another side to it, and 
 the more gifts, the more work."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 81 
 
 * ' I 'm sure 'tis terrible lucky for minister that he can go 
 off and feel you're pretty near so clever at the souls as 
 him," declared Mr. Crymes. 
 
 "It is lucky, as you say. In fact, so far as the natural 
 skill goes, I'm better than him. 'Tis his business, and a 
 very good and helpful man is Medlicott, and we're for- 
 tunate to have him in our midst; but the real touch is 
 mine. You may have noticed it. Practice has made 
 Medlicott what he is. I 've got what no practice can give 
 — the Fire of the Spirit. Put a living soul in front of 
 me and I lose sight of everything else and feel myself as 
 great as Paul. I'm always astonishing myself and my 
 wife with my flow of speech and the way I bring out an 
 argument. ' ' 
 
 " I 'm sure you astonish us too, ' ' said Quinton Crymes ; 
 "and I shan't forget your kindness in coming over — at 
 a busy season of the year as 'tis with you at the public- 
 house. I should be terrible vexed if I thought we'd put 
 you out." 
 
 "Have no fear for that. The mind that's regulated 
 like mine don 't get put out. I wake up of a morning and 
 say : ' I thank Thee, God, that I find myself ready and 
 willing for everything that may come along.' Nothing's 
 too big for me; because, though terrible big problems 
 turn up and I often feel I'm Duchy's right hand, and 
 know, when the bailiff appears, that he's coming for me 
 to set right his great difficulties — yet my brain is large 
 enough for all. No man catches me in error. I some- 
 times wonder whether the Prince of Wales have ever 
 heard tell of me; for in a way, I've a hand in getting 
 him his money, and no fair man can say I don 't put many 
 and many a pound in his noble pocket along of all I do to 
 help Duchy. ' ' 
 
 "Without a doubt he's heard of you — or ought to 
 have. And now I'll be getting back to my work and 
 leave you with the missis," replied Mr. Crymes. "I shall 
 take it very kind if you'll drink a dish of tea with us 
 afore you go." 
 
 Then he edged away out of the room, and Gregory and 
 the woman were left together.
 
 82 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 '' 'Tis a great misfortune to be cut off from chapel," 
 said Mr. Twigg, "and with a man like Crymes you're 
 bound to feel it. When my wife has to hide herself from 
 the public eye, 'tis nought, because she've got me at her 
 side; and I'm like one of my own beer barrels: you can 
 turn the tap and get a drop of piety, or sense, or a bit of 
 fun, or just what your nature craves at any moment. 
 But 'tisn't given to every woman to marry the like of 
 me, and nobody knows that better than my wife. You 
 want uplifting to the Throne of Grace, and I dare say 
 Crymes haven 't got the knack of comfort like me. I don 't 
 blame him, of course. And now I've got an hour afore I 
 must be gone, and I'll pray for half of it and answer any 
 questions ; and then I '11 have a cup of weak tea. ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis most kind of you. A regular chapel member 
 like me gets to feel the want something cruel, ' ' declared 
 Gertrude. 
 
 "And so you should. Now you sit in that easy chair. 
 The Lord don't want them in your state to kneel; and 
 I '11 stand here and lift my voice to the Almighty. ' ' 
 
 He looked at his watch; then folded his hands over 
 his chest, flung up his eyes and half closed them, so that 
 the whites alone appeared. After a few moments of 
 silent preparation, he began. 
 
 His voice had now entirely changed into a slow drawl ; 
 but his opinions, his attitude to his Maker and to him- 
 self, continued as before. 
 
 "0 Almighty Father, Maker of all things visible and 
 invisible, look, I beseech Thee, upon this visible woman 
 and also upon the invisible child that she is about to 
 fetch forth into the world. I pray Thee let it be num- 
 bered among the few who are chosen and not among the 
 many who must be rejected ; let it be a sheep and not a 
 goat, Lord, and hear the prayer of the just man, which 
 availeth much " 
 
 Mr. Twigg proceeded in this strain for twenty min- 
 utes ; then he varied his attitude by kneeling down. The 
 listener, with clasped hands, open mouth, and straining 
 attention, followed his efforts and obviously won immense 
 peace of mind and exaltation of spirit from them.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 83 
 
 Towards the finish Mr. Twigg tired and looked at his 
 watch again ; then he made a final effort. 
 
 "0 Saviour of mankind and womankind, who art 
 more ready to listen than we to pray, I ask Thee this 
 afternoon especially to have mercy on Thy servant, 
 Gertrude Crymes, to strengthen her and fortify her that 
 she may be a valiant soldier in the army of the Lord, and 
 that she may bring forth in due season, according to Thy 
 holy will and ordinance, a child worthy to become a 
 Christian child and to belong to Thy chosen Little Bap- 
 tists, who are a light to lighten the darkness and the 
 glory of Thy people. Amen. ' ' 
 
 Mr. Twngg bent himself over the parlour sofa and 
 completed the service in silence; Gertrude shed a few 
 comfortable tears. 
 
 ** There; and now if you've got the kettle boiling, a 
 cup of hot but weak tea will be grateful, ' ' said the little 
 man, rising. "I hope you find yourself better, Sister 
 Crymes ? ' ' 
 
 '' I 'm a different woman, " said she. " 'Tis a gert gift, 
 and you'm hiding your light in your public-house under 
 a bushel. To think such a praj^er as that all prayed for 
 one poor, worthless woman." 
 
 "Not worthless," corrected Mr. Twigg. ''You are 
 far from worthless. And, in any case, even the worst 
 woman in your condition can't be worthless. You never 
 know how great a servant of Christ be on the way. 'Tis 
 nervous times now for you mothers, I grant; because 
 if I read the Book right, and I can 't say I know anybody 
 who reads it righter, it looks very like as if Antichrist 
 was upon us. And a mother the Horror must have ; and 
 a father too, for that matter — if 'tis the Devil himself. 
 But you've no call to fret there. He'll come out of the 
 Upper Ten, if I know anything. God's a watchful God, 
 and He won't let a Little Baptist have any hand in the 
 monster. ' ' 
 
 With this comforting reflection Mr. Twigg joined the 
 household at tea in the l^itchen ; he ate and drank 
 heartily, and then, being reminded of a former subject, 
 insisted on lifting another petition.
 
 84 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ' ' Don 't you go, none of you, ' ' he said. ' ' I 've got one 
 more thing to say, and say it I will. It don't concern 
 none of you; but Sister Crymes mentioned the matter, 
 and if 'tis within the power of prayer to hasten it, as 
 who shall doubt? let us do so." 
 
 Crymes and his wife, the girl who worked for Mrs. 
 Crymes, and the old labourer, James Coaker, all knelt 
 down, and Gregory, rested and much refreshed, prayed 
 for Henry Birdwood, that his backsliding might cease 
 and that he might be rescued from the undying worm and 
 the fire which never shall be quenched, even as a brand 
 from the burning, and the widow's piece of silver which 
 was lost and is found again. He hinted to the Deity 
 that it was no ordinary individual who now interceded 
 with Him for the soul of the shepherd, and he concluded 
 by leaving the matter with confidence in the hand of 
 Henry's Creator. He then wished them all well and 
 went his way in perfect tune with finite and infinite. 
 
 "A man to be envied, if he wasn't so good that 'twould 
 be wrong to envy him," said Quinton Crymes. "I'll 
 have a cup of tea now he 's gone ; but I can 't eat or drink 
 easy in his company : he 's so much above me. ' ' 
 
 "A very heartening prayer he prayed — a good half 
 hour, and all too short, ' ' answered his wife. ' ' When you 
 see the man he is, I'm sure 'tis a wonder to me you can 
 keep to church, James. Do your parson pray like that ? ' ' 
 
 "No," answered Mr. Coaker. "To be honest, he don't. 
 At least I've never heard him get at grips with the Al- 
 mighty same as Twigg can. 'Tis as if Gregory was 
 talking to the Duchy Bailiif — and having the best of the 
 argument. ' ' 
 
 "That's the man!" declared Crymes. "You've hit 
 him in a word, Jimmy! He'll argue black's white, if 
 'tis to save a soul. Your chap sticks to the prayer book 
 and han't much more alive than the marker put in be- 
 tween the leaves. When you know a thing by heart — 
 there 'tis — the virtue fades out of it. Twigg takes the 
 Kingdom of Heaven by storm — that's what he does. He 
 won't hear 'No' for an answer, that man won't. In his 
 business with God, just the same as in his business with
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 85 
 
 men, he will have the upper hand — to say it in a pious 
 spirit. ' ' 
 
 "There ban't no surprises to your church," added 
 Mrs. Crymes. " 'Tis all rule o' thumb. You can go to 
 sleep anywhere and, when you waken, pick up the stitch 
 again, like knitting." 
 
 ''But look at the high class of the prayers," argued 
 Mr. Coaker. "When does a common man, like Twigg, 
 light upon such fine, rolling words as we've got in our 
 prayer book? He might pray all his wind out of his 
 body and not come within shouting distance of what we 
 ax for the Queen and Royal Family." 
 
 They debated the rival virtues of their systems of be- 
 lief, but neither convinced the other.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Philip Ouldsbroom, his wife, and Henry Birdwood were 
 driving back to Postbridge from Princetown fair. The 
 farmer had sold six ponies to advantage ; he had enjoyed 
 all the attractions of the revel and drunk a great deal 
 of beer and spirits. He was now market-merry, and his 
 wife held the reins. 
 
 Philip chattered incessantly, and shouted jokes to the 
 riders who passed his cart or the pedestrians he overtook. 
 The pony sale had put him into great good humour; he 
 was building important new projects upon the result 
 of it. 
 
 ' ' They Cornish men know a pony when they see one, ' ' 
 he said to Henry. ' ' ' The very best ponies in the fair ' — 
 that 's what they called mine. There 's tons of cash to be 
 picked up that way, if a man uses his brains. I shall put 
 a slice of money in it — Unity willing — eh, Unity ? ' ' 
 
 " 'Twas a bit of luck," she answered. "It mightn't 
 happen again." 
 
 "No luck about it — not at all," argued her husband. 
 "Think of all I've done for they ponies, and how I 
 brought 'em on, and the trouble I took to choose the sire. 
 'Tis sense, not luck. Sense, not luck, I say. A great 
 future may come out of 'em, handled properly — not only 
 for me, but for all of us in these parts — for all of us — 
 for all of us." 
 
 "You're the leading man at Postbridge," declared 
 Birdwood, "and 'twould be a proper thing if you could 
 throw a bit of light on the subject and help other farmers 
 to do the same. Baskerville, of Shaugh Prior, and you be 
 the only men that really understand the business. ' ' 
 
 "Don't you get telling him that, Henry," said Mrs. 
 Ouldsbroom. "My husband spends too much time as 
 
 86
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 87 
 
 it is 'pon other people's errands. If he's leading man in 
 Postbridge, he don't behave like it. A child can order 
 him about." 
 
 '*A child, yes," admitted Philip. "I'll do anything 
 for the dinky dears. But 'tis I order t 'others about; 
 they don 't order me, I assure you. Birdwood here knows 
 what I am — I say he knows what I am. M^ 'no' be 'no,' 
 and my 'yes' be 'yes.' Show me the man as will order 
 me about — I 'd like to see him ; I 'd like to see him ! ' ' 
 
 He became truculent, and his wife expressed regret. 
 
 "I didn't mean nothing more than that you are a lot 
 too kind, Phil — too kind and too easy." 
 
 "So you are, Ouldsbroom — that's no more than truth 
 any wa}'," declared the shepherd. "Plow much money 
 did you give all they mountebanks and foreigners and 
 beggars at the fair? A good shilling or two, I'll war- 
 rant." 
 
 "There was a terrible fine Italian woman there," said 
 Philip. "Black as a crow her eyes, and her hair too. 
 She was dressed so gaudy as her little parrot, and for 
 twopence the blessed bird drawed out a card and told me 
 — told me my fortune — damn the little liar ! ' ' 
 
 He grew grim suddenly with thoughts darkened. 
 
 "Hullo! what was it then?" 
 
 Without replying the farmer drew a card from his 
 pocket and handed it to Birdwood. 
 
 Unity's lips tightened, and she looked at the horse's 
 head. She had seen the card. 
 
 " 'A good wife and seven children — plenty of money 
 and plenty of friends!' " read out the younger man. 
 "Well, what's the matter with that?" 
 
 "The matter is it ban't true." 
 
 "All true but one item, after all. You can't expect a 
 poll-parrot to do better, eh, Unity ? ' ' 
 
 "I reckon we'd sooner have all the rest a lie and that 
 one item right, ' ' she answered, still looking before her. 
 
 Birdwood felt the matter too delicate for a bachelor's 
 tongue and said so. He knew the trouble of this home 
 well enough. 
 
 Talk drifted into other channels, and they began to
 
 88 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 descend the hill to Two Bridges. Arrived at the bottom, 
 Ouldsbroom insisted on stopping. 
 
 "I must have another drink," he declared. But his 
 wife persuaded him not to alight. She whispered to him, 
 and he gave a short laugh and yielded. 
 
 "All right — get on," he said. 
 
 Presently he explained to Henry. 
 
 "If you want a woman to do your bidding, you must 
 be very ready to do hers — mind that. Me and Unity be 
 two halves of a flail — one nought without t'other — one 
 nought without t'other I say; and 'tis as easy for me to 
 pleasure her as 'tis for her to please me. But you don't 
 find it so in every home, Henry — not in every home. 
 More often than not the friendship's a make-believe 
 thing, done to fool the neighbours. Wedded life be built 
 on give-and-take, and that's a duty in some homes, for 
 the apple-cart would soon be off the wheels without it. 
 But when you get understanding men and women that 
 have the luck to be wedded, and each — well, like me and 
 my wife — a wish is enough. We can't have everything, 
 I suppose." 
 
 They reached home at dusk, and Birdwood mounted 
 his pony, which had brought him very early to Hartland, 
 and set oft' for Teign Head. Unity asked him to stop 
 to supper, but he refused. 
 
 Their relations were openly cordial and secretly close. 
 Many opportunities to see each other alone occurred, and 
 intimacy had long been established between them. Oulds- 
 broom was a man to whom jealousy was unknown. He 
 could not feel the emotion, and his view of it showed that 
 even imagination was unable to picture it for him. 
 
 The subject formed matter for debate at Miss Hext's 
 upon the occasion of a tragedy in a neighbouring hamlet. 
 A hedge-cutter 's wife had left her husband and run away 
 with a carpenter to Canada. Mr. Culme, the water- 
 bailiff, took a grave view of the event, and Gregory 
 Twigg, who was also of the company, agreed with 
 him. 
 
 "In Canada, or if not Canada, 'tis in America," said 
 the Little Baptist, "a man is divorced for the asking
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 89 
 
 and a woman for little more. -Nothing is done against it, 
 though for my part, if I was an American I should stand 
 up for the married state and never vote a man to Par- 
 liament who supported such a loose way of living." 
 
 "Bah!" answered Ouldsbroom. "What do you and 
 the likes of you know about large-minded people? A 
 big nation takes big views, and so do I ; and one of my 
 views be this, that if a pair be sick to death of the sight 
 of each other, 'tis tyranny chaining 'em together any 
 more. And I'll go further and say that if one of the 
 parties be sick of the other, no right-spirited man or 
 woman would want to go on with it. ' ' 
 
 "Easy to talk — a man happily married like you," said 
 Mr. Twigg. "But I, though I suppose no man ever 
 chose his wife with much better judgment and fore- 
 thought than me, can look around and see the danger of 
 loosening the marriage bond. Those that God hath joined 
 together, let no man put asunder. ' ' 
 
 "That's all right," allowed Philip; "but you know 
 how many come together without any help of God, and 
 to keep 'em in double harness for life be doing the devil 's 
 work, if there is such a party. If my wife corned to me 
 to-morrow and said ' Phil, I 've found a chap I like better 
 than you, ' d 'you think that I should fret my liver rotten 
 about it? Not me. I'd say, 'Then go to him. You 
 can live your life but once, and there 's none of the glory 
 of being men and women in heaven, by all accounts. So 
 go to him — and I '11 see what I can do. ' What sane man 
 would keep a woman in his house who pined to be out of 
 it? What self-respecting female would stop in a man's 
 home after she knew he was sick of the sight of her ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' You owe your neighbours something, I should hope, ' ' 
 said Mr. Twigg. "A good example we've a right to 
 expect from every respectable member of the commu- 
 nity." 
 
 "Be I going to live a lie to keep my neighbours calm, 
 do 'e think? Not I — nor any sensible man. She was 
 right to go with the carpenter. She'd have been a weak- 
 minded fool to stop; and the hedge-tacker — a worm, not 
 a man, I call him — he shows she was right and wise to
 
 90 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 leave him; for ever since' she went he's spent his time 
 whining in the public-houses and letting anybody stand 
 him drinks because of his terrible misfortune." 
 
 "So would you whine if you'd been left desolate with 
 an old blind mother-in-law and a barrow-load of little 
 sticky children/' said Mr. Culme. " 'Tis very well for 
 the likes of you, with no family, to say these godless 
 things, my dear man; but what about the young left 
 without a mother to look after 'em ? ' ' 
 
 Ouldsbroom did not answer immediately, but looked 
 at the hunchback with a sort of sulky frown in his blue 
 eyes. 
 
 All roads seemed to end in the same barren wilderness ; 
 all discussions appeared sooner or later to drift upon this 
 misfortune. 
 
 "One or other of you fools be always ramming that 
 down my throat," he said. "Ban't I often enough put 
 in mind of it without hearing you babble it? Don't every 
 little one I pass in the road remind me? 'Tis very in- 
 decent in you to say any such thing, Peter Culme, and 
 I '11 thank you not to do it no more, for I won 't stand it. ' ' 
 
 Miss Hext endeavoured to still the farmer 's annoyance. 
 
 "Be sure no living man, nor yet woman, would seek 
 to fret you there," she said. "We all know what you 
 are with the children — and none better than me, that 
 sell toys and lollipops. Peter here never meant to anger 
 you." 
 
 "Certainly not. Why should I?" asked the water- 
 keeper. 
 
 "These things be inside the law, and there are men in 
 the world who understand 'em as well as we understand 
 our affairs," continued Barbara. "I was a yery great 
 reader when I lived in London, and I took everything 
 that came and knew a lot then, though I've forgotten 
 most of it since. But there's qualities be handed from 
 father to son, besides the likeness of face or shape of 
 shoulders. One man will hand on a weakness and another 
 hand on a strength. So it comes out with you, Philip." 
 
 "My father was strong as a bear; and so be I." 
 
 "But he never got but one child, for all his strength.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 91 
 
 He wasn 't a fertile man ; and he was only one of two, for 
 I 've heard you say so. ' ' 
 
 "Weren't his fault about children," answered Philip. 
 "He married late in life, and my mother was get- 
 ting up in years too. She was over forty when I was 
 born." 
 
 They argued upon Barbara's scanty knowledge until 
 Ouldsbroom stopped them. 
 
 "I won't hear another damned word on the subject!" 
 he cried. ' ' And if any man wants to quarrel with me let 
 him name it." 
 
 " 'Twill be time enough to pull a long face when 
 you've been married ten year instead of two," summed 
 up Miss Hext. 
 
 But from that hour the report was spread that Philip 
 and Unity, for lack of family, were not all that they 
 should be to each other. Indeed lying rumour magnified 
 the matter into an actual rift. 
 
 With passage of time a shadow truth might have been 
 allowed to the story. There was no actual dissension, 
 but the failure of a common desire existed, and both 
 felt it. Had one alone done so, the other might have 
 helped to heal the want; but husband and wife alike 
 wished for offspring with intense fervour. Life ran ex- 
 ceedingly smoothly, and nothing happened to distract 
 them from this ceaseless hope. It was the master-wish of 
 each mind, and while the woman 's larger reason and con- 
 trol fought with her disappointment, the man's feebler 
 nature failed effectually to do so. Had he been more 
 rational. Unity would have respected him and sought to 
 emulate his common sense before a circumstance beyond 
 their own control; but since he permitted himself large, 
 vain regrets, she smarted too — at first openly ; then, when 
 he spoke harshly to her and flung the blame upon her, 
 she brooded in secret. 
 
 Once she spoke to Bird wood on the subject. 
 
 "He seems to think, poor dear chap, that all the dis- 
 appointment and hardship of it be on his shoulders. He 
 may grumble so much as he pleases; but I mayn't. He 
 catched me in a weak moment fretting about it when I
 
 92 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 thought he was long ways off; and he dressed me down 
 proper, I promise you. ' ' 
 
 "It beats me," answered the man, "why a pair of sane 
 creatures can mourn for that. Look round and see what 
 the children are worth — thorns — thorns I should call 'em. 
 If you 'd married me, you might have had so many as you 
 wanted, and more ; but 'twould have been no pleasure to 
 me to have 'em. I can swear to that. ' ' 
 
 She considered his words at the time and remembered 
 them afterwards.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Mr. Twigg's hostelry was isolated, but since it stood upon 
 the main thoroughfare of Dartmoor, he enjoyed a fair 
 share of custom. 
 
 The 'Warren House' occupied high ground at the limit 
 of the Eastern Quarter of the Forest, and formed a good 
 centre for the manifold industries of Gregory. But he 
 had few friends, and his bar-parlour was not frequented. 
 Upon the roadside custom he principally depended, be- 
 cause local men went only for drink, and not for com- 
 pany, to the 'Warren House.' They wearied of the host, 
 whose sole interests were centred in himself, and who 
 had little leisure or sympathy for the temporal affairs 
 of lesser men. He would preach for the pleasure of it at 
 an instant's notice, but his vanity kept him within the 
 band of his own religious associates; and even some of 
 them stayed away from chapel when it was known that 
 Brother Twigg would conduct service. 
 
 Behind his bar Gregory was always didactic and su- 
 perior. He could not help giving advice and he could not 
 help drawing a moral — generally from his own achieve- 
 ments and victories. 
 
 Ouldsbroom liked him little, but as Moor-man of the 
 district, Mr. Twigg had dealings with all the local farm- 
 ers, and sometimes it happened that Philip could not 
 conduct business through a messenger and was eon- 
 strained to go in person. 
 
 Towards Christmas duty took him to the 'Warren 
 House, ' and after his business was settled he spoke awhile 
 to Gregory and, at his invitation, drank a glass or two 
 of sloe gin. 
 
 93
 
 94 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ' ' My own brewing that, ' ' explained Mr. Twigg. ' ' You 
 can't get such a liquor outside these doors. I've arrived 
 at it after years of experiments. The fox-hunters never 
 pass here but they draw up and cry out for it. I 'm told 
 I could get fifty pounds in London for the recipe, and no 
 doubt I could. ' ' 
 
 "Very pretty drinking. And what's this I hear about 
 Henry Birdwood? Haven't seen him lately to ax him 
 myself. But you might know. Is he going back to your 
 prayer-shop again?" 
 
 ''He's coming back to the footstool of the Throne of 
 Grace again, if that's what you mean." 
 
 "I can't believe it — not after all I've taught him about 
 being a free man and to keep clear of you psalm-smiters. 
 How d'you know 'tis true, Twigg?" 
 
 ' ' We, who stand a little closer to our Lord and Saviour 
 than the rank and file of people, often get first news of 
 such things," answered Mr. Twigg. "Of course a god- 
 less man, like you, wouldn't understand that, and I 
 wouldn 't try to explain it ; but I know 'tis true, which is 
 all that matters. He's coming back into Christianity; 
 but whether 'tis to church or to us, I can't quite tell you. 
 To us, I should hope." 
 
 "To church if anywhere. And I'll bet you half a 
 dozen bottles of beer on it that 'tis my wife have done 
 this ! She 's so steady as a rock for church ever since she 
 was married in it. And if you must go anywhere, 'tis 
 better there than to your show, where any fool can get up 
 and make a row if he wants to. ' ' 
 
 "How little you know, Ouldsbroom! Many religious 
 men would be very angry with you for taking the name 
 of the chosen in vain." 
 
 "Bosh! But if you want Birdwood, I dare say there's 
 a way. Money's money. Tell him that if he comes back 
 to you, 'twill be good for half-a-crown a week more, and 
 very like he'd come." 
 
 "Not at all — not at all. Where's your manners even 
 to suggest such a thing? Can we buy souls with money? 
 I hope Henry will give me a chance to have a few words, 
 because women don't understand, and never will. They
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 95 
 
 mix up stained-glass windows and the organs going, and 
 boys singing, and the rich cloth on the table, and all the 
 rest of it with religion, and think because these things ex- 
 cite 'em that the Lord is near. But if you ask me " 
 
 He was interrupted by Henry Birdwood himself. The 
 shepherd had walked over, and now called for beer before 
 he opened his business. 
 
 "You was the man in our mouths, neighbour," said 
 Mr. Twigg, drawing half a pint. "There's a little bird 
 have told me that you may be seen among Christian men 
 again afore very long, and I'm terrible glad to think 'tis 
 true. I heard the story a good bit ago, and have been 
 hoping for six weeks that any Sunday might see you in 
 your old place." 
 
 "Never, Mr. Twigg," said Henry firmly. "I've no 
 grudge against the chapel, but — well, if I go back, 'twill 
 be to the church." 
 
 "And why, if I may ask?" inquired the publican. 
 "I'm sure your poor father would feel 'twas a cruel, 
 left-handed answer to his prayers, if you did that. 
 What 's the reason ? ' ' 
 
 "I've bet Gregory six bottles of beer that the reason 
 is my wife," declared Philip. 
 
 Birdwood laughed. 
 
 "Well, if he took the bet, you've won," he answered. 
 ' ' She 's death on my going back, and I 'd do anything in 
 reason for her." 
 
 Philip crowed, and Mr. Twigg shook his head. 
 
 "You've a lot to answer for, Ouldsbroom. This is all 
 your bad work. First you take Sister Unity away, and 
 now, through her, this man." 
 
 "I took myself away," said Birdwood. "Everybody 
 knows that." 
 
 "You think you did, but farmer here was at the root 
 of it. None can deny me when I say so. 'Tis a shocking 
 thing, because Ouldsbroom is nought himself and worse 
 than nought. It might be forgiven if he was a deep 
 believer. But look at him— he don't believe in nothing 
 but the strength of his own evil nature." 
 
 The farmer spoke.
 
 96 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ''I told him you'd come back like a lamb if he put a 
 bit on your wages, Henry ; but when I said that, Twigg 
 was off. He'd rather part from you than another half- 
 crown a week ; wouldn 't you, Gregory ? ' ' 
 
 "I wish I could learn you manners, neighbour," an- 
 swered the other. ' ' To say things like this before a man 
 and his master is most improper ; but you'll never under- 
 stand — never. Your education was neglected, shocking, 
 Philip." 
 
 "Yes — thank the Lord, if you're a sample of schooling. 
 And now give me a thimbleful more of thicky sloe gin 
 and I '11 be going. ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis funny you should be talking about my wages," 
 said Birdwood. "You needn't haste, Ouldsbroom; I've 
 got no secrets from you; but that's the very matter I'm 
 here about. I 've had an offer for after Christmas. 'Twill 
 take me to Chagford, and I should be cruel sorry to go ; 
 but there's a bit more to it, and I'm thinking seriously 
 upon the subject. I'm not like Sleep — always going to 
 make a change and never doing it. The people came to 
 me — not me to them. And they're very good people, 
 too, though I can't mention no names, being forbid to do 
 so for the present." 
 
 Mr. Twigg was much annoyed. Indeed, his indigna- 
 tion flushed him to his bald forehead. 
 
 ' ' This is most outrageous, and I refuse to hear of it, ' ' 
 he said. "You ought to know me better, Henry, and 
 yourself too. Whatever is coming to the young men 1 ' ' 
 
 "Sense," declared Philip. "The world's waking up. 
 Henry 's worth what he '11 fetch ; and if he can fetch half- 
 a-crown more than you'll pay — good-bye to you. That's 
 demand and supply, that is. ' ' 
 
 "It's nothing of the kind: it's a piece of very un- 
 christian ingratitude," answered Mr. Twigg. "How- 
 ever, me and Henry will talk about that. 'Tis no busi- 
 ness of yours, I believe. ' ' 
 
 ' ' You Little Baptists ! ' ' retorted Ouldsbroom. ' ' You 'm 
 like shell-snails sailing along with your heads in the air 
 until somebody asks for a bit of cash. Then down come 
 your horns, and you shrivel up and shrink into your
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 97 
 
 houses, as if the devil and all his ducks was after 
 you." 
 
 He left the bar, laughing loudly at his own joke. 
 
 He had not gone far, however, before Henry Birdwood 
 also emerged and ran down the hill after him. 
 
 Ouldsbroom, on hearing himself called, turned and 
 waited for the other. 
 
 "Hullo!" he said. "You wasn't long coming to the 
 bargain. ' ' 
 
 "No. Greg saw I meant business from the first. He 
 knows very well that I ought to have more. He wanted 
 to make it a condition I went back to chapel ; but I 
 wouldn't. I've done with them." 
 
 ' ' That 's brave hearing ! And presently, you screv/ him 
 up a bit higher yet. ' ' 
 
 "I'm not anxious to work for him, and if 'twasn't for 
 you, I'd so soon be down to Chagford as not." 
 
 Philip 's heart warmed instantly. 
 
 "I won't have you go," he said. "You're the right 
 sort, and I think a lot of you, and I '11 be some real use to 
 you some day — see if I won't. Me and my wife are very 
 fond of you, and 'tis a lonely house at Hartland along 
 of no family, so we can't afford to lose a friend." 
 
 "There's her people at Stannon. " 
 
 "Yes; but I've no use for 'em. They wouldn't even 
 let me stand gossip to the new babby. A proper, li '1, fat, 
 chubby boy they've got, and always wants for to come to 
 me, young though he is. They know somehow — the 
 toads — that I'm that set upon 'em." 
 
 Birdwood said nothing, and Philip followed his own 
 thoughts for a while. He preferred to speak than think, 
 however, and presently broke into further words. There 
 were links missing in his train of ideas, but Birdwood 
 found no difficulty in appreciating them. Indeed, he 
 knew all that was passing in the other's mind at this sea- 
 son, for Ouldsbroom 's wife hid few secrets from him. 
 
 "Of course as a man I can stand it with a man's 
 strength. I 've my work and my plans — though work and 
 plans be unfinished things if there's nought to work and 
 plan for. But I've got Unity too, and I dare say, even
 
 98 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 if we did have the rare fortune to get childer after all, 
 they'd never be to me what she is. When I balance the 
 thought of a son against her, 'tis queer how my mind 
 jumps for a moment, but I always come back to her and 
 put her first." 
 
 "If even the thought of a child makes you hesitate, 
 perhaps, when you do get one, you'll find it's more than 
 anything in the world — even her. ' ' 
 
 "No, I can't think that. The mother of any child of 
 mine would be pretty nearly as much — quite as much, I 
 do think — as the child. What I was saying is that as a 
 man, and a pretty tough sort of man, I can face the dis- 
 appointment; but I'm very sorry for her. She's awful 
 cut up about it sometimes — for her own sake as much 
 as mine. My life's full; but no married woman's life 
 be full without children. ' ' 
 
 "A lot don't think so, however." 
 
 "Then they ban't women — only forked radishes. Let 
 that flat-footed, hard-lipped sort herd together, and go 
 out like tallow candles and leave nought behind. Unity 's 
 very different from that. Look at her — ' mother ' stamped 
 all over her. She 'd sell her soul for a brave boy. ' ' 
 
 "I can't understand such a fancy. I don't like chil- 
 dren, and never did." 
 
 ' ' So much the worse for you. But 'tis ignorance, not 
 vice makes you say it. 'Twould be wickedness to mean 
 such a thing. Wait till you are suited with a maiden." 
 
 "No more maidens for me. A good old salted widow 
 some day — but not till I'm turned of fifty, I mean to 
 be free till then, ' ' declared Birdwood.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 The trees of Postbridge stand in parallel rows — straight 
 and crooked, slim and stout. They are beeches for the 
 most part; and now their foliage flew to join the crisp 
 and copper-coloured masses gathering in water-tables and 
 the hollows of the fields. They seemed a part of the life 
 and the business of the place. Together with the river, 
 the famous ' cyclopean ' bridge that spanned it, and other 
 inanimate things, the trees made a topic for the people 
 and a plaything for the children. Their budding, fruit- 
 ing, and fall were a matter of conversation as regular as 
 the weather; and with autumn the harvest of them was 
 a joy to the young, who gathered the brown, triangular 
 nuts from road and meadows. The mast spattered the 
 highway in November and covered it with white spots 
 where wheels had crushed the kernels. This scattered 
 food chaffinches and other small birds devoured. 
 
 Night crept among the trees and rain drifted through 
 their ranks as the folk emerged from church. The ser- 
 vice was held after noon, but the evenings were grown 
 so short that darkness spread over all things before the 
 people left their place of worship. A stranger would 
 have been concerned for her attire ; but rain to the na- 
 tives was a matter so familiar that women only put up 
 their umbrellas for the sake of their bonnets. 
 
 Unity Ouldsbroom, however, found an umbrella held 
 over her, and it was her first love, Henry Birdwood, who 
 did this service. 
 
 He was laughing at the mild sensation his advent 
 caused, for in the little congregation of thirty souls he 
 had appeared as a conspicuous figure. 
 
 99
 
 100 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "Funny to see 'em gaping," he said. "I felt a feeling 
 that I should have liked to say the truth out loud to 'em 
 and let 'em all know that I wasn't there for praying, but 
 a better reason — just to walk back as far as your gate 
 along with you of a Sunday night!" 
 
 "I can't believe it of you. 'Tis the sort of silly thing 
 as my husband might do — not you." 
 
 They talked of Unity as they went through the trees, 
 with the rain in their faces, to Hartland. 
 
 ' ' You know all about me, ' ' she said. ' ' What for d 'you 
 want to go over the ground so oft?" 
 
 "Because I don't know all about you. You seem all 
 right — to the eyes of other people. They all say you're 
 a marvel, and have trained up that man like a mother, 
 and brought him to be twice the man he was. They say 
 that's been your life's work these two years and more, 
 and that you're a happy woman because your work's a 
 success. But I tell them about the man and his shoe. 
 'Twas a very tidy shoe and looked all that it should be 
 in the eyes of his neighbours; but the person that wore 
 it knowed where it pinched — and only him. ' ' 
 
 "I'm tired of that." 
 
 * ' Are you going to ax me to stop to supper to-night ? ' ' 
 
 "No. My husband's got a friend here. He wanted 
 you to come, but Mr. Knowles isn't your sort, so I don't 
 ask you." 
 
 "Philip hit a man down yesterday, I hear, for saying 
 something about no children. ' ' 
 
 "Can't the people see that, whether or no, he's a child 
 himself?" 
 
 "That's true. One child you've got anyway, and 
 he's a handful too, I'll swear, for all you seem to manage 
 him so easy. ' ' 
 
 * ' A child sure enough in many things. ' ' 
 
 "I wish I'd known more about him two years agone, 
 when he went over me like a regiment of cavalry and 
 left me dumb and dazed and weak as water. Knowing 
 all I know now, and feeling all I feel, I can't hardly be- 
 lieve that 'twas this man flung me out of his way. 'A 
 man' I call him, but he's a boy all through Sport — fish
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 101 
 
 • — birds — childish things — always. All toys and to- 
 morrows. Everything be going to happen to-morrow. 
 To-day's never of no account with him. We may drink, 
 or sport, or waste any amount of time to-day; but to- 
 morrow we be going to do man's work. I could be sorry 
 for the fool, if I didn't " 
 
 ''Stop that now. I won't have it, Henry. What's 
 the sense to waste words so? Surely, between you and 
 me, we've got beyond that?" 
 
 "You're one of the rare sort that can live without 
 looking back, ' ' he answered. ' ' I haven 't reached so far. ' ' 
 
 ''Learn from Philip, then, for all you despise him. 
 To-morrow's better than yesterday anyway." 
 
 ' ' It shall be ; if you leave your to-morrows to me. ' ' 
 
 "As to that, you have enough of my time, I should 
 think." 
 
 They were at Hartland gate, and they stood beyond 
 the radius of a sheaf of light that fell across the yard 
 from the parlour window. 
 
 Voices came from within, for the window was open. 
 
 "Ponies again I suppose?" whispered Henry to Mrs. 
 Ouldsbroom. 
 
 "Yes, ponies. Phil be going to make everybody's 
 fortune. ' ' 
 
 "A terrible kind chap; but the sort that mars more 
 fortunes than he makes. ' ' 
 
 ' ' With his own thrown in. ' ' 
 
 "Might have been so; not now. Hasn't he got two 
 clever people on his side?" 
 
 ' ' He 's got me — who else ? ' ' 
 
 "And me too. Should you and me be such friends 
 if it wasn't so?" 
 
 "What a word-shuffler you are ! I hate it in you. Keep 
 that sort of stuff for other people. 'Tis no use to me." 
 
 "I get that way of looking at things through my 
 father. Preachers have to make words do all they can do. 
 You can prove anything with words. You can bend 'em 
 to any pattern, if you master them. I make words say 
 I'm the true friend of Philip Ouldsbroom. And for that 
 matter, who can say I ban't?"
 
 102 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ''You're a mocking devil, and I ought to hate you if 
 I was a wise woman. My husband's a wholesome crea- 
 ture, if he is tasteless ; but you — you 're sauce and poison 
 both." 
 
 "Sauce to your life, anyway; and you know it. 'Tis 
 the least I can be since you 're the breath of mine. Hark ! 
 There's your cowman coming. I'll be gone." 
 
 The sound of feet lumbering up the lane struck Bird- 
 wood's quick ear. He kissed her and vanished to the 
 Moor.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Miss Hext found it difficult to make her customers 
 understand that at a certain hour her shop closed. Shut- 
 ters she had none; but when four green blinds were 
 drawn, the fact was supposed to indicate that business 
 had ceased for the day. The folk, however, ignored this 
 hint ; and since many of her customers lived at great dis- 
 tances and were only able to visit her after their work 
 was finished, she often declared that in truth her general 
 shop never shut its doors. During the long summer 
 evenings the futility of attempting to stop work was spe- 
 cially apparent, and the bell often jangled till nine 
 
 'clock. 
 
 It was not far short of this hour when Henry Bird- 
 wood called for some articles of grocery on a night in 
 early July. Barbara protested while she served him. 
 
 ''You selfish men will work me into my grave," she 
 said. 
 
 ''Not a bit of it," he answered. "You know you're 
 coining money. You ought to start a shop assistant." 
 
 "Don't tell me that. 'Twill be so, no doubt — worse 
 luck. It must come. But not an hour before I can help 
 it. My heart sinks when I think of having to teach a 
 young creature what this shop means. I was talking to 
 my dog last night. 'You don't get no younger, "Sarah," ' 
 
 1 said; for in truth she's getting older, and that very 
 fast. And she sat there, and I seemed to fancy an 
 answer in her eyes — as much as to say, ' No more do you, 
 Barbara Hext.' But an assistant is a frosty thought. 
 I'm not sure if I wouldn't rather give up and sell the 
 shop." 
 
 "I dare say there's a good few would be very ready 
 to take it off your hands. ' ' 
 
 103
 
 104 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ''Not a doubt of it." 
 
 He was preparing to leave, but the hunchback, Peter 
 Culme, came in, and Birdwood stopped a little longer. 
 
 Miss Hext grumbled and lighted another lamp, for 
 Peter's order demanded search in a dark corner. 
 
 ' ' Just gave Philip Ouldsbroom ' good-night, ' " he said. 
 "He's in a merry mood seemingly, and more than fresh, 
 by the sound of his voice. Was up at ' Warren House ' on 
 his pony, telling very loud to half a dozen men — some- 
 thing about his fine wife, I think 'twas — but I didn't 
 stop. He just shouted out ' Good luck ! ' after me, in the 
 cheerful sort o' way men do when they've had good luck 
 themselves and feel large-hearted." 
 
 "Large-hearted always, he is," declared Miss Hext. 
 "Never was such another." 
 
 " 'Tis funny to hear the fool sometimes, all the same," 
 replied Birdwood. "We be very good friends now, as 
 everybody knows; but for the life of me I can't help 
 laughing to hear him bragging how he took his wife for 
 her sense and wisdom. ' ' 
 
 "A left-handed sort of laugh from you, I should 
 think," said Mr. Culme, "seeing how he served you." 
 
 "No; that's very near three year old. I'm not think- 
 ing of that. But to hear him tell how he took her for her 
 sense, when all the world knows she took him for his 
 farm ' ' 
 
 "She's the sort to keep at the helm of her own life 
 and let none other steer her," asserted Barbara. "You 
 can see that in her mouth. Rule she does ; but he never 
 feels it. He's the happier for it. She's a clever woman. 
 I won 't deny her that, though I don 't like her, and never 
 did." 
 
 Birdwood regarded the post-mistress curiously. 
 
 "Why not?" he asked. 
 
 ' ' Why should I ? She 's not my sort. But her husband 
 is. There's a finer nature hid in him than she can feel 
 or guess at. But there 'tis : the match have worked very 
 well, and long may it last so." 
 
 "As to that, she married him for his farm, you say, 
 Henry," argued Mr. Culme. "Well, if you'm right,
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 105 
 
 there'll come failure soon or late seeing to marry for 
 goods be wrong." 
 
 "Don't you think it. Unity's a pinch too clever for 
 failure. She never takes a step with her eyes shut, that 
 woman. She ban't the sort that a man marries, come 
 to think of it. You 'd say of her she 's the sort that mar- 
 ries a man." 
 
 "God help the man then," said Peter. 
 
 "Why, so He has," answered the shepherd. "Philip's 
 got better luck than he deserves — fool's luck. We know 
 the truth about most things a bit too late to be any use 
 to lis. If I'd larned the truth about Ouldsbroom when 
 he took that woman away from me, I'd have got her 
 back in time. I 'm cleverer than him. ' ' 
 
 "He thinks that you are his best friend," said Bar- 
 bara; "but 'tis time I warned him against you again — 
 as I did before he was married." 
 
 "And I am his best friend, I dare say. I've given 
 him the benefit of my sense more than once. I get older ; 
 he don't. He's where he was when he bested me; but 
 I'm not. And don't you think to turn him from me, 
 Miss Hext; because you won't do it. He knows very 
 well that you don't like me." 
 
 Birdwood took his parcels and went out. He had not 
 gone far when Philip himself appeared, coming down 
 Merripit Hill. 
 
 Ouldsbroom was mellow and did not recognize Henry. 
 But he shouted 'Good-night!' Birdwood, curious to 
 learn the matter of this exaltation, stopped, and the 
 farmer, at sound of his voice, recognised him. 
 
 ' ' There now ! Everything goeth right to-day ! I wag 
 out over at your place with the news this morning; but 
 you were to work, and Sleep couldn't tell where. Then 
 I rode into Chagf ord and told a good few friends there ; 
 and then I went down to Moreton and told 'em there; 
 and everybody's that pleased about it that what with 
 drinking luck and one thing 'n 'nother, I've got a skinful 
 — I 've got a skinful, Henry. ' ' 
 
 "And what is the luck?" 
 
 "To think there's anybody don't know it, and you, of
 
 106 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 all men! My wife — she's with child, my lad! 'Tis 
 beyond doubt, and I've been shouting the news to the 
 sheep in the lonely places! Couldn't keep it in — such 
 a fool am I ! " 
 
 "That's great hearing and no mistake! Can you get 
 home, or shall I go beside your boss ? ' ' 
 
 "I'm all right. Haven't done my round yet. Be 
 just going to tell Barbara ; then I must get down to Two 
 Bridges — to Two Bridges you know. Masterman and his 
 wife at the 'Ring o' Bells' would never forgive me if they 
 heard the news from anybody else. And 'twill be over 
 the Moor like a flame of fire to-morrow ! ' ' 
 
 "I'm terrible glad, Philip; and I hope she's pleased." 
 
 " 'Pleased!' Good God! Pleased ban't the word — 
 I say pleased ban't the word. She've wanted a man child 
 ever since the day she was old enough to bear one. And 
 a man child 'twill be. 'Tis my will! I'll take no denial 
 of it. A blessed boy, I say; and he'll be born next Feb- 
 ruary. Can't stop no more, Henry. Come over and 
 hear all I be going to do for the child. 'Tis all marked 
 out. Good-night, good-night!" 
 
 He trotted off and arrived presently at the post office. 
 Mr. Culme had gone ; the lights were out, and Barbara 
 had retired to her kitchen. But the horseman soon 
 summoned her. He dismounted, made fast his steed to 
 the ring in an upping-stock close at hand, then entered as 
 Miss Hext appeared. 
 
 "Not a word," he said. "Don't you grumble to me, 
 Barbara, because I won't have it — I won't have it, I tell 
 you. I don't want nothing out of the shop. I only 
 want you. Be you alone?" 
 
 "I should think so; 'tis past ten o'clock." 
 
 "You've got to hear me. I could talk for an hour, 
 but 'tis all said in a word. Fetch out something to drink 
 — your medicine bottle — you know ; there 's a dear ! ' ' 
 
 "No, I shan't. You've had enough. I'm ashamed 
 of you, Phil." 
 
 "Who wouldn't drink? Not a stroke of work will I 
 do for a week to mark it — not a stroke. There's a lot 
 to be thought upon, but trust me. When I look at a
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 107 
 
 child now, I can scarce forbear to onlight from my horse 
 and hug it. And I wouldn't have let the day pass with- 
 out telling you, Barbara; no, I wouldn't have let the day 
 pass without telling you — not if a man was to have 
 heaped up my hat with golden sovereigns, I wouldn't 
 have done so." 
 
 "Sit down, or you'll fall down, you silly man. What 
 is it about then? I suppose you — that be always doing 
 people a good turn — have had a good turn done to you? 
 And then you get so surprised at it that you must needs 
 take too much liquor." 
 
 ''I ban't drunk, or if I be — I say, if I be, 'tis with joy 
 of it. 'Drunk with joy' is a very clever word. Yes, a 
 good turn has been done to me — a very good turn in- 
 deed." 
 
 "Well, read Job and steady your mind. Who can tell 
 what's good and what's bad? The thing that looks good 
 often " 
 
 "Don't you say that — I won't hear it! I won't hear 
 it, I tell you. My wife be gwaine to have a babby. There 
 'tis!" 
 
 "That woman gets everything she wants sooner or 
 later." 
 
 "And so do I — so do I. There's nothing like making 
 up your mind as you will have a thing. I would marry 
 her, and I did. And all along I said I would have a son, 
 and I shall. I 'm the sort of man that makes things bend 
 to my will, Barbara. I won't take 'no' for an answer — 
 like some weak creatures." 
 
 "She's very pleased about it, of course? Well she 
 may be. A wonderful woman. ' ' 
 
 "That she is. She'd open the eyes of the blind, she 
 would. I say, I say she'd open the eyes of the blind, 
 Barbara. I ban't easily astonished, but she astonishes 
 me — yes, still she does. Never interferes with me, mind 
 you. 'Man be master': that's her saying, and a good 
 one. I tell you it's a good one. But a cleansing terror 
 in the house — oh, my stars! — a whirlwind of cleanli- 
 ness ! " 
 
 "You'll have to take care of her now, Philip."
 
 108 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "Aud don't I always? If anybody said I didn't, I'd 
 — I'd — — But I will be obeyed from this day forward 
 by her. I won't have her working herself dog-tired six 
 days a week no more. I '11 put my foot down there. She 
 shall be idle, though she hates idleness worse than the 
 devil. I've seen her, of a busy morning, kick the cat 
 away from the hearthstone where he sat sleeping. 'Get 
 up, you caddling, loafing good-f or-nought ! ' she'll say to 
 him. 'Go about your business and catch the mice and 
 earn your keep ! ' That 's Unity Ouldsbroom in a word. ' ' 
 
 "A rare towser for work." 
 
 "So she is; and yet that understanding with it, Bar- 
 bara — that understanding, I tell you. She knows we 
 males have a bit of the boy in us always, though women 
 soon lose the girl in them. I must fish and shoot and play 
 with the childer — other people's childer afore — my own 
 now — my own now. She knows all that; she never says 
 'no' to such things, like some vinegary old maids might. 
 She understands everything, I tell you. She's never 
 fretted nor troubled ; and she never shall be while I 'm 
 here. But of course now she must do what she's told, 
 for the sake of the unborn." 
 
 " I 'm very glad of this, Philip. 'Tis the best thing that 
 could have happened, and I hope you'll take it in a wise 
 spirit, I'm sure." 
 
 ' ' Wise ! Why, if a man at my age — ^three-and-f orty — 
 coming into fatherhood, can 't be wise, 'tis a disgrace ! 
 There'll be plenty of sense waiting for the child on both 
 sides, if I know anything. I've planned it out a 'ready. 
 And he shall go to a proper school presently, if I've got 
 to starve to send him. And I 'm going to mark this good 
 thing somehow. You'll be able to help me there. I want 
 a bit of rejoicing — d'ye see?" 
 
 ' ' You run on so ! Plenty of time for all that presently. 
 Well, I'm right glad, and I hope 'twill steady you down 
 and knock sense into your silly head. And mind you 
 keep the child away from the Dissenters when it does 
 arrive. ' ' 
 
 "No fear of that! My throat's a lime-kiln along of so 
 much speech. And noAv I 'm off to Two Bridges. Master-
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 109 
 
 man won't grudge me a drink — I say Masterman won't 
 grudge me a drink, though you do seemingly ! ' ' 
 
 She spoke to him for a further five minutes and per- 
 suaded him to abandon his idea and return home. 
 
 ''To please me," she said. "And to mark the day — 
 don't touch no more to-night, Phil. Get home to Unity 
 and tell her that I 'm very glad about this, I 'm sure ; and 
 then, if you can see straight enough to do it, read a bit 
 of Job — chapter twenty-eight. 'Twill steady you down. ' ' 
 
 "You'm right," he said. "Come to think of it, after 
 this news, I wonder how the devil I could keep away from 
 her all day. I'll go back this instant moment — this in- 
 stant moment I'll go." 
 
 ' ' And lead your horse ; don 't you get on him. ' ' 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "No call to be frightened for me. I'm sober as the 
 river, and my hoss can carry beer, I promise you. I say 
 he can carry beer, Miss Hext. Not that 'tis very oft I ax 
 him to do it. No man's ever seen me drunk twice in a 
 year. ' ' 
 
 She watched him mount and go off. There was no 
 night at this season, and a nimbus of pale, colourless 
 radiance fringed the horizon where the sun stole behind 
 the northern hills. 
 
 "Oh for the power to give that fond creature a pinch 
 of sense ! ' ' thought Barbara. 
 
 Suddenly the man shouted back to her. 
 
 "I say, Barbara! I'll wager my boy will often and 
 often come to you for sweeties, so soon as his li '1 legs can 
 steer him down over the hill ! ' ' 
 
 She heard him laughing until his voice died upon the 
 distance.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 Philip Ouldsbroom was striding up and down his 
 kitchen, like a lion in a cage at feeding time. In the 
 window sat an elderly man, who smoked a pipe and 
 looked uneasily out at falling snow. 
 
 ' ' I hope this isn 't going to get worse, farmer, ' ' he said, 
 "for if it does, how shall I drive back to Princetown?" 
 
 But the other did not answer. His interests were else- 
 where. He kept looking up at the ceiling. His under 
 jaw was thrust forward a trifle and his shoulders were 
 lifted. His hands were in his breeches pockets, and from 
 one of them came the ceaseless jingle of a bunch of keys, 
 where he fidgeted with it. 
 
 "The loaf-luck was right — right to a hair," he said. 
 "Perhaps you don't know what that means, doctor, 
 but " 
 
 A woman came to the door. 
 
 "Now, if you please, sir." 
 
 The grey man put down his pipe and followed her. 
 Ouldsbroom set his teeth and tramped backwards and 
 forwards faster than before. The strain on his mind 
 called for air. He felt choking, and went to the farm 
 door and drew in great gulps of the snow-laden north 
 wind. 
 
 A boy was walking a horse and trap up and down in 
 the yard, and the sight of him offered Philip occupation. 
 He returned to the house, went through the dairy, 
 reached the larder, cut a huge lump ofi' a currant cake 
 and took it out. 
 
 "Come in here under this shippon," he said. "I'll 
 fetch a cloth for the boss. He ain't hot." 
 
 110
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 111 
 
 These things occupied but a few minutes, and he re- 
 turned to the house again. 
 
 His ordeal was not a long one. In half an hour a 
 maiden, who ran about at the nurse's beck and call, 
 rushed down speedily and told him that everything was 
 well. 
 
 "A boy — say 'tis a boy or I'll brain you!" he cried, 
 catching her by the shoulder. 
 
 "A very fine boy — 'very fine boy' was the doctor's 
 words, Mr. Ouldsbroom." 
 
 ''Didn't I know it? Bring him down, then! How 
 much longer be I to wait afore I see my son?" 
 
 "A longful time yet. And Dr. Dickinson says that 
 missis is as right as ninepence ; and if you '11 get away out 
 of the house for an hour, 'tis the best thing that you can 
 do — excuse me for naming it." 
 
 "Of course 'tis all right! Didn't I see it in the loaf 
 this morning? I'll run round the village and send off a 
 postcard or two and be back afore long. And make 
 Doctor bide till I get here again. Tell him the snow ban 't 
 offering serious just yet." 
 
 He took his hat and rushed off. 
 
 On the Moor he saw two men in the distance, quite out 
 of earshot. 
 
 ' ' A boy ! A damn fine boy ! " he bawled out to them. 
 
 He hastened across to Stannon first, and burst in upon 
 Gertrude Crymes and her brood of three. 
 
 "A boy!" he said. "A proper boy — the daps of me, 
 no doubt, though I haven't seed him yet. Come here, 
 Maggie, and you, Jacky! Let 'em come, Gertrude, and 
 hand me the little one. A proper cousin for 'e all, my 
 darlings ! " 
 
 "How's Unity?" asked the mother. 
 
 "Why, couldn't be better. As well I knowed it would 
 be with her. There's a penny all round for luck! And 
 Quinton must fetch you all over when the weather gets 
 soft. Tell him all's well with his sister. I be going to 
 send off a halfpenny card to Birdwood now — and a few 
 others round about. There's a score and more of people 
 will be terrible glad to know 'tis all right. ' '
 
 112 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 *'Mr. Sleep heard from Henry yesterday. His father 
 be failing slowly. He reckons he'll close the preacher's 
 eyes afore a month's out." 
 
 ''That's all one, since it's got to be. Well, you come 
 over so soon as you can, Gertrude, that's a good woman. 
 And give it tongue, will 'e? A very fine boy — to be 
 named after me, of course." 
 
 " 'Twill make a confusion if you do that." 
 
 But Ouldsbroom stayed not to argue. He went off, 
 shouted the news to Mr. Coaker, who was at work in an 
 outhouse, and then hastened down to Postbridge. 
 
 The snow had ceased for the time, but it blew very 
 coldly, and the wind was busy with a bank of grey that 
 extended on the northern horizon. 
 
 Philip next met Ned Sleep returning home on his pony, 
 and told him ; but long before Ned grasped the great fact 
 his informant had swept forward. 
 
 Miss Hext was not in the post office when he entered, 
 but he picked up a pen and shouted loudly to her. 
 
 "Barbara! Barbara! where are you got to ? " 
 
 " 'Tis all right then?" she asked, appearing from her 
 room behind the shop. "I see by your face 'tis all 
 right." 
 
 "Of course it is. How should it be otherwise with 
 such a woman as Unity? Everything right, and I be 
 going to send off a card here and there to them who '11 be 
 glad." 
 
 He dropped the pen and shook her hand till she cried 
 out and held her fingers. 
 
 " 'Twas all right from the minute she woke, and I 
 rode off myself and come back with Dr. Dickinson. He 
 said he'd follow after; but that didn't do for me; so I 
 fetched him along and galloped beside him. And at 
 breakfast, if I didn't break the loaf in so true a horse- 
 shoe as ever bread fell in ! You laugh with all your town 
 wisdom, Barbara ; but I '11 swear there 's a lot in it ! And 
 I knowed from that moment 'twould all be right and 
 never had another anxious thought. Did 'e ever hear 
 them verses made by a true Dartymoor man back- 
 along?"
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 113 
 
 "No, I didn't. I blush for you — you who are above all 
 this nonsense of churches and chapels both." 
 
 "There's things that be above either of 'em. There's 
 the evil eye, Barbara — you won't deny that?" 
 
 "I'd so soon believe in witches." 
 
 "But the rhyme ban't a thing to flout — specially if it 
 comes true. Luck is luck, and you can't say you don't 
 believe in that, because the world's full of it — good or 
 bad. And if one sort of luck, why not another? Loaf- 
 luck be a real thing, for all you scoff. List to this." 
 
 He repeated a rhyme. 
 
 "If the loaf bought on the morn 
 When the little child is born 
 Happens to be clove in two 
 In the shape of a horse-shoe, 
 'Tis a sign that he or she 
 All through life will lucky be." 
 
 Miss Hext laughed. 
 
 "And you believe that? Well, send your postcards 
 and get off back to Hartland." 
 
 Ouldsbroom dispatched half a dozen messages and 
 made half a dozen needless purchases. Then suddenly 
 the thought of his prolonged absence from home smote 
 him like a blow. 
 
 "What on God's earth do I mean by it — caddling 
 about all over the Moor, and me a father? 'Tis shame- 
 ful! All the same, I dare say I'll see you again come 
 nightfall, Barbara." 
 
 He made haste to depart, but Miss Hext called him 
 back. 
 
 ' ' Here 's my present for baby, ' ' she said, and gave him 
 a little decorated box of fragrant soap. 
 
 He brimmed over with thanks. 
 
 "You good, large-hearted creature! My God, there's 
 nobody like you — nobody. To think of that now ! Unity 
 will be terrible obliged — ay, and so will the boy. Mark 
 me, he'll be a great friend of yours in a year or two. 
 Good-bye, good-bye ! ' ' 
 
 In half an hour Philip Ouldsbroom held the newborn
 
 114 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 atom in his arms, and devoured its tiny head with his 
 gaze. 
 
 "He've got his mother's eyes, I see — ban't blue like 
 mine," he said. 
 
 "A brown boy he'll be — all his mother's," answered 
 the midwife. 
 
 Then she jumped, for the man's voice exploded like 
 thunder upon her ear. 
 
 "Hell! Don't you be talking that stuff to me!" he 
 shouted. "Mine, mine, mine!" 
 
 He went to see his wife.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 The child-hunger in Unity Ouldsbroom was sated when 
 she held her infant to her breast. She grew calm swiftly, 
 and this new life henceforth dominated every other in- 
 terest that her own life possessed. It was an instan- 
 taneous rather than a gradual change. Her husband 
 best withstood the impact of it ; others seemed likely to 
 be swept aside, as of an interest, not ancillary alone, but 
 in future quite non-existent. Philip, however, still ap- 
 peared to her as neither more nor less than himself. He 
 bulked not greater and not smaller seen in the light of 
 her motherhood. But her relations and friends — Quin- 
 ton and Gertrude Crymes and their children, Henry 
 Birdwood, and certain women of Postbridge who had 
 been in some sort her intimates, were now largely dimin- 
 ished in her eyes. As yet they did not know it, but were 
 destined soon to do so. 
 
 She went upon the high Moor with her child three 
 months after it was born and walked slowly by the valley 
 of Dart to an appointed meeting-place. 
 
 Her husband was from home, about the business of 
 some stock at Totnes, and he would not return until the 
 following day. Where the river bends back to the west 
 under Broad Down she found a little familiar holt upon 
 the hillside. Here a few great boulders fell together and 
 made a penthouse against rain and wind. From the 
 mouth of it the valley subtended and great declivities 
 rolled round about. The place was familiar to Unity, 
 though she had not visited it for many months. That 
 she was expected might be seen, for some one had spread 
 the little chamber with fresh litter of fern. 
 
 She looked into a cleft in the stone and drew forth a 
 
 115
 
 116 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 letter, as she had drawn forth many another. It was 
 brief : — 
 
 "Expect me at one o'clock. — H. B." 
 
 She sat and looked ont upon the spring world, fed her 
 child and waited. Around her were the first shy buds of 
 May, and above her a stormy sky broken and cleft with 
 sun gleams. The more usual phenomenon of shadows 
 upon light was reversed, and splashes of brilliant light 
 roamed instead through ambient darkness. In gleaming 
 patches, like great golden birds, the splendour passed. 
 It flashed in the river valley, climbed the hills, winged 
 onward to their crests and ridges, and so vanished again. 
 But darkness was the note of the day ; the wind brushed 
 the song of the river fitfully upon the ear; the cleeves 
 were calling to the rain. 
 
 Birdwood arrived punctually, and greeted her not 
 without some emotion. They had not met since the death 
 of his father and the birth of her son. 
 
 "Well, well," he said, "we've both been through a bit 
 since winter. I thought to have seen you long ago, but 
 my poor old man took two months a-dying. It steadied 
 me a bit. 'Tis a teaching thing to see your father die. 
 I promised him that I'd go back to Chapel, Unity; but 
 
 here am I, prattling about my concerns as if And 
 
 you — how are you 1 How is it with you ? ' ' 
 
 "So right as ever I was — happy too. You stare; but 
 I am." 
 
 ' ' 'Tis quite fair you should be. Childer ban 't much to 
 most men — no more than the paring of my nail to me; 
 but to women they be nine months out of her life every 
 time, and the heart's blood thrown in." 
 
 "All that and more. A perfect child — perfect — lovely 
 — sweet as hoiiey — knows me a 'ready and laughs at 
 me." 
 
 She made to bare the baby's face for him. He showed 
 no interest, however, and she desisted, but tightened her 
 arms about it instead. 
 
 "And have it made you think much, Unity? Have 
 it opened your eyes here and there ? ' '
 
 THE THIEi- OF VIRTUE 117 
 
 "What d'you mean?" she asked. "Of course I've 
 thought. That was sure to be." 
 
 ' ' Have it showed you where I conquered him that said 
 he conquered me ? Have it showed you that I was strong- 
 est after all — in mind and body too? In body too, 
 Unity." 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 "You know so. I'm so strong that I don't even care 
 to show him how strong I am. So long as you see, clear 
 as crystal, that I've won every way and he's lost every 
 way, that 's all I care about. ' ' 
 
 "If you're strong, be strong always, and let me see 
 how strong you can be." 
 
 ' ' You cunning creature ! But I see through you — even 
 through one so deep as you. Yes, strong enough and 
 silent enough I'll be — except with you. I must have a 
 laugh with you sometimes. 'Tis funny to see a man 
 think he's got the kernel when he's only got the shell. A 
 monkey would know better than that — eh ? Poor chap ! 
 Well, I've got all I want of you — he can have the rest." 
 
 She was uneasy. 
 
 "I don't like you to be so terrible bitter. He's been 
 a good friend to you. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, and I'm quite as good a friend to him as ever 
 he was to me. I feel just as friendly to him as he did to 
 me when he sloked you away and married you under my 
 calf 's eyes. Just exactly as friendly as that. The friend- 
 liness of the strong to the weak. Don't think I'm not 
 friendly to the man. I wish him nought but good. We 're 
 a regular David and Jonathan him and me." 
 
 His lips sneered and hers tightened. She looked on 
 into the future and saw that her own strength, and only 
 her own, would save the ultimate situation. She glanced 
 up under her eyes at Birdwood, but not with love. He 
 might be stronger than Philip : she had helped him to be 
 stronger for her own purposes. But he was not stronger 
 than Philip 's wife. She knew that neither man possessed 
 her tremendous force of character, subtle swiftness to 
 win personal good out of any complication. 
 
 ' ' Let me look at him. What 's his name ? ' '
 
 118 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ' ' Philip Martin. Martin was my father 's name. ' ' 
 
 She turned down the flannel from the baby's face. He 
 stretched out a little arm, yawned, and showed his gums. 
 
 Birdwood looked at the infant and a strange expres- 
 sion — part triumph and part grief — brooded upon his 
 countenance. 
 
 "Ouldsbroom be terrible pleased, I suppose?" 
 
 "You needn't ask that." 
 
 " So be it then. The Lord give him joy of my son ! ' '
 
 BOOK II 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Little Martin's life dawned upon the wild region of 
 Hartland — Hartland, in its immense amphitheatre of 
 hills and valleys; Hartland, with its coney-cropped turf 
 and crown of granite; with its feet amid the brakes of 
 fern and furze, and the cloud-feathers flying free on the 
 blue above. Dart wound beneath, now shrunk to a broken 
 ribbon of light in summer, now shouting the song of the 
 freshets. And round about the homestead, when the 
 weather was fair, linen twinkled, fast held by thorn- 
 trees against theft of the wind. To-day the sky would be 
 full of light, that burnt into a nimbus of splendour when 
 the sun sank behind Broad Down; to-morrow might 
 break sad-coloured, with low fog-banks rolling onward, 
 like armies under tattered pennons of silver, where a 
 watery gleam pierced through them. Now the west wind 
 roamed and roared ; now the north wind brought up 
 winter on wings heavy with snow ; now again the vernal 
 time returned; the Moor offered welcome of humble 
 flowers in marsh and heath, and the grey cuckoo chimed 
 his two sweet notes from dawn till even. 
 
 Martin presently created pet haunts in Hartland Tor 
 and shared them with the ferns and pennyworts, the 
 stonecrops, and dull rosettes of foxglove leaves that lifted 
 spires and bells when summer came. A great shelf of 
 rock faced south upon the tor, and beneath it, as years 
 passed by, he played for hours together. None shared 
 so many of these hours as Philip ; but other children often 
 came, and the boy's cousins from Stannon were fre- 
 
 119
 
 120 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 quently at Hartland. There were five of them by this 
 time, and Maggie, Jaeky, Samuel, and Minnie might often 
 be seen in company of Martin at Hartland, or in the old 
 sheep-fold not far distant. They played their children's 
 games, made believe, took full unconscious joy of life, 
 and planned their great to-morrows full of mighty inten- 
 tions — all forgotten when to-morrow came. For night — 
 to the adult mind but a curtain, often thin enough, 
 through which coming day stares forth with all its 
 promise or its threat — brings real oblivion and a great 
 forgetfulness to the little child. His connecting links are 
 feeble ; he begins a new life every morning ; and the dom- 
 inant present, with its instant claim and immediate de- 
 sires, hopes, hungers, will often obliterate all the pur- 
 poses that filled the small soul till sleep drowned them 
 and swept the mind blank for new impressions. 
 
 l\Iartin was a slight-built, healthy, and hearty boy ; and 
 as he reached the age of ten years his character began to 
 develop. Already he promised to resemble his father in 
 countenance, and his nature was staid. He had a 
 seriovTS, speculative mind and took the lead among his 
 playmates. His eyes were dark grey, like his mother's, 
 his hair was black and straight. His intellect promised 
 to be very clear. He was an obstinate child, but Unity 
 did not find his nature difficult. Her great problem cen- 
 tred rather in Philip and his attitude to the young life. 
 Ouldsbroom fought to win Martin, and could not see why 
 all his striving should be so largely in vain. He ex- 
 hausted his scanty ingenuity, and sometimes raged dis- 
 heartened at obvious failure; but then, with a great 
 awakening hope, redoubled his efforts before apparent 
 success. He built upon the future more and more, and 
 was swift to notice any closer understanding between 
 hirtLself and the boy. A marvel arose out of the relation, 
 for even Philip learned a little patience, and though he 
 broke out not seldom, was swiftly contrite again. He 
 offered a spectacle of Ijitter import to those two who un- 
 derstood it; and as they watched year after year, their 
 estimate of its significance differed. For this cause, as 
 well as for other reasons, their friendship waned.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 121 
 
 Philip kept open eyes and alert senses to catch every 
 glimmer of himself iu Martin. Physically they had noth- 
 ing in common, for the farmer was all Saxon and the 
 child all Celt ; but driven from that expectation and hope, 
 Ouldsbroom fell back upon deeper things, and, with such 
 meagre power of observation as he possessed, looked out 
 for his tricks of thought or speech, anticipated the ap- 
 pearance of his own tastes, his attitude to life, his general 
 innate characteristics and method of self-expression. 
 
 A revealed shadow of these things put him in good 
 temper for the day, and at first, thanks to the imitative 
 instinct of infancy, Martin satisfied Philip; but every 
 year saw the boy come closer to his own nature, and every 
 year Ouldsbroom was constrained to admit to his fierce 
 heart that the mother was prepotent in her child. And 
 then again some spark or sign wakened his hope once 
 more, and he blamed himself for impatience and unkind- 
 ness. 
 
 Unkind indeed his nature never could be. From the 
 first he poured out all the riches of an unreasoning love 
 and won the affection of Martin absolutely. No young 
 thing could have withstood such worship and devotion. 
 The boy cried for his fancied father when he was sick or 
 unhappy; he confided his brief woes to him; he crept to 
 him when he had done wrong and knew it. But he did 
 very little wrong. Rectitude and obedience to authority 
 were natural in him, and his obstinacy generally ap- 
 peared among matters of pleasure rather than duty. He 
 was not often punished. His father had struck him once 
 or twice — for no fault excepting that he was himself; 
 and, after these lapses, Philip would beg the child to for- 
 give him, and redouble his kindness. Martin's mother, 
 on the contrary, corrected him with jealous care. She 
 salved her conscience and excused herself for bringing 
 him into the world by determining that he should amply 
 justify his existence. In this ambition she felt her hope 
 grow, for there was a strong bent to religious observance 
 in Martin that appeared even in his games. She knew 
 about these things, but hid them from her husband, and 
 trusted that he might not discover them for himself.
 
 122 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Into her own heart Unity did not allow herself much 
 time to look. She toiled without ceasing, and she devoted 
 her leisure to her husband and only child. Her common 
 sense assured her that by such devotion she might atone 
 for the past. Her conscience denied it, and the growing 
 facts of Martin 's character denied it. She had not guessed 
 that the boy's own nature and the accident of his pater- 
 nity might breed a lifelong tragedy ; she had never antici- 
 pated that her deed would cry out under her eyes for ever. 
 
 She was a pattern wife to the man, and that proved no 
 light task as the years rolled on ; because Philip, at fifty- 
 three, continued for the most part unchanged. He 
 thought himself as wise as his generation; he uttered 
 definite opinions on all subjects of religion, husbandry, 
 politics, and life ; but such as were of any worth he had 
 mostly received at second hand from another. His own 
 views were entirely unpractical and made against pros- 
 perity, since he continued to judge mankind from the 
 standpoint of his own trusting and generous soul, and 
 built his estimates of all conduct on appearances rather 
 than the facts underlying them. 
 
 The man's wife had difficult work sometimes to support 
 his credit and character. But she prospered in the task 
 and strove also, with no small skill, to gain to herself the 
 business administration of Hartland. In some directions 
 she succeeded, and then took good care that Philip won 
 the credit. When praised, she always asserted that his 
 mind controlled, while she was only the willing instru- 
 ment. Her influence had grown enormous over him, and 
 yet he did not feel it. Only when she was from home 
 could he realise, by his discomfort, incertitude, and sud- 
 den desire for stimulant to bolster depression, how vital 
 she had become to his well-being. 
 
 All Unity's ambitions centred in Martin. She looked 
 far ahead and held no trouble wasted on Philip that 
 could help to fortify her son's ultimate inheritance. 
 
 It puzzled the farmer to see how the boy resembled his 
 mother in many particulars, and how his mother under- 
 stood him. He was envious but not jealous. As Martin 
 drifted farther and farther from him, nearer and nearer
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 123 
 
 to his wife, Philip never felt one pang of jealousy. He as- 
 sured himself that it was natural ; he was quick to leap at 
 a chance of bringing joy to the child ; only in secret or out 
 of Unity's sight did he give vent to his disappointment. 
 Fault there was none within reach of remedy; and that 
 made the situation absurd. The boy grew up good, cheer- 
 ful, well behaved; and to advance this very fact as his 
 grievance even Philip perceived was futile. Nevertheless, 
 he did so sometimes, in the sole ears that could understand. 
 
 The inevitable had overtaken Barbara Hext and her 
 dog 'Sarah.' The spaniel was dead; while to Barbara 
 there came an assistant in the shape of Mrs. Dury 's eldest 
 daughter. The change was now some years old, and Kate 
 Dury, with reason, considered herself a most successful 
 shopwoman; but Miss Hext could never be got to admit 
 as much. She seldom enjoyed herself so well as when 
 Kate begged for a whole holiday and left the establish- 
 ment in sole charge of the mistress as of yore. Concern- 
 ing the postal department, Barbara, though growing a 
 little shaky, continued to conduct that single-handed; 
 and, indeed, the work was light enough. 
 
 Hither on a morning in winter came Philip, and with 
 him he brought ]\Iartin. It was the child's tenth birth- 
 day, and he arrived to spend a shilling. The boy was 
 very silent on the way to Postbridge, and Philip 's prattle 
 won little response. This annoyed him, yet nothing could 
 have been more np,tural. The shilling had come as a 
 great and splendid surprise ; it was a large sum of money, 
 and how to spend it to the best advantage demanded most 
 careful thought. Martin, therefore, did not desire to 
 talk, but to reflect. ; 
 
 At the Eiver, Ouldsbroom bade the child go and play 
 for a little. 
 
 "I want to have a tell along o' Miss Hext," he said. 
 " I '11 shout to you when you can come in. ' ' 
 
 The boy went off, but did not play. He climbed on 
 to the old pack-horse bridge, and sat there with his legs 
 dangling over the water and his mind upon the shilling. 
 
 Presently he took it out of his pocket and examined it, 
 as though study of the coin might help decision.
 
 124 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Philip meanwhile spoke to Barbara. She had grown 
 grey of late, but was comely still. 
 
 "Bid Katey clear out," he said abruptly. "I want a 
 tell with you. ' ' 
 
 "Kate can't clear out," answered the postmistress, 
 "Come in my parlour, if you must see me. Where's 
 Martin ? 'Tis his birthday. ' ' 
 
 "lie's outside. I told him to go and play, but of course 
 he vv^on't. Childer don't know the meaning of play now- 
 adays. His birthday and all, yet he 's solemn as a judge. 
 I've planned a surprise for him this afternoon — to take 
 him out on a pony and have tea with the Mastermans at 
 the 'Ring o' Bells.' But it looks as though the treats 
 I plan for him give me more pleasure than the boy." 
 
 "Don't say that, or think it. He feels more than he 
 shows," said Barbara. 
 
 "And then," continued the man, "my pleasure's 
 turned to gall to see that he 's got none. The things I 've 
 tried — racked my brain to remember all that was good to 
 me when I was a nipper. Damned if I can understand it. ' ' 
 
 "He's a wonderful thoughtful child, and old for his 
 years — remember that. The fault's not in him, Philip, 
 'tis in you." 
 
 "In me! And you say so, Barbara — you, who under- 
 stand — leastways, I thought you did. What can I do 
 more than I do ? Where be I wrong ? ' ' 
 
 "You're wrong for biding young into middle age," 
 she said. "You ought to be angry with yourself, not 
 him. Nature's played the fool with you and kept a boy's 
 mind in a man's body. Well I know, for I'm a bit like 
 that myself, and should have been more so if life had 
 fallen out different. I do understand, and I think 'tis a 
 fine thing in its way to keep young at all hazards. But 
 the people don't, and of course the boy don't. How 
 should he? He's not a boyish fashion of boy, and that 
 you must allow for. ' ' 
 
 "But if he ban't young now, what the deuce will he 
 come to presently ? If a child but turned of ten — there, 
 'tis nonsense! I won't believe it. He chatters all right 
 sometimes and can make a game so well as any young
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 125 
 
 boy. 'Tis I that puzzle kim — sa-me as he puzzles me. 
 If I cuss, he looks through me and then at his mother. I 
 catched him and his cousins playing at prayers t'other 
 day on Hartland. My child playing at prayers ! All the 
 same, Barbara, years have brought a good bit of sense to 
 me, and if I hadn't got it, my life wouldn't have run so 
 smooth as it have. Therefore I 'm very patient with him. 
 He's all the world to me — my only one ; though I do wish 
 to God I'd got a few more on a different pattern." 
 
 "The child's like his mother — the very tone of her 
 voice sometimes." 
 
 "And couldn't be like a better woman. I'd set store 
 on him for that alone. But I catch myself hankering — 
 however, I needn't waste your time. 'T wasn't that I 
 come to say. 'Twas a message from Unity." 
 
 They discussed a matter concerning the price of food, 
 then Philip beckoned Martin from the river. 
 
 "Now, my ten-year-old!" he cried out, "bring along 
 your shilling to Miss Hext and her brave shop. So set 
 to work and let's see what you be going to buy!" 
 
 Martin smiled shyly, thanked Miss Hext for her con- 
 gratulations, and began to look about him. The actual 
 display bewildered his previous thoughts and plans. He 
 suddenly began to think, and frowned; then he turned 
 to the postmistress. 
 
 "I be wishful to — to spend threepence for something 
 for mother," he said. 
 
 "Ah, you copy-book boy!" cried Philip almost bit- 
 terly; and Martin glanced up at him with startled 
 eyes. 
 
 "Quite right and proper, Martin!" declared Miss 
 Hext. "Come along over here, and I'll see what we can 
 find. A nice bit of ribbon — how would that do?" 
 
 "I should think 'twould do very well. Miss Hext," 
 he answered. 
 
 "And what colour would you like it to be, my dear?" 
 
 He considered this question and when she had him 
 out of Ouldsbroom's sight, behind a pile of goods, she 
 whispered to him: 
 
 "Shall you get anything for father?"
 
 126 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "But father 'twas that give me the shilling/' he 
 answered. 
 
 "Never mind that. Buy him a pipe. I'll sell you a 
 fine wood pipe for threepence.'' 
 
 He looked at his coin doubtfully and she said no more. 
 
 They returned to Ouldsbroom. 
 
 "I've bought mother a bit of shiny red ribbon for 
 Sundays, father," said Martin. 
 
 * ' Well done you ! And she shall wear it and not hoard 
 it, I promise you. And now let's see what you be going 
 to buy. ' ' 
 
 Barbara, wishing to relieve the child's anxieties, her- 
 self made him a present of a toy boat. He thanked her 
 gratefully and his father did the like. 
 
 "Now get on, laddie, w-e musn't keep Miss Hext all 
 day." 
 
 "I'll have a threepenny wood pipe for father," said 
 Martin, peeping at Miss Hext inquiringly. 
 
 She made haste to fetch a pipe, and Philip shouted 
 out the liveliest gratitude and joy. 
 
 * ' Good chap ! " he cried. ' ' That 's real proper of you, 
 sonny, and I thank you, and I '11 always keep that pipe — 
 so long as I live I will — and only smoke it on great days ! ' ' 
 
 He hugged the boy and kissed him, and rubbed his 
 muzzle against Martin's brown cheek. Then he dragged 
 his tobacco pouch out of his pocket and stuffed the pipe. 
 
 "You shall have first puff, Martin; and then I'll al- 
 ways remember that yours was the first lips ever touched 
 my pipe. Suck in!" 
 
 Martin rather nervously obeyed, while his father held 
 a match to the pipe. The smoke made the boy cough 
 and water at the eyes, while Philip laughed uproariously. 
 
 "Now your sixpence," he said. "What be going to 
 do with that?" 
 
 Martin reflected. 
 
 "I've got this here butivul boat," he answered, "and 
 I doan't want nought else, father. I'll put my sixpence 
 in my money-box, if you please." 
 
 Ouldsbroom shrugged his shoulders and regarded Miss 
 Hext.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 127 
 
 "There!" he exclaimed. "Did you ever hear such a 
 thing from a boy of ten ? Be it natural ? ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis good sense anyway." 
 
 " 'Tis damn nonsense," answered the man. "I won't 
 have him getting fond of money at his time of life. A 
 saver at ten, good Lord; he'll be a miser at twenty! 
 Look here, Martin, Miss Hext have give you a fine boat, 
 and 'twould be very improper after that if you wasn't 
 to spend your sixpence in her shop this minute. ' ' 
 
 The child was somewhat scared. 
 
 "I didn't know 'twas wrong," he answered. "Then 
 I'll have one of they little brass anchors for my boat, 
 please, if the money 's enough. ' ' 
 
 Barbara abstained from arguing, for she knew that it 
 would annoy Philip. Her sympathies were torn between 
 the pair. 
 
 * ' An anchor and a good brass cannon you shall have, ' ' 
 she said. 
 
 "And very like a sixpence in your money-box as well — 
 who knows?" promised the farmer. 
 
 Laden with his gifts, Martin set off home, talked cheer- 
 fully of the day's doings and watched the new pipe in 
 his father's mouth. 
 
 "Never knowed a pipe to draw more suent,"* declared 
 Ouldsbroom. " 'Twas a very clever thing for you to 
 think of, and I shall set mighty store by it, I promise you ; 
 and so will mother by the ribbon." 
 
 Then Philip had an idea. 
 
 "I'll give 'e some of my gunpowder after us have had 
 dinner; we'll go in the yard and take your cannon and 
 fire it off. I lay the chicken will all scream and go racing 
 about for dear life when they hear it go 'bang' !" 
 
 He laughed at the picture, and Martin smiled — in sym- 
 pathy but not in earnest. The spectacle of alarmed 
 poultry had no charm for him. He was wondering 
 whether another sixpence would be found for his money- 
 box, and whether, if his father forgot the promise, he 
 might venture to remind him. 
 
 * Suent — Easily, sweetly.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 There is no loneliness in nature, and of Dartmoor it can 
 never be said that it is empty. But watch some road, 
 stretching inexorable mile on mile across the heath, and 
 mark a solitary figure creeping along it. Then large 
 loneliness is swiftly felt, as a quality of the human ad- 
 dition, not the place. 
 
 Such a figure proceeded on a summer day by no road, 
 but across the heavy ground above Broad Down. It 
 crawled, a mere atom, to the crest of the hill, and there, 
 panting, footsore and hungry, flung itself down and fixed 
 inquiring eyes upon the valley beneath. The little object 
 was a boy, and he had travelled fifteen miles across the 
 heart of the Moor, to find himself utterly exhausted 
 above Postbridge. 
 
 Now his anxious eyes looked ahead and instantly 
 brightened. The troubled expression of his red and 
 freckled countenance changed to happiness, and he re- 
 joiced. 
 
 "Golly — houses!" he said, and instantly rose again 
 to begin the descent to Postbridge. 
 
 The accident of his discovery banished a shadow of 
 growing fear and put heart into him. His mind acted 
 upon his body, and his physical fatigue, for the time, 
 grew less. 
 
 He was a stout, square-built lad of twelve, with a large 
 mouth, sandy hair, and a freckled face, now very red and 
 hot with his exertions. He wore only corduroy knicker- 
 bockers, worsted stockings, and a blue flannel shirt. He 
 had kicked the sole off one of his boots and tied it on 
 again as best he could. His stockings were torn; his 
 
 128
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 129 
 
 mouth was stained with the whortleberries that he had 
 eaten on his way. 
 
 He was desperately hungry and weary, but he stopped 
 beside the river, drank some water, tightened up his red 
 braces and assumed a very determined expression. 
 
 The houses proved to be farther off than he expected, 
 and his heart sank a little; but suddenly, round the 
 shoulder of a hill, a farm appeared within a quarter of 
 a mile, and he said ' Golly ! ' again and held forward. 
 
 He was giddy and weak now. He reached the door 
 of Hartland Farm, knocked, and then, v;ith a swimming 
 head, sat down suddenly on a trestle that chanced to 
 be in the porch. With an effort he pulled himself to- 
 gether and rose as Unity Ouldsbroom appeared to see 
 who had come. 
 
 "Please, ma'am," he began; then she cut him short. 
 
 "Be off!" she said. "Take your bacon face out of 
 this. We 've got nought for beggars here. ' ' 
 
 "I'm beat," answered the boy. "Please — please just 
 give me a mouthful. I've walked all across Dartymoor 
 wi'out any breaksis; and I'm that cruel leery,* I shall 
 tumble down if I don't get a square meal." 
 
 "Be you alone?" 
 
 "Ess, ma'am." 
 
 "You want a square meal — you can have one," she 
 said, with the ghost of a smile on her face at the jest. 
 Then she turned to the kitchen and brought the boy a 
 dog-biscuit. 
 
 He thanked her abundantly and began to eat. He 
 had big yellow teeth, and they soon crunched up the 
 food. 
 
 She watched him a few moments and marked his 
 natural strength. He was sturdily put together, with big 
 bones and a fine little barrel. He promised to develop 
 into a splendid man if the fates were kind. He had 
 turned up the sleeves of his shirt to the shoulder for 
 coolness, and Unity noticed that his arms were well 
 covered and that they shone in the sunshine with a deli- 
 cate down of bright hairs. 
 
 * Leery — Hungry, empty.
 
 130 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "Eat it up and rest for two minutes, and then go 
 along," she said. 
 
 "So I will then, and thank you kindly, missis," he 
 answered. 
 
 Unity, satisfied that the child was honest, left him; 
 then Philip appeared, returning to his dinner. 
 
 ' ' Hullo ! ' ' cried he, * ' who the mischief be you ? ' ' 
 
 The boy stood up and touched his head with his finger. 
 
 "Marnin', sir! I made so bold as to ax for a bit o' 
 food, and the lady was terrible kind and let me have this 
 here." 
 
 "Bah ! You might so soon eat your nails as that mess. 
 Give it to me and wait a bit." 
 
 He took the remains of the dog-biscuit and flung it 
 into the yard. Then he entered his kitchen, where a 
 dinner of pasties awaited him. He picked up the largest 
 in the dish and carried it out. 
 
 ' ' Here, ' ' he said, ' ' stuff that down your neck. Whose 
 boy be you, then ? ' ' 
 
 "Golly!" said the child. "That's pretty eating, that 
 is. Can you spare it, master?" 
 
 ' * Get on. Yes, I can spare it. ' ' 
 
 "I'll do a bit of work later when I'm rested. Doctor 
 at the Union said I was the strongest boy as ever he saw. 
 An' I be a terrible fierce chap too." 
 
 "A workhouse boy?" 
 
 "I've runned away to better myself. I've runned all 
 across the Moor from Okehampton. God's my judge 
 if it ban't true ! I'd got a job keeping birds from corn ; 
 and I chucked it so soon as the sun was up and miched 
 off. Too fierce I be for that sort of work. And I thought 
 I was done for; but then suddenly, atop of thicky hill, 
 I looked down and catched sight of houses." 
 
 He ate with his eyes on Philip. 
 
 ' ' What 's your name ? ' ' 
 
 "Pancras Lyd they called me — after the church saint 
 and the river to Lydford, where I was found. I was 
 lighted on there years and years agone by a policeman 
 when I was a babby ; but nobody never wanted me. And 
 none never found out wheer I comed from. But I don't
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 131 
 
 want for to be called ' Paneras. ' I want for to be called 
 ' Tiger ' along o ' being so fierce. ' ' 
 
 Philip laughed heartily. 
 
 ' ' You'm a rum, red rascal ! Fierce — eh ? And runned 
 away to better yourself, did 'e ? " 
 
 "Ess, fay. I want to be at something braver than 
 frighting birds. ' ' 
 
 "Quite right. How old are you?" 
 
 "Fifteen." 
 
 "You little liar!" 
 
 The boy glanced up at Philip. 
 
 "I feel that old, master; and I be so strong as any 
 fifteen-year-old chap. Look at my gert arms. They say 
 I'm twelve, but if I said I was twelve I'd never get a 
 job." 
 
 "Cunning fox! But there'll be hue and cry after 'e 
 come presently." 
 
 ' ' I want for to get work afore they find me, ' ' explained 
 the boy. "Because nobody will be better pleased than 
 them at the workhouse if I be took off their hands. They 
 don't want fierce boys." 
 
 "I'll warrant. Only the tame go there." 
 
 Martin came in at this moment and his father called 
 to him. 
 
 "Get this here ferocious chap a cup of milk," he said. 
 
 The other obeyed, and the children met. 
 
 Martin was much excited and interested. They left 
 the wanderer to finish his meal, but Unity's boy had 
 no appetite for dinner. He longed to return to the 
 stranger. 
 
 He ran out soon, and found Tiger sitting among some 
 pigs in a shady corner of the yard, with his back against 
 the wall. He was drowsy and his head nodded. 
 
 He touched his forehead to Martin. 
 
 ' ' Would you be so kind as to let me rest here, master— i 
 just for a bit? Then I'll get up and set to work and 
 pay for my dinner. ' ' 
 
 "You needn't pay," answered Martin. "My father 
 wouldn't wish that — unless you feel you must do it. 
 What's your name?"
 
 132 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "Tiger. What 's yourn ? " 
 
 "Martin." 
 
 Tiger rolled over and yawned hugely. 
 
 "Blessed if I ban't gwine to sleep!" he said. 
 
 In truth he slumbered immediately, and Martin ran in 
 with the news. 
 
 "That boy's called Tiger; and he's gone to sleep in 
 the yard by the pigs, ' ' he announced. 
 
 "Let un bide then," ordered Philip. "The young 
 rip's run away from Okehampton — to better hisself! 
 Let him sleep it out. I want to see what he'll do when 
 he wakes up. You can keep about and watch him, Mar- 
 tin. 'Fierce' he says he is. Dartymoor's knocked the 
 fierceness out of him to-day. Ha-ha ! ' ' -.«">' 
 
 Unity protested, but Philip had his will ; her son 
 watched over the wanderer 's sleep and took care to drive 
 away pigs when they threatened to interfere with it. At 
 four in the afternoon Tiger awakened, much refreshed, 
 and hungrier than ever. The latter fact he did not men- 
 tion, but told Martin that he was ready to work. 
 
 "You'm a scholar, I see," he remarked, for Martin 
 had been reading a book while the other slept. 
 
 "I can read books, and the Bible too. This is a story- 
 book I got for a prize at Simday School. ' ' 
 
 * ' Fancy that now ! Be there any shows* in the book " ' ' 
 
 " No ; but I 've got one with pictures. ' ' 
 
 "A beast book?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I seed a beast book open in a shop window to Oke- 
 hampton. 'Twas flung ope at a savage tiger. And so 
 I said I'd be 'Tiger' too, cause the beast had such a 
 terrible fine way with him. ' ' 
 
 "You wasn't baptized 'Tiger,' was you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Martin's face brightened with an idea. 
 
 ' ' If you ain 't been baptized, us might have a service — 
 me and Minnie and Maggie and Jacky and Sam — and 
 christen you. We play at prayer-meetings up along, 
 and I be the parson. ' ' 
 
 * Shows — Pictures.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 133 
 
 " 'Twould make a very brave game, I dare say." 
 
 **Yes, 'twould. We'll do it!" 
 
 "But I must go to work now. Do 'e think that gert 
 man what gived me the pasty would let me carry out 
 enough work to earn a bit of bread and dripping, or some 
 such thing, for my tea ? " 
 
 "Yes, I'm 'most sure he would." 
 
 "Well, what's to do?" 
 
 "Father's digging up there in the croft. You'd better 
 ax him." 
 
 Tiger rose, and found himself lame. 
 
 ' ' 'Twas my baggering old boot, ' ' he explained. * ' The 
 sole dropped off of un and I had to tie it on, and took 
 the tail o' my shirt for it. But I'm that fierce, when a 
 thing like that happens I take no count of it. I sup- 
 pose you haven't got a pair of old boots to spare a 
 chap?" 
 
 "You couldn't get in my boots," answered Martin. 
 "They'd be too tight for 'e. Your feet be whackers." 
 
 ' ' Have you got a big brother or sister then ? ' ' 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Us '11 see what the master says." 
 
 "He's my father, and he's called Philip Ouldsbroom." 
 
 They started, then Tiger stopped suddenly and clapped 
 his hand to his trouser pocket. 
 
 ' ' 'Tis all right, ' ' he cried. ' ' I thought I 'd lost un. ' ' 
 
 "What?" 
 
 ' * My Jew 's harp. I found it last Christmas in a dust- 
 heap, and I've lamed to play it proper. I'll play to you 
 come presently, when I ban't busy." 
 
 They reached Philip, who was digging and trenching. 
 
 " I 've come for a bit of work, please, master. ' ' 
 
 The farmer winked at Martin to show that he intended 
 a joke. Then he handed his big spade to Tiger. 
 
 "That's a brave chap. You go on with this job while 
 I smoke a pipe, and I'll see what you be made of." 
 
 The labour was impossible to a boy of twelve, and the 
 spade came up to the runaway's breast, but he started 
 valiantly, and puffed and sweated and struggled. 
 
 "That won't do," said Philip. "That's playing at it.
 
 134 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 You must break the ground to eighteen inches. You'm 
 only scraping the top." 
 
 Tiger thereupon tightened his braces, spat on his 
 hands, assumed the fiercest scowl he could summon, and 
 tried to dig deeper. 
 
 ''I'd stand to it so well as growed man, if 'twasn 't for 
 my foot," he said; "but a chap can't drive home this 
 gert spade in this here boot." 
 
 Philip, however, let him go on, though Martin twice 
 whispered to him to give the boy something else to do. 
 
 Tiger fought to the end of the ridge, then stopped to 
 rest. 
 
 "Don't you think I be tired, master, 'cause I ban't," 
 he declared. "I can stand to work so well as any clever 
 chap. Never was known to be tired, I assure 'e. ' ' 
 
 "That's the sort I like. Go at it!" answered Oulds- 
 broom. 
 
 The boy struggled on. He grew very red in the face 
 and his breath began to come hard. 
 
 "How much might I have earned now, master?" he 
 inquired presently, and stopped to pant. 
 
 "You've about earned the pasty." 
 
 "There's the milk," said Tiger; and he set to work 
 again. Hope of winning tea grew faint. 
 
 But then the man stopped him. 
 
 ' ' Good boy ! I see you be made of fighting stuff. I 'II 
 give 'e a bit of work you can do easier to-morrow. Where 
 be you off to now ? ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis this way," he answered. "I want for to roam 
 off to foreign parts. But I'm looking out to better my- 
 self for the minute, and make a shilling or two. Per- 
 haps you might know somebody as wants a handy boy?" 
 
 "They'll send round the country to find you." 
 
 " 'Tis all one, 'cause I've changed my name. I know 
 you won't tell on me. I was called Pancras Lyd to the 
 workhouse; but now I be called 'Tiger,' and a reg'lar 
 tiger I 'm going for to be. " 
 
 "Play your Jew's harp. Tiger," said Martin. 
 
 The child brought his toy from his pocket, set it be- 
 tween his strong teeth and played an old tune.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 135 
 
 Ouldsbroom roared with laughter. 
 
 "Be damned if you can't do it proper," he said. 
 "Here, let me have a try!" 
 
 He tried, made strange noises and failed. 
 
 Now Martin laughed and wanted to try too. Tiger 
 was seized with the enthusiasm of the teacher. 
 
 "I'll larn you to do it, master! If you let me bide 
 wi' you for just a day or two I'll larn you all the tunes 
 I know — four and a hymn." 
 
 "What hymn?" asked the other boy. He reflected 
 that music would be a great addition to the prayer- 
 meeting game. 
 
 A voice called from the farm. 
 
 "There's mother," said Martin. " 'Tis tea-time." 
 
 "I'll have another go at this here spade while you get 
 your tea," suggested Tiger; but the farmer refused. 
 
 ' ' Come you down with us and play my missis a tune, ' ' 
 he said. ' ' She 's a gert musicker, and can sing very nice 
 when she 's minded to, though it ban 't often. ' ' 
 
 "She sings lovely to church," declared Martin. 
 
 But Unity was not much impressed by the Jew's harp. 
 She showed no great interest in Tiger; and the more 
 Philip encouraged the child, the less did she. It was not 
 until the boys had finished their meal and gone out to- 
 gether that she relented. 
 
 "He's a very tidy nipper," declared Philip; "Martin 
 have took to him something tremendous. I be going to 
 let him bide for a day or two, till his foot 's mended. He 
 makes me laugh — and strong as a pony he is. Us '11 see 
 what use he may be. There 's that in him will do Martin 
 good, I believe." 
 
 "You'll have him on your hands afore you can look 
 round," she answered. "They'll be very glad to get 
 rid of him at the workhouse, no doubt, though they'll 
 want his rags back." 
 
 "As to that, a boy can always get a job if he's got 
 work in him. We'll see what character they give him 
 from Okehampton. A bad one, I reckon. You might 
 write off a letter, Unity, and tell 'em he's safe for the 
 minute and ax 'em about him. Then we'll see if he's a
 
 136 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 liar or not. He's told me one lie a 'ready — said he was 
 fifteen — sly dog! because he hoped I'd think better of 
 his usefulness. You write; there's a dear woman, and 
 I '11 go down and post it. ' ' 
 
 In a matter of this kind Unity was always lightning- 
 quick to make capital and establish a balance, to be drawn 
 upon when her turn came for asking favours. 
 
 "What a fellow you are!" she answered. ''Lucky 
 for us we're off the road, or your silly way would be to 
 find room for every tramp that set the dog barking. I'll 
 write and hear what they've got to answer — since you 
 say it must be so. ' ' 
 
 "That's right! Who but you would be so sensible? 
 And if they don't give him a good character, back he 
 goes. ' ' 
 
 "They'll know that, and say the best they can." 
 
 Her husband, well pleased, went out to join the boys. 
 
 They were busy packing fern into an old broken barrel 
 on the hill outside the farmyard. 
 
 "Us be making a little cubby-hole for me to sleep in 
 to-night, master," explained Tiger. "Martin says you 
 don't set no store on this here barrel, and I can make 
 a very fine lair in it, if 'tis all the same to you. ' ' 
 
 "You may sleep in the shippon," answered Philip; 
 "and you'll have to work like the devil to-morrow, be- 
 cause I be going to get 'e a pair of boots down in the 
 village." 
 
 Tiger rejoiced in the boots, but regretted the barrel. 
 
 " 'Tis cruel kind, master, and I'll work the flesh off 
 my bones come morning," he said; "but, if 'tis all one, 
 I terrible wish to sleep in this here old cask. 'Twould 
 seem a bit fiercer like than being under cover. I never 
 thought to put my head under no roof no more when I 
 set out this marnin'."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Philip Ouldsbroom called at the 'Warren House' on 
 his way home from Moretonhampstead. Mr. Twigg was 
 not in the bar ; but Millicent Mary, now elevated to the 
 counter, served him. 
 
 There Avas an old man named Woodley in the corner — 
 bent, dirty, and toothless. He drank gin-and-water, 
 and regarded some young labourers with pint pots before 
 them. Philip, marking the envy in his face, took his 
 drink and sat beside him. 
 
 "What's wrong, gaffer?" he asked. 
 
 "Time's wrong," answered the patriarch. "Look at 
 they youngsters swilling. 'Tis as hard a thing as we 
 ancient blids can suffer to be reminded of what we've 
 lost." 
 
 "Every dog has his day. We've drunk our quarts 
 and turned night into morning afore now, too." 
 
 But Philip could not comfort the aged spirit. 
 
 ' ' I ban 't grudging them ; but I be quarrelling with my 
 own cruel luck," explained Mr. Woodley. "Here be I, 
 not eighty year old yet, and dursn't let down beer for 
 fear of shortening my life. And when 'tis so with a man, 
 the angel of the Lord couldn't make him cheerful." 
 
 "What's the matter with gin?" asked Ouldsbroom. 
 "Have a drop along with me." 
 
 Gregory Twigg and Henry Birdwood came in together. 
 Mr. Twigg wore well, Birdwood did not. The positions 
 between them were reversed in one particular. Increas- 
 ing weight tended to keep Gregory out of the saddle and 
 much diminish his activity. He had just resigned the 
 position of Moorman to the East Quarter and Birdwood 
 was about to succeed him. 
 
 "I've been telling Henry that it wouldn't surprise me 
 if some note was took by Duchy of my resigning," said 
 Twigg. " 'Tis pretty generally allowed, I believe, that 
 
 137
 
 138 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 I 've been the bailiff 's right hand for fifteen year, and on 
 a great change like this taking place 'twould be a natural 
 and human thing to give me a feed and a piece of plate 
 to hand down to my family when I'm gathered home. 
 "What d 'you say to that, souls 1 ' ' 
 
 The young men grinned indifferently; the ancient in 
 the corner, from his cynical standpoint of seventy-and- 
 seven, bade Gregory hope for nothing of the sort. 
 
 * ' Out of sight, out of mind, ' ' he said. ' ' You ought to 
 know by this time what Duchy does; and bailiff's only 
 the whip in Duchy's hand, when all's said." 
 
 Ouldsbroom, however, took a different view. The hope 
 of a revel or merry-making was always meat and drink 
 to him. Many a time had he been instrumental in getting 
 up of little testimonials, and so adding to the amenities 
 of his environment with good fellowship. He still laughed 
 at Twigg for a vain humbug, but bore him no ill-will. 
 
 ' ' A proper idea, Greg ! " he said. ' ' But you can 't very 
 well start a subscription for yourself, so you keep your 
 mouth shut, if you know how, and leave the job to your 
 neighbours. Next time I see bailiff, I '11 sound him. We '11 
 kill two birds wi' one stone strambang! We'll have a 
 blow-out and a bit of fun and buy you a new top hat, 
 or your missis a tea-pot, with what 's left over ! ' ' 
 
 Gregory was gratified, but wished the proposal might 
 come from a loftier quarter. 
 
 "You mean well, Ouldsbroom," he said. "And for a 
 man without religion few could mean better. But do 
 nought, I beg of you. This thing should be in higher 
 hands. By that I don't mean my Maker, but Duchy. 
 Do nought, and see what happens. When I think of 
 the ocean of brain-work I 've done for the bailiff, I can 't 
 suppose that a solemn thing, like my dropping out of 
 the East Quarter, will pass as if 'twas nought." 
 
 ** 'Twill pass like a shadow on the heath — same as 
 you will yourself — and we all shall," said Mr. Woodley 
 in the corner. 
 
 "Don't you talk that rummage," answered Philip; 
 "you forget the five pounds us got together for you when 
 your wife died."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 139 
 
 '' There's Millicent Mary's wedding too," continued 
 Gregory. "I suppose 'tis known now far and wide that 
 I've consented to her taking the carrier. He came shak- 
 ing before me last Saturday." 
 
 ' ' He didn 't shake ! ' ' said Millicent Mary from behind 
 the bar. "You know he didn't shake, father. He ban't 
 that sort of man. What have he got to shake about ? ' ' 
 
 "Go in the other room," answered Mr. Twigg, "and 
 don't speak in that tone of voice, because well you know 
 I never will have it." 
 
 The girl departed, and her parent continued: 
 
 "He came to offer himself; and though I can't say the 
 Coombers of Dousland be all to my liking, there 's nought 
 against him. He's added coke and coal to his other 
 chores, and there's a modest manner and religion to him. 
 So it will happen." 
 
 "Be you going to bide out at Teign Head, or shall you 
 come into Postbridge now?" asked a man of Birdwood. 
 
 "I shall stop there. There's no house in Postbridge 
 for the minute. ' ' 
 
 "Build one, Henry," suggested Philip. " 'Twould be 
 better every way if you was nearer Princetown. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I might — later. Must see how I get on. ' ' 
 
 "Don't be too hopeful," urged Twigg. "I believe 
 everybody knows the M^ay I can handle figures. Why, 
 last year saj-s the bailiff to me, 'Dammy, Twigg,' he says 
 — he using the word, not me — 'dammy, Twigg, you can 
 make 'em talk ! ' And that 's the truth. But with all my 
 large skill, I never got anything to be called big money 
 out of the Quarter, so you musn 't expect to, Henry. ' ' 
 
 "You'll marry on the strength of it, I reckon," sug- 
 gested a youth to Birdwood; but the shepherd shook his 
 head. 
 
 "Not me, Samuel. No wife for me. Philip here have 
 been at me like a woodpecker at a tree — hammering, 
 hammering it into me to take a wife; but not even for 
 him would I do it. ' ' 
 
 "Silly mumphead that you are!" cried the farmer. 
 "What a fool is a man that flings away the best half of 
 life and goes alone^eh, Twigg?"
 
 140 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "You might think so, neighbour, but remember Paul. 
 Marriage is a great lottery. If you've got understanding, 
 I say nothing. Perhaps no man ever chose so well as I 
 did, along of the brain-power I brought to the task. But, 
 with nine out of ten ordinary men, it is a lottery, because 
 the female nature is entirely different from ours. You 
 may have marked that." 
 
 " 'Tis the mixture of sense and silliness in 'em," said 
 Philip. "The surprises be the salt of 'em — the ups and 
 downs. If 'tweren't for the downs, the ups wouldn't 
 be half so tasty. Laugh — I die of laughing sometimes." 
 
 "Do you?" asked the innkeeper. "Now that sur- 
 prises me. What do you find to laugh at in your lady, 
 if I may ask?" 
 
 ' ' She 've got more sense than any woman in Postbridge, 
 bar the postmistress ; and none deny it, ' ' said the ancient 
 Woodley. 
 
 ' ' She have — far more — far more sense than me, if you 
 like; but 'tis women's sense, not man's; and women's 
 sense do look so damn funny now and again, ' ' explained 
 Ouldsbroom. "Their thrift — bless 'em — the way they 
 overwork a half-penny, and don't see that to spend six- 
 pence, and have done with it, would pay a long sight 
 better in the upshot. My dear woman bought the boy 
 a pair of shop-worn shoes for cheapness last year, and 
 then blackguarded Martin because they was too tight 
 for him ! Darling creatures ! 'Tis things like that make 
 you love 'em." 
 
 "What's this I hear tell of a boy you've picked up, 
 Phil ? ' ' asked Birdwood. 
 
 "Why, 'tis so. The rascal marched into Hartland a 
 month agone, and he's there yet. And a proper boy too. 
 My wife 's a bit uncertain about it, but she '11 come round, 
 for there's plenty for him to do and he's wonderful 
 handy for such a nipper. And my lad have taken to 
 him; and so have I." 
 
 "A workhouse boy, I was told," said Gregory. 
 
 " So he is. They don '1 want him back if I '11 keep him. 
 He was found, as an infant child, by a policeman in Lyd- 
 f ord parish, and be called after the river and the church.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 141 
 
 But that won't do for him. 'Tiger' he's to be, if you 
 please!" 
 
 "You'll rue it," foretold Twigg. "I lay my life he's 
 a gipsy brat and full of bad blood. Keep him, and so 
 like as not he'll cut all your throats whilst you sleep, or 
 set Hartland afire." 
 
 "Not a chance!" declared Ouldsbroom. "He's a red, 
 freckled toad — nothing of the gipsy in him. They be all 
 brown people. And I've no quarrel with them, for that 
 matter. I'd be very well satisfied with a van myself. 
 'Tis a large-minded, sporting way of life." 
 
 ' ' I should have reckoned that your own boy could have 
 done a bit of rough work round the house by now, ' ' said 
 Mr. Woodley. "I was earning my living picking stones 
 off the land when I was seven, afore all this silly foolery 
 of sending childer to school began." 
 
 "No," answered Philip. "His mother have her ideas 
 for Martin. Come he's a bit bigger, he'll go to a proper 
 school. He's a clever child a 'ready and can read out 
 loud very nice. ' ' 
 
 "If this foundling boy had been a bit bigger I'd have 
 took him off your hands, if he 's as smart as you think, ' ' 
 said Henry Birdwood. ' ' Ned Sleep will have to be gone 
 afore another summer. He knows it himself. He's 
 riddled with rheumatism, and his breathing parts be 
 giving out seemingly." 
 
 " 'Twill be the workhouse for him, I'm much afraid," 
 said Philip. 
 
 "He knows that too. He takes it as all in the day's 
 work. Nothing was ever seen to fluster that man. He's 
 so well used to looking forward and weighing things, that 
 'twill be no shock to him. He've got all the workhouse 
 rules and regulations at his fingers' ends, and he reckons 
 that on the whole he'll be more comfortable in than out. 
 He's been trying to better himself for twenty years, and 
 though there's less liberty, he says that so far as clothes 
 and comfort go, the union will be easier than TeignHead. " 
 
 "He's right there," declared Ouldsbroom. "You 
 don't know the meaning of comfort, Henry. I've often 
 heard my wife say so. "
 
 142 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Birdwood laughed. 
 
 ''Comfort — what do men want with comfort? If you 
 want to be comfortable, you can die." 
 
 He departed upon this sentiment, and Twigg discussed 
 him. 
 
 ''A cheerless man, though a godly," he remarked. 
 ' ' When his father was going home, he gave that old lion 
 ot the Lord his promise as he'd come back to the Little 
 Baptists. And back he came. But I doubt he gets much 
 out of it. There's a screw loose in his spirit, and I wish 
 he'd let me tighten it — for 'tis well within my power so 
 to do. I can read the soul like you chaps can read a 
 book. 'Tis second nature to me to see what's going for- 
 ward in the heart of a man. Couldn't tell you how I do 
 it — just one of my gifts. And I know Henry's not what 
 you may call hand-in-hand with Christ. ' ' 
 
 Ouldsbroom burst upon these reflections with noisy 
 scorn, and the ancient supported him. They wrangled 
 over Birdwood 's soul with some warmth, while the shep- 
 herd mounted his pony and struck ofi^ to the Moor. 
 
 He did not, however, return home directly. His busi- 
 ness took him to Stannon Farm, and in half an hour he 
 arrived there to speak with Quinton Crymes. The men 
 talked together for a while; then Henry went indoors to 
 drink a glass of cider. 
 
 "My sister be within," said Quinton. "She's walked 
 over from Hartland at my wish, to see Gertrude. There 's 
 another coming. You know hoAV 'tis with my poor wife. 
 She gets cruel low at these times, and believes that each 
 one is going to be the death of her, and leave me a widow - 
 man and the childer without a mother's care. But I tell 
 her that, after five successes, there's no fear of failure." 
 
 "Certainly not. She's all right, though how you can 
 see this swarm getting thick as bees round you and fear 
 nought. I don 't understand. ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis nothing," answered Crymes. "They come grad- 
 ual and take their places. I ban't in the least troubled 
 for 'em. I don't turn a hair for one of 'em. No good 
 being a God-fearer, like me, if you'm going to fret your 
 gizzard about your offspring. They'm the Lord's work,
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 143 
 
 not mine. I do my appointed part by 'em and look for 
 Him to do His. Why, I might so well fret about having 
 six as Ouldsbroom do about having only one. But I 
 know my place better. ' ' 
 
 Unity was just leaving as Birdwood appeared. 
 
 They had not met for a considerable time, and spoke 
 with friendship but no particular cordiality. 
 
 ''If you'll bide a minute I'll go with you," said the 
 shepherd. "Haven't seed you for a month of Sun- 
 days. ' ' 
 
 "Be quick then," she answered. Then she turned to 
 her brother. 
 
 "I've cheered her up," she declared. " 'Tis the same 
 old story : she l3e going to die, of course, this time. 'Tis 
 your second boy do fret her most, I believe. Samuel's a 
 little cross-pot of a child and he's spoiled. You ought 
 to whip that boy, else he'll whip you come he grows up. 
 But Jane's a beauty. I wish that babby was mine. A 
 dinky, chubbv cheel, and I can 't pass her without kissing 
 her." 
 
 "More can't I." declared the father. "Jane's my 
 favourite of the lot. She crows like a bantam of a morn- 
 ing — a sweet babe, I assure 'e ! " 
 
 Birdwood drank his cider, assured Gertrude that he 
 had never seen her looking better, and then walked away, 
 with his pony on one side of him and Mrs. Ouldsbroom 
 upon the other. 
 
 For some time they said nothing; then he asked a 
 question. 
 
 "I suppose you don't see it different? But I needn't 
 ask." 
 
 She showed impatience. 
 
 "No, I don't — I'm a sane woman, whatever else I 
 may be." 
 
 "Devil doubt that. I was only thinking of your hus- 
 band and the future of you all. ' ' 
 
 ' ' So was I. You always forget the boy and his future. ' ' 
 
 "Perhaps it might work out better for his eternal 
 future if 'twas known." 
 , "You beat me," she said. "Sure never was two men
 
 144 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 in one skin afore! Sometimes I think you like my hus- 
 band now better than you like me." 
 
 " 'Twouldn't be strange if I did, would it? Cast your 
 mind back a bit, Unity — for a change. I know you haven't 
 got much use for the past as a rule. 'Tisn 't in your nature, 
 and maybe you've more reason than most to keep your 
 eyes off it; but still, there 'tis, and you must remember 
 that men don't live on air where women are concerned. 
 You used me to please yourself and then, when I " 
 
 "For God's sake drop all that! What would you 
 have had?" 
 
 "I'd have had you," he said. "I'd have had you a 
 little bit nearer — for a little bit longer. You dropped me 
 rather short and sharp ten year back. You thought I 
 didn 't see it. But I saw it very clear. ' ' 
 
 "Haven't I heard that often enough?" 
 
 "Perhaps you have." 
 
 "And didn't I make my side clear too? What does 
 it all matter now anyway?" 
 
 "Nothing now — of course. Only a man's temper 
 changes and his anger wears out. Perhaps I do like 
 Philip better than you. 'Twouldn't be odd. We've all 
 changed, you see — all but him. You like your son better 
 than anything on God's earth. You don't deny that?" 
 
 " I 've never tried to hide it. ' ' 
 
 "But I'm no more to you than the stone that helps 
 you over the stream." 
 
 " 'A man's temper changes' — 'twas your word a min- 
 ute ago," she answered. "And a woman's may do the 
 like. We did wrong — awful wrong — the pair of us. But 
 the wrong can't be undone without doing worse wrong 
 now. Surely you see that ? ' ' 
 
 "I see how you always argue for self. And I see how 
 you always did. You threw me over for him, because of 
 his money ; and then, when no children came, you threw 
 him over for me, because of your own desires. But I 
 myself was never nothing much to you, for all your soft 
 glances and whispers. When you 'd got what you wanted 
 — what then? — you turned pious and taught my child 
 Bible stories, and told me that we 'd done wickedness in the
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 145 
 
 land and must spend the rest of ovir lives making up for 
 it. 'Twas convenient to turn good then, when you'd got 
 all you wanted out of being bad. Don't you see what a 
 damned hypocrite you've been?" 
 
 "What's the sense of this now? I'm weary of going 
 over it again and again if you are not. If 'tis true I 'm a 
 hypocrite — what then? Don't I smart without you rub- 
 bing salt into the wound?" 
 
 " 'Twas your fault that I harp on it to-day," he an- 
 swered. " 'Tis the things you said a bit ago brought it 
 all up. God knows I think of it as seldom as I can. I've 
 sworn to you never to tell him, though I'm tempted ter- 
 rible to break my oath sometimes, when I see the man 
 fighting so hard to win over my frosty child. Phil's 
 worth the pair of us. And you said just now to your 
 brother how you wished you'd got a little one like his 
 babby. And that made me look back too, and set me 
 thinking. Now I '11 go. ' ' 
 
 "And don't you quarrel with me, Henry," she said 
 more gently. "Granted I'm a hypocrite and worse, re- 
 member I pay. Remember that life ban't a bed of roses 
 for me neither. To marry the wrong man and hide it 
 for ten years takes some doing — yes, and brings the grey 
 into a woman's hair, I can tell you. Don't grudge me 
 the boy; and don't grudge him what will be his. And 
 don't think I care nothing about you. Can a woman 
 forget the father of her child?" 
 
 They parted then without another word from him. 
 
 A sound he did make in answer to her last question — a 
 sort of inarticulate grunt, half amusement and half scorn. 
 Then he rode abruptly away, and left Unity with a hearty 
 contempt in her mind for his fond recollections. The past 
 to her was past indeed ; but she had imagination sufficient 
 to perceive the different standpoint of the man. From a 
 vanished year she had gleaned what was more to her than 
 her own life; he had won nothing but revenge long 
 foundered in bitterness — a revenge that had turned vipon 
 him, fouled his existence, grown up into a pestilent jungle 
 round about him, and hopelessly hidden the pathway that 
 once he thought to tread. Revenge is^nly food for the 
 strong: it had poisoned Birdwood. 
 
 10
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 The boy Tiger by some accidents of character found no 
 enemy at Hartland. Philip frankly liked him from the 
 first, and Unity, glad to please her husband, was friendly 
 to the child and began to seek for him a permanent home 
 and regular work. But meanwhile Tiger, as he was now 
 universally called, had won a stronger ally than the mas- 
 ter himself. Martin rejoiced exceedingly in the sudden 
 advent of this playfellow. To have another young thing 
 under the same roof with him; to be able to practise 
 those arts of teaching and improvement that belonged to 
 his nature — this addition to life was very pleasant to 
 Unity's child. She perceived it, and when she did get 
 the promise of a good home for the unfriended boy, it 
 was too late. Martin wept bitterly at the thought of 
 separation ; Philip also raised many objections. Tiger 
 had already become useful. He possessed a good nature 
 and a strong arm. It struck Philip that his amiability, 
 physical pluck, and genial spirit would well serve the 
 shyer and colder disposition of Martin. This he did not 
 say to his wife, knowing that a comparison of such a 
 sort might annoy her into antagonism; but he stood 
 strenuously for the establishment of Tiger at Hartland, 
 and the boy himself, assuming the utmost ferocity his 
 freckled face could pretend to, declared that he would 
 stay, and that, if sent off, he should come back again. 
 
 Martin's cousins also welcomed him, though Tiger at 
 this stage of his existence affected a large contempt for 
 girls. The children often met through summer days and 
 played their games at Hartland Tor under Martin's 
 ledge, or in the ruined sheepfold, or among the Stone 
 Men's ruins on the hillsides of Stannon. 
 
 146
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 147 
 
 A little hut circle here was regarded by Maggie and 
 Jacky, Minnie and Samuel Crymes as Martin's special 
 property. It stood to them as a place of serious rites and 
 solemn celebrations. Here Martin played at church, 
 read from his prayer-book and made the other children 
 sing. The boy would even preach sometimes, until 
 Sammj^ Crymes laughed or cried, as the case might be, 
 and broke down the illusion. 
 
 On a half-holiday Martin and Tiger went off to meet 
 the former 's cousins and perform a most important cere- 
 mony. One or two other children from the national 
 school at Postbridge also promised to be present at ' Mar- 
 tin 's church,' and the child himself felt greatly elated. 
 
 Some washing fluttered on the thorn-bushes above the 
 farm, and Unity's boy helped himself from it to one of 
 his own night-shirts. 
 
 " 'Twill look properer," he said. 
 
 " 'Twill be solemn and holy like if you've got white 
 on, though there bau't enough arms for you to hide your 
 face in," declared Tiger. 
 
 They were going to the old barrow to baptize Tiger. 
 It was a spot of sepulture from which the mortuary 
 mound had long since vanished. An outer ring of stones 
 still stood, and in the midst a ruined kistvaen lay. Mar- 
 tin decreed that the largest stone of the ruin was an 
 altar; while the others furnished seats for the congre- 
 gation and himself. 
 
 Evidences of an ancient track or stream-way ran im- 
 mediately behind the old barrow, and thence Minnie 
 Crymes, the second girl of Quinton 's family, now brought 
 water in an old meat-tin. She was a little, pretty child, 
 with something delicate and dainty about her. Her 
 small head seemed as a flower upon its stalk. Her face, 
 like a bud newly opened upon the miracle of life, dis- 
 played ever a look of surprise. Minnie was indeed al- 
 ways wondering. Her mother declared that with ' I won- 
 der' she began every utterance. Maggie belonged to a 
 different order. She was a plump, hearty girl, and loved 
 eating. Of the boys Samuel had a bad reputation as one 
 prone to be difficult; while Jack, the elder, resembled
 
 148 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Maggie in face and soul. The children were a blend of 
 their parents, save Minnie, who had harked back to some 
 unremembered ancestor for her nature, or was, as her 
 father proudly called her, ' a rare sport. ' 
 
 The fifth child of the Crymes family was also present, 
 in Maggie's arms, and half a dozen other children had 
 tramped over from Postbridge, being bribed to attend the 
 ceremony by promises of cake at Stannon afterwards. 
 Martin had long been Minnie 's hero. Everything that he 
 did was the right and proper thing to do; and she was 
 always wondering what he would do next. 
 
 While the two boys from Hartland walked along, the 
 younger arranged the ceremony. 
 
 " 'Twill be 'Baptism of such as are of riper years,' " 
 he said, "because you can talk and have got your wits. 
 But I wish you'd light upon another name. Everybody 
 did ought to have two names at least." 
 
 ''One's enough for me." 
 
 "Then Minnie be your woman gossip, and Jack will 
 stand for a godfather, and if Billy Meadows do come up, 
 as he promised, he can stand for t'other." 
 
 They arrived presently, and Martin looked blank. 
 
 "Billy ban't here," he said, "and none of t'other 
 boys are old enough." 
 
 "I don't want no godfathers," declared Tiger. 
 
 Then he pointed to the hill. 
 
 "There's Mr. Sleep creeping along. Shall us ask 
 him?" 
 
 Martin, however, refused. 
 
 "We won't have no growed people. 'Twould spoil all. 
 I'll be t'otlier godfather myself. 'Tis quite allowable; 
 because when Mrs. Crymes had her last child christened, 
 parson stood — didn't he, Maggie?" 
 
 "Yes, he did, Martin." 
 
 Martin donned his night-shirt and directed the congre- 
 gation. None had brought prayer-books save himself. 
 
 The rite proceeded laboriously with some interruptions. 
 Once a flock of feeding geese came hissing near the bar- 
 row and made some small children cry; once Sammy 
 Crymes flung a stone at a rabbit that suddenly popped
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 149 
 
 up on the outskirts, of the ceremony. Martin shortened 
 the service a good deal and began at the address to the 
 ' Well-beloved. ' He then put the question : 
 
 " 'Dost thou renounce the devil and all his works, the 
 vain pomp and glory of the world, with all covetous in- 
 stincts of the same and the carnal desires of the flesh, so 
 that thou wilt not follow, nor he led by themf " 
 
 ' ' Sure and sure and double sure ! ' ' answered Tiger 
 heartily. 
 
 Martin was mildly annoyed. 
 
 "Hush!" he said. "I made you rehearse it all the 
 way here. You know that's wrong'." 
 
 "Sorry," answered Tiger. "I forgot. Let's see — I 
 know — '/ renounce them all.' " 
 
 Anon ]\Iartin whispered to Minnie, as he had seen 
 clergymen whisper at baptisms, and heard from her the 
 name. 
 
 " 'Tiger, / baptize thee in the Name of the Father, and 
 of the 8c/ti and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.' " 
 
 The boy dipped his hand in the meat-tin and drew the 
 symbol of his faith on Tiger's brow. All was ordered 
 with the utmost gravity and seriousness, and the earnest- 
 ness of Martin acted visibly upon the other children and 
 kept them attentive. Even Tiger himself was impressed, 
 and declared afterwards that he felt something quite out 
 of the common had happened to him. 
 
 ^ ' 'Tis cruel solemn, ' ' he told Martin afterwards, ' ' and 
 I hope to goodness as it won't take the fierceness out of 
 me." 
 
 Presently all the children knelt and said the Lord's 
 Prayer. Even the least joined in this, and the adjacent 
 geese contributed a triumphant and simultaneous cack- 
 ling, as though they too were conscious of the thing that 
 had been done. 
 
 Martin read the final admonition, and then, at Tiger's 
 wish, the ceremony concluded with a hymn. The words 
 were familiar, and IMinnie, Maggie, and Jacky sang 
 them, while Tiger played the tune on his Jew's harp. 
 Martin, however, preserving his priestly part to the end, 
 knelt down and shut his eyes. From first to last his
 
 150 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 actions, attitude, and manner showed closest attention to 
 his model: the village clergyman. He won immense, 
 quiet pleasure from the ceremony. It was not a parody, 
 but rather the best imitation possible with this material. 
 
 ' ' A proper bit of fun, that ! ' ' said Tiger when all was 
 over. "Lord! How you can be that solemn-like, Mar- 
 tin! I lay you was itching to take up a collection, wasn't 
 you?" 
 
 "Now let's have a game of follow-my-leader — shall 
 us?" suggested Sammy Crymes. "You promised us 
 you'd play, Maggie, if I was good and sat it out." 
 
 The children scattered, drifted to the valley, and 
 presently all arrived at Stannon, where milk and cake 
 awaited them.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 On a winter day Peter Culme called at the shop beside 
 the river and met Gregory Twigg there. The innkeeper 
 was talking to Miss Hext, and their conversation related 
 to the master of Hartland. 
 
 " 'Tis with all men as it is with him," said Barbara, 
 "but much more with him than most men. You be all 
 more childish than us women. You never quite throw it 
 out of you, like we do. It hangs about you to old age in 
 your love for sporting and revels. We pretend to care 
 for these things a bit— to pleasure you — but we don't 
 really. We'd sooner be home. We are more serious- 
 minded than men." 
 
 "Ah! I'd like to see the woman that's more serious- 
 minded than me," said Mr. Twigg. 
 
 "Look at the 'Warren House' and you will," answered 
 Barbara. "As to Philip Ouldsbroom," she continued, 
 "there's a man who be younger than his own son. He 
 comes in this shop to buy him some childish thing and 
 then plays with it himself, because the child won't. And 
 next minute he curses and stamps his foot on the toy. 
 I've seen him do it." 
 
 " 'Tis all along of his vain opinions," declared Twigg. 
 " 'Opinions,' I call them; but you can't say his mind is 
 rooted in anything. A feather in a gale of wind is that 
 man; and if it hadn't been for his wife, he'd have been 
 blown to perdition long since. It must come to that. 
 'Tis only a question of the Lord's patience." 
 
 "Still preaching!" said Peter Culme. "Nature will 
 out with you as with all, I suppose ; but don 't you know 
 
 151
 
 152 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 your company better than to tell this here in Miss Hext's 
 shop?" 
 
 ' ' Sow enough seed and some will grow, ' ' answered the 
 publican calmly. "I don't despair of anybody, for I've 
 known my gift of words win people terrible fixed in their 
 errors. As for Ouldsbroom " 
 
 He stopped, for Philip entered, and Tiger with him. 
 The farmer was excited and brought news. 
 
 ' ' Have 'e heard this gashly come-along-of-it to Shaugh 
 Prior?" he asked. "Old Baskerville's only son, the bell- 
 ringer, have strung himself up in the belfry!" 
 
 "All flesh is grass," said Mr. Twigg. 
 
 "So's sugar and bread; but you don't roll your eyes 
 over them," answered Miss Hext. " 'Tis for that girl 
 that flung him over — Mrs. Lintern's daughter, poor 
 young man ! ' ' 
 
 "His opinions were parlous," declared Twigg. " 'Twas 
 well known that he held doubtful ideas and cared more 
 for ringing tenor bell than the glory of Him he rang it 
 for. Mark Baskerville was an atheist, and be lost for it, 
 I'm afraid, under chapter and verse of the Book. Bible's 
 clear enough, though 'tis the Church of England fashion 
 nowadays to pretend plain English ban't plain English. 
 If you want naked Bible, you must come to us." 
 
 "He was a very good young fellow and never hurt a 
 fly in his life," said Ouldsbroom. "Everybody liked 
 him ; but you, out of your narrow, frost-bitten heart, can 
 damn him off-hand." 
 
 "Not me, neighbour. Damnation be God's business, 
 not man's. 'Tis the case of a young fellow strong in 
 works but weak in faith." 
 
 "It takes all sorts of tidy folk to make your hell, no 
 doubt," said the farmer scornfully. 
 
 "Many men, many manners, and mostly evil," replied 
 Gregory ; ' ' but there 's only one sort in heaven, rest sure, 
 Philip Ouldsbroom." 
 
 "And that's your sort I suppose, sir?" asked the 
 debonair Tiger respectfully. 
 
 Mr. Twigg regarded him with commiseration. 
 
 "I'm happy to believe so, my poor boy," he answered.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 153 
 
 ''You rim out," said Philip. "Us don't want you 
 here listening to this twaddle. You can get down to the 
 river and play till I call 'e. " 
 
 Tiger departed, and Mr. Twigg went out after him. 
 
 ' ' How about the testimonial ? ' ' asked Culme. 
 
 "There again," ansAvered Ouldsbroom, growing calm. 
 ' ' Ban 't my fault, for I 've done all I can and still will do ; 
 but the people ban't tumbling over one another to start 
 it, and that 's a fact ; and as for bailiff, he don 't intend to 
 do a thing. I put it to him, and he said he'd so soon 
 start a testimonial for his turkey-cock as for Twigg. ' ' 
 
 "That's what he gets by all his nonsense. And I'm 
 right glad the thing be going to fall through, for it may 
 open his eyes to his puffed-up silliness," declared Peter. 
 
 "More like to our ingratitude- — so he'll call it. How- 
 ever, I'll see here and there. There's no great harm in 
 the man, apart from his pious drivel, and a good feed 
 and a bit of music one night at the 'Ring o' Bells' would 
 cheer life up a bit these dull days. I dare say old Med- 
 licott, their pastor at the chapel, would lend a hand. ' ' 
 
 "He'll be wanting a send-oft' himself soon," foretold 
 Miss Hext. "He's nearly done. He was in here yester- 
 day — a nice, old, kindly man, and not so full of non- 
 sense as most of his sort. But he's nearly fought his 
 fight. We had a very sensible bit of talk about Job. 
 He knows it by heart a 'most, so we met on common 
 ground. ' ' 
 
 "I read it more than I did," said Philip. "There's 
 things come home to you gradual as you get older. Each 
 year shows me a bit more sense in what Job says to they 
 lantern-jawed, owl-eyed fellows that was the worst of 
 his plagues, in my opinion. Martin pipes it out. 'Tis 
 funny to hear such terrible things in his little cock- 
 sparrow voice. I laughed aloud last Sunday night while 
 he twittered out they tremendous terrors in chapter ten. ' ' 
 
 "Do he get to understand you closer?" she asked. 
 
 He shook his head, looked at Culme, and signified a 
 desire for silence. Peter, however, withdrew a moment 
 later and then the farmer answered : 
 
 "No, no, Barbara. You know the answer to that.
 
 154 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 He'll never understand me. His heart's too wise, I 
 reckon — or else too small." 
 
 ''Don't think it. 'Twill grow with the rest of him. 
 God makes and man shapes. There's a lot yon can 
 do." 
 
 "And don't I try? Ban't I always at him? Good 
 powers, Barbara! If he'd only take a bird's nest some- 
 times, or break down a wall, or come in your shop and 
 steal a sugar-plum when you wasn 't looking — anything — 
 anything to earn a whipping and make me feel closer to 
 him. His eyes — so steady and quiet — his little, good, 
 childish thoughts— damnation — starvation, I tell you ! 
 I comed across the very thing in your book a bit agone, 
 and laid it up in memory. You'll mind the words, of 
 course. 'Can the rush grow up without mire? Can the 
 flag grow without w^ater?' And can a man's heart go 
 on loving his child without a bit of love back? 'Twill 
 wear out — 'twill cool off. And yet how can I say such 
 things? He's different from me. Perhaps he feels too 
 and hides it for shyness — eh, Barbara ? It may be there 
 — 'twill show presently. I've a right to think that?" 
 
 "Every right. Keep your eye on his mother, and re- 
 member the boy was made out of her. That's what 
 fathers so oft forget. She don't wear her heart on her 
 :-"leeve; yet show me the man with a wiser wife than 
 you've got. The child's hers so well as yours — hers more 
 than yours even, as often falls out. But you don't quar- 
 rel with her for being different from you, so you 
 shouldn't quarrel with him." 
 
 "He'll come nearer belike as he sees more of life and 
 gets more knowledge?" 
 
 "Why shouldn't he? I've known men — the best sort 
 too — grow younger as they grow older." 
 
 "That's just what I could wish for him. You'm al- 
 ways hopeful, my dear. And so be I, for that matter. 
 And never found it fail me yet. But there's a sort of 
 cold gets round my mmd when " 
 
 A little girl rushed into the shop and set the bell 
 jangling. 
 
 "Please, please, mister. Tiger's failed in the river "
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 155 
 
 '*Ah!" said Philip, *' Martin never failed in the river 
 — and never will." 
 
 He hastened out to find the drenched and dwarfed 
 Tiger just crawling like an otter out of four feet of 
 water. 
 
 "Crool sorry," said the boy. "I was showing Billy 
 Meadows and Tom Dury that I could jump across from 
 thicky stone to thicky stone. They dared me, and I went 
 for it and missed. ' ' 
 
 Billy Meadows and Tom Dury were dancing on the 
 bank and rejoicing at Tiger's downfall. 
 
 "Nip along home and get they clothes off. We'll go in 
 the shop another time." 
 
 "Wait!" cried Tiger. "I can't be no wetter than 
 what I be. Let me have another d— d— dash for it, 
 master ! ' ' 
 
 He took off his coat and waistcoat, licked his hands, 
 assumed his fiercest frown, and jumped again. This time 
 he just managed to hold on to the further rock with hands 
 and toes. Then he shouted triumphantly at the other 
 boys. 
 
 "There! And now let's see if any of you have got 
 p — p — p — pluck for it!" 
 
 Then he took his coat and set off at a run beside Oulds- 
 broom. 
 
 "That'll show 'em!" he said, "and if they t — t — try 
 they'll fall in and be drownded, because they ain't got my 
 fierceness. When I dropped, the water fetched me off 
 my le — le — legs, but I wouldn't go under. I fought 
 against it. I hope to God my Je — Je — Je — Jew's harp 
 won 't get rusty. ' ' 
 
 His teeth began to chatter, and Philip took off his own 
 coat and wrapped it round the boy. 
 
 "You'll catch it come you get home," he said. 
 
 "Missis be terrible kind most times when you'm not 
 there," answered Tiger. "That's because I work so 
 hard." 
 
 ' ' She knows work when she sees it. ' ' 
 
 "I wish you was my father and her was my m — m — 
 mother," said Tiger earnestly.
 
 156 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "Do you?" 
 
 Tiger considered, and trotted forward. Suddenly a 
 great idea struck him. 
 
 ' ' I suppose now you never happened to have a li '1 boy 
 back along and forgot un, mister? Because if you had, 
 and the boy was lost, I might be him ! ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis a very fine idea; but I'm afraid no such thing 
 ever happened to me." 
 
 "Well, be it as 'twill," summed up Tiger, "I lay my 
 father weren't half such a proper good sort as what you 
 be." 
 
 ' ' How d 'you know that much ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Why, 'cause he 'd never have gone and left me by the 
 river to starve, for all he knowed. But, all the same, 
 mind you, I wouldn't have starved — I ban't that sort — 
 too fierce for that. I'd have lived on b — b — blackberries 
 and such like, and made friends wi ' the foxes. ' ' 
 
 "Perhaps you'll come across your father yet, one of 
 these days." 
 
 "If I do, I shan't be none too civil to the man," said 
 Tiger. "And if he thinks to t — t — take me away from 
 you and make me work for him, I won't go. I'll never 
 leave you no more — never so long as I live — no more 
 than your dog wouldn 't. ' ' 
 
 "I wonder, now, how true that's like to be?" asked 
 the man.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 From no obvious quality in natural things may kindred 
 qualities with certainty be inferred. The East wind 
 freezes a man's bosom, yet around him flings a garment 
 of atmosphere to augment earth's loveliness; the West 
 wind salutes him with warmth, yet strips the world stark 
 and suffers no sorcery of air made visible to cover her. 
 Eurus may bear a scythe, but he robes the land in vesture 
 of mingled magic and mystery ; while gentler, franker 
 Zephyr reveals the mother-naked truth about each far 
 horizon, each ambit, aud each article of many-membered 
 earth. 
 
 On a day in August the Moor had receded, grown dim, 
 and taken upon itself the enchantments of the East wind. 
 Detail departed from distance, and the waste swept ridge 
 on ridge and hollow upon hill, in semblance of grey and 
 silver clouds, that rolled upon the sky, so that they might 
 not surely be separated from it. The wind, with most 
 delicate vapour, most tender tones of pearl and azure, 
 wrapped heath and granite in a milky lustre, robbed 
 the sternest rock-mass of its contours, and leavened the 
 waste with the medium of its own opalescent colour. 
 The lesser furzes took it, and the heath ; the boulder was 
 bluer for it, and the fading splendour of the fern more 
 dim where the brake spread vipon the hills. Colours 
 swam together at the touch of this Orient breeze, and a 
 melting, diffused quality of mingled tints was manifested 
 through all things. 
 
 The heat was tempered. A fret of sunny foam drifted 
 along above the cloud-banks, and into the air beneath 
 Hartland Tor ascended long feathers of earth-born smoke 
 from fires in a field. They rose in fulvous columns, then 
 bent together westerly, thinned, lost their own sulky 
 
 157
 
 158 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 hue and took the colour of the day upon their vanishing 
 volume. 
 
 About the fires were assembled the life of Oulds- 
 broom's farm. All hands advanced the work of peat- 
 burning, for Philip was 'denshiring' a croft. 
 
 To 'denshire' or to 'Devonshire' land (for the folk- 
 word belongs to the county, as the operation does) is a 
 simple process of agriculture still practised before 
 ploughing on spongy and barren soil. The turf is pared 
 from the surface of the ground, gathered in heaps, and 
 reduced to ashes. The transformed matter, rich with 
 chemical change of fire, is then spread once more, and the 
 earth, thus invigorated, will bear roots or even corn, be- 
 fore it is laid under grass again. 
 
 Martin and Tiger worked as busily here as the men, 
 and with tools called 'tormentors' broke up the turf or 
 dragged it to the smouldering piles. 
 
 Towards evening Unity brought up a great cloam jug 
 of hot tea, and Tiger ran for mugs and the basket of 
 bread-and-butter that waited for him. He had taken his 
 place now in the life of Hartland, and Philip held him 
 useful in many ways ; Avhile Mrs. Ouldsbroom. conceded 
 that the boy earned his salt, and was satisfied for her 
 son's sake that he should remain. 
 
 After tea had been taken in a corner of the field to 
 windward of the smoking earth, Philip dismissed the 
 children and told them that their day's work was done. 
 They scampered off to the river, crossed it, and climbed 
 the opposite hill upon the way to a favourite haunt. 
 Tiger had found the natural chamber where, eleven 
 years earlier. Unity and Henry Birdwood were wont to 
 meet. He had decided that a den worthy of him m.ight 
 here be made, and with Martin's help had dragged rocks 
 hither, built up the entrance, and suffered to remain a 
 passage only wide enough for himself and his companion. 
 
 "Us '11 go to the holt and play games," said Tiger. 
 "I left two gert pieces of that figgy pudden there ten 
 days agone. 'Tis time 'twas ate up, I reckon." 
 
 They considered the game to be played, and the elder 
 made a startling proposition.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 159 
 
 '^I'll pretend as I'm bosky-eyed,* like your father was 
 Saturday night, and you can talk to me, same as missis 
 talked to him." 
 
 But Martin declined the suggestion. 
 
 " 'Twould be a very good game if 'twasn't father and 
 mother; but being them, us better not do it. We wasn't 
 supposed to hear nothing about that row, and if you 
 hadn't come in the washhouse, where I was listening 
 behind the door, you never would have knowed. 'Tis a 
 terrible bad thing to be drunk. ' ' 
 
 "I'm sure he seldom goes like it, and he's that awful 
 funny when his voice gets up in his head and he 
 squints " 
 
 ' ' Shut up ! " said Martin hotly. ' ' I won 't have you 
 laugh about it. Drink be nought to laugh at, but a dis- 
 grace to the nation. You heard my mother say so, and 
 that was her word — •' a disgrace to the nation and a wicked 
 sight for children.' And nothing could my father say, 
 because, bad though he was, he knowed 'twas true. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Every growed man takes a drop too much off and on. 
 'Tis the manhood in 'em," argued Tiger. 
 
 " 'Tis the devil in 'em," answered Martin; "and don't 
 you never stand up for wickedness afore me, Tiger, be- 
 cause I'll quarrel with you if you do." 
 
 "I won't have no woman reigning over me when I'm 
 a man," answered the other doggedly. 
 
 "If you dare to mean my mother!" answered Martin 
 in a rage. Then, suddenly, he broke off, hopped on one 
 leg and uttered a cry. From his lifted foot a glittering 
 ribbon of black and silver fell and slid fast along the way 
 to the nearest heather. He had set his foot on an adder 
 and been bitten by it. 
 
 Tiger, not knowing what had happened, pursued the 
 snake, struck it with his stick and broke its back. 
 
 "I've killed the gashly thing, and that's twopence 
 from your father. Twopence he gives for every snake 
 us can show him. ' ' 
 
 "But — but — oh. Tiger, it's stung me!" cried Martin. 
 
 * Bosky-eyed — Drunk.
 
 160 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 He had sat by the way and turned down his stocking. 
 The mark of the viper 's fang already showed livid above 
 his ankle. 
 
 "Aw jimmery!" cried Tiger. "Come on, start going 
 — us must run for dear life ! But don 't you get feared. 
 'Twill be all right if 'tis taken in time." 
 
 Martin had turned very white, and stared in front of 
 him without making any effort to move. 
 
 "Come, come!" cried the elder. "For the Lord's 
 sake doan 't 'e sit glazing there ! Us must get back to 
 your father this instant moment." 
 
 The wounded boy rose and hastened. Tiger took his 
 hand and hurried him along. 
 
 "We must trust in God," said Martin. 
 
 "Not yet — not yet," answered the other. "There's a 
 lot of things to do afore we come to that. They'll make 
 a terrible pucker about it. But trust your father to save 
 'e!" 
 
 Martin faltered. 
 
 "It do smart cruel," he said. "I be going fainty 
 like." 
 
 "Don't think of it; don't think of it. Here, I'll put 
 my arm round you. Now us '11 get on brave. When us 
 crosses the river, I '11 shout, and your father will hear me 
 and come running." 
 
 They hastened on, but Martin needed the elder's arm, 
 for he was growing very sick. Anon Tiger bawled aloud, 
 and a man heard him and told Ouldsbroom. 
 
 "They childer be shouting for you in the valley, mis- 
 ter," he said. "They'm frightened. Maybe there's 
 something amiss." 
 
 Philip was in his shirt-sleeves at a fire. He dropped a 
 fork and started running where the man pointed. Then 
 he saw Tiger supporting the other, and hastened to them 
 as fast as he could. 
 
 They told him what had happened, whereupon he 
 acted promptly but vainly. He tore down Martin's 
 stocking and revealed a limb swollen and of darkish 
 colour. Then he set his lips to the bite and sucked and 
 sucked. Martin had a handkerchief, and his father tied
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 161 
 
 it tightly as a ligature above the wound. It was, how- 
 ever, far too late for such remedial measures. 
 
 "Run on," he said to Tiger. "Run home and tell 
 missis. I '11 bring the boy ; then you get on the boss and 
 go like a flame of fire for doctor. Ride bare-ridged, and 
 ride like hell. This will show what you be good for !" 
 
 Tiger departed at his best speed, and long before Philip 
 had carried Martin to his mother, the elder boy was rid- 
 ing as hard as he could go to Princetown. 
 
 The question was what amount of venom the sufferer 
 had received; the event alone would prove it. Philip's 
 efforts were too late in any case, for the poison had 
 travelled through the boy 's system long before he sought 
 to suck it out. 
 
 Unity acted otherwise, stripped the child, put him 
 between the blankets of her own bed, and gave him some 
 warm brandy and water. She kept a cheerful face, as- 
 sured him that he would soon be better, relieved his 
 anxiety and hid her own. Presently she fomented the 
 wound with hot water to lessen the pain and reduce the 
 swelling. 
 
 The tension for both adults was terrific. They hung on 
 Martin's fluttering eyelids and gauged his colour with 
 straining eyes. Now he grew paler, and their hope fainted ; 
 now he flushed a little, and they marked the change and 
 looked at each other and nodded. Philip wanted to 
 drown the boy with spirits ; Unity would not let him do so. 
 
 They whispered of familiar cases, and took heart in the 
 recollection that none they knew had proved fatal. But 
 the youth of Martin mad'- uuem tear. Unity was the more 
 hopeful and far the more self-contained. The man 
 roamed everywhere, like a mad thing, and forced himself 
 away and killed time for minutes together; then he 
 rushed back again in dreadful fear that it might be to 
 hear worse news. He absented himself within sight of the 
 entrance, and each minute that Unity did not come made 
 him more hopeful ; but suddenly his heart cried to him 
 to return, and he hurried indoors. She meantime kept 
 by the bed with her hand in Martin's. He was very 
 silent and drowsy, but he told her the pain was less, and 
 
 11
 
 162 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 she fancied that after an hour had passed the swelling 
 sank a little. The child continued very collected and 
 presently inspired her with hope. 
 
 "I thought I was going to die," he said; "but now I 
 don 't think I am. Where 's father ? ' ' 
 
 " He 's close. I '11 tell him what you said, Martin. 'Twill 
 do him good." 
 
 "I'm afraid he's terrible put out." 
 
 "He's all right. Don't you be talking." 
 
 She left the child for a moment and went to the door ; 
 whereupon Philip, who was tramping round and round 
 in a narrow circuit, felt a great pang shake him to the 
 roots of his being, and rushed to her. 
 
 "Not worse — not worse; for God's sake don't say it!" 
 
 "No — no — better, I do believe. He says he ban't 
 going to die. I do think he's going on well." 
 
 Philip came in again to see the boy. 
 
 "That's a brave, dear chap," he said, trying to grin. 
 "Of course you'll be all right. 'Tis nothing but a sting. 
 Us '11 all forget it to-morrow. And we'll go down to 
 Barbara's and get the best toys in the shop — by God we 
 will!" 
 
 "Where's Tiger?" asked Martin. 
 
 "He's off to fetch Dr. Dickinson. They'll be here in 
 a minute, I reckon. I'll just go off and see if they'm 
 coming. ' ' 
 
 He stooped and kissed Martin and hugged him; then 
 he went out. 
 
 Ignorant of facts, Unity and Philip pinned hope on 
 swift arrival of the doctor. They did not know in such 
 a case that chance, and not belated medical skill, must 
 determine the boy's life. Danger of death was long past 
 before the medical man arrived at Hartland. 
 
 Martin, however, was still sick, and since the day had 
 now sunk to night, the old physician yielded to Philip's 
 entreaty, and stopped until next morning at the farm. 
 Brandy, hot soup, hot bricks to his feet, continued fomen- 
 tations, and some good sleep, found the patient stronger 
 in the morning ; and then the medical man went to Oulds- 
 broom, where he stood dishevelled at his door in the first
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 163 
 
 grey of the dawn, and declared Martin beyond any cause 
 for fear. 
 
 "Say it again; say it again!" cried Philip. ''Safe — 
 safe, doctor!" 
 
 "Safe as a church! I'll send a tonic — in fact, I'll 
 bring it this evening. ' ' 
 
 The father was distrustful. 
 
 "You'm a little bit feared, else you wouldn't come 
 again. ' ' 
 
 "Not at all. But come I shall, to-night, on my way 
 back from Moreton. I'm due there to-day, and will get 
 the physic made up there. He's a tine, strong lad, with a 
 good constitution and good pluck. Don't you have 
 another care for him. He's very nearly well again." 
 
 Philip shook the doctor 's hand thrice ; then he stalked 
 away alone to the top of Hartland Tor, and flung him- 
 self down there with a full heart. 
 
 The regular life of the farm began beneath him. He 
 saw the cows saunter in a row off the Moor, and wait at 
 the farmyard gate for the milker. He heard the dogs, 
 marked Tiger at his work, and noted a fan of blue smoke 
 deepen above the chimney. 
 
 Then his soul went out to the man who had done all, 
 as he supposed ; and he hurried down the hill and called 
 to Tiger. 
 
 ' ' I want to make a fine gift to him — poultry and cream 
 and the best we've got — to doctor. 'Tis only a fortnight 
 afore their time. You catch a couple of they geese and 
 kill 'em, Tiger, and tell William to get on his apron and 
 pluck 'em." 
 
 Tiger had not been invited to describe the adventures 
 of yesterday, but now he did so, and his master com- 
 mended him. 
 
 "Nobody alive could have done it quicker, and I'll 
 never forget it to your credit ; I promise you that. You 
 fode very clever indeed, and I 'm terrible pleased, and so 's 
 missis. ' ' 
 
 When Dr. Dickinson prepared to start an hour later, 
 he found the back of his trap laden with the best that 
 Ouldsbroom could gather from dairy and farm.
 
 164 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "My dear fellow, what's all this? I'm not going to 
 market, ' ' laughed the old man. 
 
 "Not a word, master; 'tis nothing at all. I wish the 
 geese was packed with golden eggs, for you've earned 
 'em. And you'll be back to have a look at him before 
 night?" 
 
 "I will; and if I must take this gift, I'll take it then, 
 on my way home. It's ridiculous nonsense, Oulds- 
 broom. ' ' 
 
 Somewhat abashed to exhibit his present, Philip 
 obeyed, and withdrew much produce from the back of 
 the trap. 
 
 Dr. Dickinson protested anew at the sight, for it repre- 
 sented the value of a five-pound note. 
 
 "Ridiculous man! And all for nothing! It wasn't 
 I saved him. Fifty doctors couldn't have saved him after 
 such a long delay. 'Twas your wife you've got to thank, 
 if anybody, under Providence." 
 
 He drove off, the hour then being half-past six. Philip 
 found himself hungry and cried out for food. 
 
 The meal proved a little unquiet, because Unity had 
 seen what was taken out of the doctor's carriage. 
 
 "If you'd knowed all he told me, you'd have under- 
 stood that the danger was passed long and long afore 
 he came" she said. "There was no cause for all that. 
 He'll send in his bill just the same." 
 
 But her husband laughed. 
 
 "Let it go, and think of the boy. I'd got to make an 
 offering of some sort to somebody when I heard Martin 
 was all right. 'Twas bursting out of me to do it. 'Tis 
 all to the good anyway ; and what 's a few birds and eggs 
 and a bit of butter against Martin? And don't think 
 I'm forgetting you. 'Tis all thanks to your wonderful 
 cleverness, Unity, that he's alive this minute, no doubt; 
 and if I don't do something to mark it for you, call me 
 daft. And Tiger too. He done his best." 
 
 She knew it idle to argue with him at this moment. 
 The long-drawn strain was relaxed, and each felt the re- 
 bound according to their natures. He, after a few deep 
 and silent moments, fled to drown himself in praise of
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 165 
 
 others, and in giving right and left; she looked into her 
 own soul and was chiefly concerned with wonder at the 
 wealth of the love that was harboured there. She had sur- 
 prised herself during these hours. She was not aware 
 that such deep places in her heart existed, or that, ex- 
 isting, they were full of IMartin. She yearned still to be 
 holding him in her arms, to feel her great breast bend- 
 ing — the pillow under his head. She could not be out of 
 his presence through that day. Each mouthful that he 
 took was food to her ; each drop that he drank was drink 
 to her; and when he laughed again, it seemed that the 
 goal of her struggle was reached. Then, indeed — the 
 first time for many a long year — she wept and hid her- 
 self from him. 
 
 During a week Martin slept with his mother, and 
 Philip made a bed on the floor. Then Dr. Dickinson pro- 
 nounced the boy well again. A boil, however, gathered 
 on the snake-bite and had to be poulticed. IMartin went 
 lame for a while, but each day lessened the trouble, and 
 he was soon able to frequent his favourite haunts. He 
 showed the effects of the poison in want of energy and 
 general malaise ; but that also lifted before three weeks 
 were past, and nothing remained save memory of his 
 great experience and consequent fame. For some days 
 he was a hero among his cousins and his friends.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Philip's business took him from home for a week after 
 Martin's illness, but it was understood that he should 
 receive a frequent letter to tell of the boy 's progress. He 
 had been away three days, and on the morning of the 
 fourth, Martin, at Unity's suggestion, was writing to 
 Ouldsbroom himself. The first letter that he had ever 
 written caused the child great interest. He had made two 
 false starts and spoilt a third sheet with a blot, but all 
 went well with the next attempt, and there came a visitor 
 just in time to admire it before it was put into an en- 
 velope and sealed up. 
 
 Henry Birdwood called. He was not aware that Philip 
 had left home, and arrived with news of certain ponies 
 that were to be sold. 
 
 ' ' Two of 'em I know he '11 gladly buy — and give money 
 for, ' ' said the shepherd. ' ' Martin here can put it in his 
 letter, and tell him that Mr. Coomber at Dousland is open 
 to a price for that mare and foal he fancies. ' ' 
 
 Unity beckoned Birdwood behind her child's back. 
 She signalled and shook her head. 
 
 " 'Twill be time to name it to father when he comes 
 home," she said. "Now you can run along out, Martin, 
 and play in the byre, for 'tis pouring wet. I'll send the 
 letter with mine." 
 
 The child went out, and she turned to Henry. 
 
 "Don't say nothing more about they ponies. I'm 
 sick and tired o' ponies. They'm eating up too much of 
 our money and bringing too little back. 'Tis all very 
 well in a small way; but 'tis like chicken and bees and 
 other things : if you go into 'em in a large way you lose 
 by it." 
 
 166
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 167 
 
 * ' He 's got plenty to spare. ' ' 
 
 "Has he? First I've heard of it then. You show me 
 the man who's got plenty to spare and I'll show you a 
 fool. Anyway, 'tisn't so with us. Every penny's out to 
 interest that I could get from him, and ready money's 
 tight. And with a man like my man, the tighter the 
 better. Things ain't quite so prosperous of late on the 
 Moor, as you know. And I won't have no more ponies 
 anyway. He's away now about some stock down in the 
 in-country, Plympton way, and he 's promised me faithful 
 not to go a penny too far. You'd marvel if you heard 
 his hopefulness still, and him up home fifty years old." 
 
 "I suppose he was properly terrified over the child?" 
 
 "He was. I never want to go through nothing like 
 that again." 
 
 "Strange — so was I. Couldn't sleep for thinking of 
 him. And you too, of course?" 
 
 "Yes," she said. "But the mark it's left on me be 
 inside, not out. He goes ofi; to boarding-school next 
 spring. To the grammar-school at Bovey. 'Twill be a 
 pinch, but we 're of a mind. ' ' 
 
 "What '11 he do, I wonder?" 
 
 " 'Tis too soon to guess ; but he's fond enough of farm- 
 ing, and my husband 's will is that he follows on at Hart- 
 land. Yet I've a fancy — hid close enough — that come he 
 learns far above our learning, and sees the higher sort 
 of life, and gets sense, he'll seek out something different 
 and grow tired of our rough ways. ' ' 
 
 "You'd be glad if he did?" 
 
 "Perhaps so. Can't say that I want to end my days 
 in this moil. How be you? Better?" 
 
 "I'm all right," he said. "Tis only rheumatics. 
 They'll lift again." 
 
 "You'm so thin as a herring. Why don't you eat 
 more ? ' ' 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "That boy's built on the same pattern, I fancy." 
 
 "No, no," she answered hurriedly. "He's stuggy — 
 same as me. He's thin now along of his illness. He'll 
 soon fatten again."
 
 168 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "Don't you believe it. He may be like you in his 
 nature, and I hope 'twill prove so, but he's got my lean 
 carcass and lank hair." 
 
 She showed annoyance. 
 
 "Don't be telling that stuff. You might so soon say 
 t'other child — that foundling — was like my husband." 
 
 "So he is — in a general way. You watch. Tiger will 
 be more to Philip presently than Martin is, because he's 
 built on Phil 's own pattern. And I 'm glad of it, for he '11 
 be a comfort if he stops. ' ' 
 
 "How you do delight to prick me!" she cried. 
 
 "As to that, 'tisn't so. But I wish to God you'd " 
 
 The door opened suddenly and Tiger came in with a 
 message from the farm. 
 
 Unity was glad of the interruption, and remained no 
 longer with Birdwood. 
 
 "Don't name the ponies, there's a good man," she 
 said. ' ' He will be back Monday, and then we shall count 
 to see you. And do, for goodness' sake, look to your 
 clothes a bit more. We'm coming to the wet time now, 
 and you'll go and be sick if you don't take better heed." 
 
 He went his way, but left her unquiet, and she slept 
 ill that night. 
 
 Birdwood was grown indifferent to his own existence, 
 and the only real interests in his life centred about Hart- 
 land. He felt a dreary discomfort in the presence of 
 Ouldsbroom and knew that this long, living lie was very 
 hard upon his old enemy. Yet, to tell the trvith now had 
 meant issues so far-reaching that he shrank from it. His 
 life was a hollow and cheerless one. He did not cleave 
 to life. In some moods he felt impelled to lay all bare 
 before Ouldsbroom; then he considered Unity and the 
 future of his child. He asked himself whether it was 
 for his own peace or for Philip's that he felt prompted 
 to speak; and he assured himself that mean personal 
 motives alone urged him. All ways pointed to silence, 
 and so he kept it. But Unity began to fear whether he 
 would persist in silence. She knew that he had no per- 
 sonal stake in life, no personal ambition of future pros- 
 perity to make him a coward. He grew more dangerous.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 169 
 
 In the dark that night she reflected on his indifferent 
 health, and considered how much easier her life would 
 be if Birdwood and his gioom were out of it. She felt 
 him like an ever-present cloud, from which, struggle 
 forward as she might, there was no emergence. 
 
 Ouldsbroom returned presently, and a carrier set him 
 and his carpet bag down beside the river at Postbridge. 
 He took farewell of the driver, invited the man to Hart- 
 land when time and chance allowed it, and then entered 
 the post office before going home. 
 
 He had something to give Barbara, and something to 
 show her. The gift was a bottle of old brandy from 
 Plymouth. 
 
 "Physic," he said. "You're not so young as you was, 
 my old dear, and I know that a thimble of this stuff of a 
 night will help you to sleep comfortable." 
 
 ' ' Oh, Phil — was there ever one like you, you silly man ! 
 But thank you. I '11 keep it against a rainy day. ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis good ancient drink, mind, else I wouldn't have 
 fetched it. And read this here — a letter from my son 
 that he wrote in ink. First ever he wrote, bless him! 
 And where shall you find a child of his age could do 
 better?" 
 
 Barbara put on her glasses and read the little letter. 
 
 ^'My dear father, — 
 
 "I hope you are well. I am quite well. Mother is 
 quite well. Tiger found the snake that stung me where 
 he killed it. He has taken off the skin and tried to stuff 
 it with moss for a surprise for you. It looks rather 
 humpy and smells horrid. But I hope you will say you 
 like it, hecause he has taken a great deal of trubble with it. 
 '^Hoping that this reaches you as it leaves me at present, 
 ''I am your loving son, 
 
 "Martin Ouldsbroom." 
 
 "There! What d'you think of that?" asked Philip. 
 
 ' ' 'Tis a nice little letter as you could wish, ' ' said Bar- 
 bara. He folded it up and put it in his pocket-book. 
 
 "I shall keep that letter so long as I live," he declared. 
 "And look here, Barbara; don't you remember what
 
 170 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 I've said about the boy now and again. 'Twas all stuff 
 and nonsense, spoken out of a fool 's mouth. Good God ! 
 shall I be jealous of my own flesh and blood? Because 
 he's a clever child and be going to have a big brain, shall 
 I fret and fume like a zany and wish he was more — more 
 like my own silly self ? No, no. I 'm sorry. I lay he '11 
 welcome me home now like the warm sun — I lay he will. 
 I 've bought him a book down to Plymouth with coloured 
 pictures — lions and missionaries and niggers — a good 
 thought, eh?" 
 
 "A very good thought indeed. I'm glad to know it, 
 because it shows that you begin to feel he's not just the 
 same as every-day children." 
 
 "That's it. Now I haven't got no more use for such a 
 book than a fox in a bush — and never had; but I know 
 'twill be better than a box of soldiers or the like to him. ' ' 
 
 " 'Twas very clever of you indeed." 
 
 "Not that I can take all the credit. Me and my wife 
 have done a lot of talking on the subject of the boy since 
 his illness, you may be sure, and she let a bit of light into 
 me. She understands him better than I do— what don't 
 she iinderstand, for that matter ? A serious mind hap- 
 pens in some children. Not often, thank God, but you'll 
 see it off and on; and chance has just thrown such a 
 mind into my boy, though you 'd never have looked to see 
 it in any child of mine. But there 'tis ; and of course, as 
 a man of my age, I'm serious-minded too, and must take 
 things as they are, not fret because they ban't as I'd 
 have 'em." 
 
 "Never heard such sense," said the postmistress. 
 "Where have you been to pick up such wisdom?" 
 
 "Alone," he answered. "All alone with my thoughts. 
 First night away I got along with a lot of fellows to 
 Plympton Fair and took a drop too much. But after that 
 I minded my business and kept apart and sober as a 
 judge. And of a night I thought it all out and saw where 
 I was mistaken. As luck would have it, there was a Bible 
 in the bedroom where I lodged. And I had a good dip 
 into your book. And I will say for Job that you never 
 come empty-handed from the man. There's always
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 171 
 
 something to catch upon. 'Who can bring a clean thing 
 out of an unclean? Not one.' There's truth! And, 
 knowing that, haven't I the right and the reason to be 
 proud of getting Martin? Such as him couldn't have 
 sprung from nothing bad. And so I can rate myself 
 higher for being the father of him — eh, Barbara ? ' ' 
 
 "Surely; and I hope he'll be a fine fellow and the 
 comfort of your age yet. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I look for it from him. I 'm always the more trustful 
 when I go away from home for a day or two. 'Tis worth 
 it for the thoughts and for the feeling of the welcome 
 that grows the warmer for tarrying. ' ' 
 
 ' ' You 're a lucky man, and doubly lucky to know your- 
 self lucky. That's your wisdom, and though once I 
 never did think you 'd grow up, I do believe you 're begin- 
 ning to do it. You'll be a man before your son yet!" 
 
 He laughed, and a spaniel came out from behind the 
 counter and crept on his belly with wagging tail. 
 
 * ' Not a patch on your old ' Sarah, ' ' ' said the farmer ; 
 * ' but a good enough dog. ' ' 
 
 " 'Sarah's' been dead seven year to-morrow. I mind 
 the date very well. How the years be racing, Philip ! 
 I shan't hold on much longer. I'm getting terrible 
 shaky. ' ' 
 
 "Don't you say that. I won't have it. I won't have 
 you go, Barbara. Don't you dare to think of such a 
 thing!" 
 
 "The time's coming. And when I drop, 'tis you will 
 have to see me into earth presently. I don't want no 
 parsons and no prayer-books." 
 
 "I won't have it," he repeated. "And I won't have 
 you talk about it. Stuff and nonsense! Me and you 
 are the sort that go over fourscore. ' ' 
 
 There was a silence, and then Ouldsbroom began to 
 talk of his wife again. He praised her, and concluded 
 with these words : 
 
 "And I learn more from Unity than what she says 
 tome. 'Tis her life that's the lesson. But we can't have 
 everything, and at fifty we begin to know it, if not be- 
 fore. She's like the boy in some ways: they ban't quite
 
 172 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 able to understand me, you know, though of course I 
 understand them." 
 
 " 'Tis the boy in you beats 'em, no doubt," said Miss 
 Hext. "The boy in man beats most women. Your son 
 will never run after hares or fret till salmon fishing be- 
 gins again. You musn't expect it. And now get along 
 back to 'em. And thank you dearly for this thought 
 of me." 
 
 She looked into his face and marked the slight changes. 
 He was wrinkled about the eyes more than of old, and 
 his cheeks were a little heavier and looser. He wore 
 whiskers that met on his throat, but clean-shaved his lips 
 and chin. His hair was crisp and curly as ever, but shot 
 with grey; his blue eyes were bright and the home of 
 laughter still. 
 
 She bade him 'good-bye,' and watched him fling his 
 carpet bag on to the crook of his stick and go up the val- 
 ley. " 'Twill all blow down the wind when the fret and 
 cark begin again," she said to herself. " 'Tis so easy to 
 get away from everybody and be wise — all alone. The 
 hard thing is to be wise with life and them you love 
 jostling your elbow." 
 
 Two small figures, long on the lookout for the farmer, 
 marked him far off, and now came hastening down the 
 hill from Hartland. Tiger outstripped Martin by many 
 yards, yet some secret fineness in the boy stopped him 
 before he reached Philip. He drew up while yet a long 
 way from Ouldsbroom, and let the other go first.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The children were making holiday, and the strength of 
 Hartland and Staunon, with reinforcements from the 
 village, had gone aloft to the high Moor. The business 
 of the day was gathering whortleberries; the pleasure 
 of the day consisted in a picnic — all alone, without com- 
 pany of, or interference from, any grown-up people. 
 
 Maggie, Minnie, and Martin controlled the party, and 
 the boys carried the food, while to Maggie's lot fell a 
 rather heavier burden in shape of her small sister, Jane. 
 A dozen children in all set out, and certain homes were 
 left strangely silent and peaceful. 
 
 Now the party was eating and drinking high on the 
 wind-swept side of Siddaford Tor. Much bread-and- 
 cheese, cake, and three big bottles of milk made the meal ; 
 then Maggie cried out at the poor store of berries as yet 
 collected, and called upon all to set to work with more 
 energy. 
 
 They scattered presently, and the boys roamed far and 
 near, while the girls, with greater method, picked to- 
 gether, and Minnie gathered more than all, though she 
 did not stray fifty yards from her little sister, who lay 
 asleep in the remains of the picnic. Martin worked in- 
 dustriously, but Tiger did not. His master had hinted to 
 him to keep near Martin and look out for snakes, so he 
 regarded himself as on a sort of special duty and prowled 
 about near the younger boy. They talked together some- 
 times and noticed the familiar things about them; they 
 called the girls to see the pad-marks of a fox in a mire ; 
 they collected odd treasures to be taken home. IMartin 
 got a quartz crystal and a piece of white bog heather. 
 
 173
 
 174 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 He put the flower in his cap for his mother. The boy 
 Jacky secured hairy caterpillars and prisoned them in 
 a match-box. The boys played and the girls worked. 
 
 Then came the first cloud, and Samuel, a child of un- 
 social spirit, accused Martin of trespassing upon a patch 
 of fruit that he had marked for himself. Martin denied 
 it; they fought, and Samuel fell under a fierce buffet. 
 Then, after the manner of his kind, he retreated in tears 
 to a neighbouring knoll. From here he hurled bad words 
 and stones. One stone hit another child, and sha 
 shrieked. Then Tiger leapt forward, chased Samuel, 
 caught him and pummelled him. 
 
 The incident was only closed when the time came for 
 finishing the food. Samuel then rejoined the company 
 and expressed regret at what he had done. After his 
 share of cake and milk, however, he did evil once again, 
 upset two baskets of whortleberries, and then finally fled 
 to return no more. Tiger and Martin desired to give 
 chase, but Maggie stopped them. 
 
 "Let him go," she said. "He's cranky to-day. I 
 knowed he'd be wicked when we started, because mother 
 made him carry a basket." 
 
 The day waned, and, under a sky of windy blue that 
 lightened to a blaze above the Moor edge, the children 
 presently set out to return home. 
 
 A strange sunset arrested the attention of the elders. 
 From behind a long, squat cliff of cloud the sun shot 
 strong rays upward and downward. They vanished in 
 the upper blue, save where one broad mass of lofty va- 
 pour caught fire from them ; and below, they burnt away 
 the horizons of the earth in a flaming riot of splendour. 
 The light fell upon many peaks and ridges and clusters 
 of far-off tors, flung to the edges of the billowy land; 
 while the solitary cloud from behind which all this glory 
 escaped seemed scarcely to move, but stretched inert and 
 sluggish from south to north. It had a snout and tail 
 like a saurian, and crouched gigantic above the waste. 
 Its back glowed with a rose-coloured crest. 
 
 The children, bathed in ruddy light, lifted their eyes 
 to the sky as they tramped along. Their baskets were
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 175 
 
 full of blue-black, lustrous colour, and their fingers and 
 faces were smeared with purple stains. The duns and 
 drabs of their clothes woke to radiance in the sunset. 
 Life flashed and sparkled in their eyes : they moved, like 
 fairy things, against the ragged, red gold of the heath 
 and stones that made the way all bright. 
 
 Tiger it was who marked the shape of the giant cloud 
 and called attention to it. 
 
 "If her ban't like a gert, monstrous dragon — eh?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "So he is then — with head and tail and all, ' ' declared 
 Maggie. 
 
 The sun began to sink from the hinder parts of the 
 monster, and Martin spoke. 
 
 "There! And now the creature have laid a golden 
 egg!" he said. 
 
 The surprise of the simile flung them all into a fit of 
 laughter. 
 
 ' ' Well done, you ! ' ' cried Tiger. ' ' The cleverness ! ' ' 
 
 "Nobody but you would ever have thought of that, 
 Martin," declared Minnie. 
 
 They rivalled each other in making likenesses for the 
 cloud, and watched it until the sun passed behind the 
 hills. 
 
 Then a man overtook them from the Moor, and Henry 
 Birdwood, on his pony, hoped that they had done well 
 with the berries. They showed him their laden baskets, 
 and he applauded. 
 
 "Where might you be going, Mr. Birdwood?" asked 
 Martin. 
 
 "To Princetown," he answered. "I've got a cough 
 that keeps me awake o' nights, and won't stop. I'm 
 tired of barking, so I'm going up to doctor for a bottle 
 of physic. ' ' 
 
 "Mother would give you so good a thing as doctor, 
 I'm sure," said Minnie. " 'Tis stufi: she got a recipe 
 for from my grandmother long ago ; and she got it from 
 a wise woman. 'Tis very nice, too, because there 's honey 
 and lemon in it." 
 
 "So 'tis then," added Martin, "for I had some last
 
 176 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 winter, and I was terrible sorry when my cough went 
 and I couldn 't have no more. ' ' 
 
 "I lay 'tis very good," said the shepherd; "but my 
 cough do come from down below somewhere in the tubes. 
 I doubt if lemon and honey would reach it. ' ' 
 
 Minnie, however, felt hopeful that her mother's 
 medicament might meet the ease. 
 
 "I'll bring you some when I can be spared to come 
 up over," she promised. 
 
 The man thanked her and spoke little. He was ill and 
 weary of his days. His new work proved arduous, and, 
 though he found himself likely to make money during 
 the following year, the fact had no spice in it for him. 
 His needs were frugal, and for luxuries he eared nothing. 
 
 Henry was about to bid the children 'good-night' and 
 trot forward, when Tiger marked the approach of figures 
 in the valley of Dart beneath them. Young eyes trained 
 in these wide spaces are long-sighted, and the identity 
 of the approaching people was not for a moment in 
 doubt. 
 
 " Tis mother and father!" said Martin. 
 
 It happened that Philip, the day's work done, found 
 himself heartily tired of a silence and peace that had 
 hung like a cloud on Hartland since the morning. So 
 he went to his wife and asked her to come with him and 
 meet the children as they returned homeward. 
 
 She consented, and now the parties fell together, and 
 there was great clatter of tongues and showing of tro- 
 phies. Ouldsbroom picked up Jane Crymes from Mag- 
 gie's arms and bore the little thing along; beside him 
 marched Tiger and Minnie, while the others came behind. 
 Presently the children from Stannon and Postbridge 
 went their way and the company broke up. Then Philip 
 proceeded to Hartland with Martin and Tiger; while 
 Unity fell behind and walked beside Birdwood's pony. 
 
 The boys prattled of their day and the elder lad ex- 
 plained how sharp an eye he had kept for serpents. 
 
 "I was ready, I warn 'e, mister! But not one did I 
 see. I doubt there's many left now." 
 
 "Fewer the better," declared Philip; and then, as
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 177 
 
 the way was still long, they asked him for some of his 
 pixy stories. For these he was famed among the children, 
 and they never wearied of the old familiar tales. 
 
 "Tell us about the good old woman and the tulips," 
 suggested Martin; but the man felt not in humour for 
 story-telling. 
 
 "I'll list to you now," he said, "and tell stories 
 another time. The pixies be all gone from us nowa- 
 days, and won't never come back neither. That there 
 ding-dong * at the church have frighted 'em away for 
 good and all." 
 
 "Then they was very bad pixies," declared Martin, 
 ' ' and I 'm very glad they 've gone. ' ' 
 
 The farmer laughed. 
 
 "When you get a bit older, you'll see there's others 
 beside pixies can 't abide the bells, ' ' he said. ' ' You must 
 lam to be large-minded Martin." 
 
 "If your father don't go to church, that shows 'tis 
 proper not to go, ' ' asserted Tiger stoutly. 
 
 A magpie got up in front of them and reminded the 
 boy of something he had already thought upon. 
 
 "Can't say why 'tis, but they pies do always put me 
 in mind of parson in his holy robes, ' ' he said. 
 
 "How so?" asked Philip, and Martin showed un- 
 easiness. 
 
 "Why," continued Tiger, "tis the way his reverence 
 perketh and fluttereth in his black and white. And 
 another thing : he holds his head like the bird on a bough, 
 looking down crafty to see what's doing. 'Tis just so he 
 counts the heads while his tongue be at the sermon verse. ' ' 
 
 "You oughtn't to say such things," answered Martin 
 hotly; "and you wouldn't say 'em if mother could hear 
 you, for she'd box your ears for it!" 
 
 They began to quarrel. Both were weary and both 
 unconsciously suffered in the anticlimax of a good day, 
 long looked forward to, but now over and gone. The 
 farmer silenced their shrill arguments. 
 
 "No more holidays," he said. "If you can't abide 
 friendly except on work-days, then M'e'll have nought 
 * Ding-dong — Bell. 
 
 12
 
 178 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 else. Whatever be you thinking about, Martin, to say 
 such cranky things ? ' ' 
 
 Then Ouldsbroom preached his simple gospel to them. 
 
 ''You'll look precious silly, the pair of you, if I double 
 your work and stop your play. But I'd be very sorry 
 to do that, because work's only the half of life, and not 
 the best half neither. I only work to make the play taste 
 better; and so we all should. Play's nought without 
 work, remember. But if the play be going to set you 
 two by the ears, I'll have no more on it. You'm tired. 
 Give me your berries." 
 
 He took both their baskets and, after a moment's si- 
 lence, Martin made amends. 
 
 "Sorry I was vexed," he said. "I'm terrible leg- 
 weary. ' ' 
 
 "And I'm sorry too, and 'twas more shame to me 
 than you ; because I ban 't weary and never was knowed 
 to be weary in my life," declared Tiger. 
 
 Behind them Mrs. Ouldsbroom walked, and listened 
 to Birdwood. He told how Mr. Sleep had gone to the 
 workhouse. 
 
 "Ned explained it all to me in his slow way. Time 
 was never no more to him than to a toad under a stone. 
 ''You see, Henry Birdwood,' he said, 'I'm not one who 
 leaps before he looks. I'm pretty well known, I believe, 
 to be cautious, and in a thing like this I wouldn't be rash. 
 But there 'tis; I'm growing crookeder and crookeder 
 with rheumatics, and 'tis just all I can do w'out crack- 
 ing my bones to crawl up on my horse. So 'tis time to 
 stop ; and since I wasn 't able to save, and haven 't got no 
 friends, I must come down on the parish. Such useful- 
 ness as lies in me be at their service.' And he's gone. 
 And the new chap, Jonathan French, is hard as nails 
 and would make two of me. I promised Ned to see him 
 now and again when 'twas possible. I told him that very 
 like I'd be after him afore long." 
 
 "More like you'll go into your grave," said Unity. 
 "You'm coughing cruel and ought to come away from 
 that God-forsaken hole you live in. ' ' 
 
 He, however, still harped on his old colleague.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 179 
 
 ' ' The only thing that troubled Sleep was a fear they 'd 
 make him go to church instead of chapel. He had ;i 
 thought that all English workhouses was Church of Eng- 
 land. But Gregory Twigg explained to him that it 
 weren't so. Greg promised him a Wesleyan service, 
 though he was much afraid he'd miss the full flavour of 
 us Little Baptists." 
 
 ' ' Better he went to church and got larger ideas. ' ' 
 
 The man laughed without mirth. 
 
 "Don't you talk that stuff to me. Keep it for them 
 who are in the dark. Church or chapel's all one to us, 
 I reckon ; and if you said your church tasted better than 
 my chapel, I wouldn't believe it. We shall live and die 
 in a dirty lie, and that 's all to be said about us. ' ' 
 
 She flushed deeply. Until very recent years some 
 cement of the past had held them together, though from 
 the birth of the child her attitude had changed in all 
 particulars of their past intimacy; but now the ghost 
 of friendship was crumbled away. She cared no more 
 for him, and she knew that he despised her only less than 
 he despised himself. 
 
 Birdwood saw her colour come, but regretted not that 
 she was angered. He brooded sometimes on the past, 
 and had long ago reached the conclusion that it was she 
 rather than her husband who had ruined his life. 
 
 "A lesson to us, that man," he said — "him yonder, 
 carrying my child's basket. I feel a beastly knave when 
 he's by. I) 'you know 'twas him, and not Twigg, got 
 me the billet I'm holding now? Twigg, in his grand 
 way, took credit; but I was up at Princetown with the 
 bailiff last week, taking over some papers, and I heard 
 then that but for Philip, another chap than me would 
 have had the job. And never a word to me. I'll wager 
 he's forgot that he did it. He'd want a far longer 
 memory than he has got, to call home all the great, big, 
 kindly things he does for us small, mean-hearted people. 
 I never knowed his like. ' ' 
 
 "Better he thought more of what's due to his home," 
 she said. "I'd much wish to know where he'd be stand- 
 ing but for me. 'Tis my thrift and pinching and wake-
 
 180 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 fill night and grey hairs coming, that give him the 
 chance to be so mighty generous. But nobody ever 
 thanks me for aught. He'd be after Ned Sleep in a 
 year if I wasn't here. Yet everything must be just so, 
 and the boy's going to boarding-school in six months." 
 
 "You'll see to that." 
 
 ' ' I shall do. If there 's one thing I '11 screw and scrimp 
 for, and take no denial for, 'tis that. He can spend on 
 whims and fancies ; I '11 spend on my boy 's future. Out 
 of this he shall go, to get larger ideas and proper educa- 
 tion, whatever happens." 
 
 ' ' Philip thinks the same ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, he's set on it now. Though 'twill fret him to 
 have Martin out of his sight. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Not more than it frets him to have him in his sight. ' ' 
 
 ' ' That 's all changing, I hope. They be more and more 
 understanding and friendly since the snake bit Martin." 
 
 "And t'other boy?" 
 
 "He's very well. He's worth his keep, anyway, and 
 Martin be fond of him. My husband has taken to the 
 child something tremendous. He'd soon ruin him if I 
 wasn 't here. Wanted to make him taste beer last night. ' ' 
 
 "Beer will be Ouldsbroom's downfall yet, if you're 
 not careful." 
 
 She did not answer, and then he surprised her. 
 
 " I 'm beginning to think as I get old — for I 'm getting 
 old terrible quick — I'm beginning to think, Unity, that 
 I'd be another man if I told your husband the truth 
 about that child and cut short his wild-goose chase. ' ' 
 
 You'll say that once too often to me," she answered, 
 showing her teeth through her lips. 
 
 "Use your wits and see it as I do," he replied. "If 
 the boy had chanced to be nearer to him 'twouldn't have 
 mattered so much. If he'd been like that nipper you 
 call 'Tiger' — a free-handed, hearty, common sort of 
 a lump of a boy — 'twouldn't have mattered at all; but 
 see the trick fate's played us. The boy ban't even so 
 rough-and-ready as I am. He's cruel nice, and fond 
 of books and prayers and going to church. He's the 
 spit of what my father must have been when he was
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 181 
 
 young — good by nature. 'Twould be easier for him to — 
 but why harp about it? You know well enough how 
 'tis. Haven 't you traced him out to the very heart 1 And 
 what I say is that the older he grows the farther he'll 
 drift away from the man who thinks him his son. 
 There'll be such trouble bred of this that I'm doubtful 
 if I can live and see it. I care a lot more about Philip 
 than about the boy. The boy's all right. He's got re- 
 ligion and your common sense. He'll be a burning and 
 a shining light, whatever happens. 'Twould puzzle him 
 to go wrong more than it puzzles your husband sometimes 
 to go right. ' ' 
 
 "And what about me? Don't I count at all?" 
 
 "No," he answered, "not in my mind. You've always 
 looked damned sharp after yourself, and always will 
 do. I'm not troubling about you." 
 
 She gasped with indignation. 
 
 " Go on, " she said. ' ' Let me hear what else. ' ' 
 
 "That's all — I only warn you. You've thought of 
 it too. I wonder what you 'd do ? " 
 
 He laughed sardonically, and his laugh turned into 
 coughing. 
 
 " 'Do?' " she answered. "Deny it: that's what I'd 
 do. Would he believe you afore me? He'd say you 
 was mad — that's all. And so you would be." 
 
 "How if I pointed to the boy and axed where he got 
 
 his eyes from, and his thin flank, and his ? What if 
 
 I made him see? D'you know what he'd do? He'd 
 strangle you to begin with." 
 
 He looked down at her, and saw things that he had 
 never seen before. 
 
 "And you'd like to strangle me, if you could — 
 vx'ouldn't you?" he asked. 
 
 She kept her temper and smoothed her face. 
 
 "You've changed from what you were, Henry. What 
 have I done to make you want to ruin me?" 
 
 " 'Tis what you haven't done belike. You have every- 
 thing your own way; and that makes a weak man like 
 me a bit jealous now and again. 'Tis your iron-strong 
 will. And yet "
 
 182 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 She began to feel the vital need for winning this man 
 away from his own thoughts. 
 
 " I '11 see more of you, and gladly, ' ' she said. ' ' There's 
 plenty of reason why I should, for that matter. You're 
 ill — coughing from down deep by the sound. I'll come 
 over on Thursday afternoon and fetch you some good 
 stuff for your throat. See that your man be out and 
 we'll have a long talk." 
 
 He concealed his amusement at her tactics, and wel- 
 comed them. 
 
 "I shall be very glad." 
 
 The boys and Philip had stopped, and were waiting 
 for them at Hartland gate. 
 
 ''Here's this poor man coughing his soul up," said 
 Unity. "I've told him I'll get across Thursday with 
 a pint of herby tea." 
 
 "So you shall, then," said Ouldsbroom. "And take 
 something better too. If you wern't a fool, Henrj^ 
 you'd have got a woman of your own to mess over you 
 years ago. 'Tis madness thinking to live all your life 
 without one." 
 
 Birdwood laughed. 
 
 "Wait till I see what it means to be Moor-man of the 
 Quarter. And as for physic, I 'm going up to Princetown 
 now to ax doctor." 
 
 "And come in and take your supper with us on the 
 way home." 
 
 "Does your missis second that?" asked the shepherd, 
 and Unity assured him that he would be welcome. 
 
 He kept the appointment therefore; and when he re- 
 turned with a bottle of medicine and some strong advice 
 upon the need for care, he found Philip reading to his 
 wife, while a cold supper waited on the table. 
 
 " 'Tis the twenty-eighth of Job," explained Oulds- 
 broom. "I always read it of an evening when I'm in a 
 good temper, Henry. There's some brave things in it, 
 and bits as you might say nobody could have set down 
 without they knowed Dartymoor! 'Tis the ways of 
 wisdom. ' ' 
 
 "I know," answered Birdwood. "But what's all that
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 183 
 
 to you? 'The fear of the Lord is wisdom.' What fear 
 of the Lord was ever known in you ? ' ' 
 
 "But 'to depart from evil is understanding' — that's 
 the last word of the chapter," said Unity. "We know 
 it by heart very near; don't we, Philip?" 
 
 She looked without flinching into the younger man's 
 face as she spoke.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Philip and his wife were walking home again after the 
 wedding of Millicent Mary Twigg. The ceremony and 
 subsequent feasting was marred for Ouldsbroom by the 
 too unctuous propriety of the company and the Little 
 Baptist sentiments of the toast-givers. He waited only 
 to see the young pair drive off, then left the inn and 
 played with Ethel and Alfred Twigg, Minnie and Jacky 
 Crymes, and certain other children, including Martin, 
 who had come to the 'Warren House' with their parents. 
 
 Unity joined him presently, and they started home- 
 ward through a crystal-clear gloaming, with frost already 
 at work on the heights. 
 
 "Rabbit that man!" said Philip. "Can't even be 
 jolly at a time like this. And that fiddle-faced fool who 
 proposed the health of the bride. Talk about turning 
 water into wine, like the Saviour did! 'Twas enough 
 to turn wine into water to hear him drivelling about the 
 solemn duties of the marriage state. Hadn't they heard 
 enough of that stuff when they was being married ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Tom Hurley he 's called — a very earnest young man, 
 studying for the ministry, I believe. ' ' 
 
 "Is he? Well, if that's his idea of the right thing at 
 a wedding, I should very much like to hear him at a 
 funeral. I was itching to take him by the collar and 
 ram him down into his seat, and so was the bridegroom. ' ' 
 
 ' ' A pity Henry Birdwood couldn 't be there. ' ' 
 
 "So 'twas then. I must get over to see him again 
 at the end of the week. Doctor stopped five minutes 
 at Hartland on the way back yesterday, and said he 
 reckoned he was a thought worse. ' ' 
 
 184
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 185 
 
 Unity pursued her own reflections. Then Philip re- 
 turned to the wedding and told the boy, who walked be- 
 side them, to run on ahead. 
 
 *'Did you mark how Martin listened to their cater- 
 wauling ? ' ' 
 
 "He's always serious-minded." 
 
 "Worse luck. But what's going to come to a child 
 that can't laugh at thirteen? Was there ever such a 
 good boy afore, I wonder? Not many, I hope." 
 
 "He's got his faults," said Unity. 
 
 "You say that! I haven't seen them. But I should 
 be very glad to hear about 'em. ' ' 
 
 "No, you wouldn't," she answered. "Because they 
 ban't your own. They're mine. I see into him. If 
 he was — well, what you are here and there — you'd say 
 they weren't faults but virtues. But my faults ban't 
 virtues in your eyes. ' ' 
 
 He whistled. 
 
 "I'm hearing things!" he said. "And what be your 
 faults, Unity? 'Tis because the boy's your boy that 
 I 've taken it all so quiet, I assure you. When I 've wanted 
 him to be a bit more open-hearted and like t'other child. 
 Tiger — faulty and full of surprises, so that you love the 
 toad while you cuff his li'l, hard, round head — I've said 
 to myself, 'Don't forget he's the son of his mother. ' Your 
 faults, my brave dear; and what be they? 'Tis strange 
 as I've missed 'em." 
 
 "I've got plenty, Phil. And 'tis just because they 
 look so small in your eyes that I've been able to hide 
 'em, perhaps." 
 
 "Get along with you!" he said. 
 
 "The boy's too fond of money, for one thing," she 
 declared suddenly. "And that's me in him, not you 
 anyway. ' ' 
 
 Philip was much intersted. 
 
 "Now I wonder if that be true? If 'tis, I'm sorry, 
 for I'd sooner he was fond of pretty near anything else. 
 Perhaps time will cure it when he gets old enough to 
 be fond of better things — beer, or girls, or what not." 
 
 "Time don't cure that fondness."
 
 186 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 * ' I doubt you 'm wrong. ' ' 
 
 " I 'm right, but I don't blame him. I 'm fond of money 
 too." 
 
 "Who isn't in reason? So be I. No harm in the 
 child saving if the man spends." 
 
 ''That's just what don't happen. If the child saves, 
 the man stints. If the child 's mean, the man 's a miser. ' ' 
 
 ' ' How you do run on ! Be you a miser ? ' ' 
 
 She laughed at that. 
 
 ''Small chance for your wife to be one. Maybe — if 
 I'd married Birdwood " 
 
 "Why, of course," he interrupted her. "You'd have 
 had to save for him and been a poor woman all your life. 
 But with me 'tis different. ' ' 
 
 "I've had to save for you harder than ever I should 
 have had to for him," answered Unity. "I've had to 
 stand between you and your capital like a wall these 
 years and years. All your money would be on four legs, 
 scampering away to other people long ago, but for me." 
 
 He was thinking about Martin, and full of a plot. He 
 told Unity nothing, and kept his own counsel until the 
 next day. 
 
 Then Martin rushed to his mother, white and fright- 
 ened, with tragic news. 
 
 ' ' My money-box have been stolen ! " he cried. ' ' Tiger 
 have just given me a penny for that old knife I found 
 on the Moor, and I went to put it in my box and it ban 't 
 there!" 
 
 His mother helped him to make search, but she could 
 find no sign of the money-box. The boy had a little 
 room of his own under the thatch of Hartland, and in a 
 corner, at the bottom of a larger box where he kept his 
 treasures, the money-box was wont to stand. Martin 
 carried the key on a leather watch-chain in his waistcoat 
 pocket. He was positive that he had not moved the 
 box from its accustomed place, and when its disappear- 
 ance seemed certain, he began to cry. He accused the 
 maiden who worked at Hartland ; he then accused Tiger. 
 
 At dinner his father came home and heard the black 
 news.
 
 TPIE THIEF OF VIRTUE 187 
 
 *'How much was in it?" he asked. 
 
 ''One pound, eighteen shillings and two pence," sobbed 
 Martin. 
 
 ''And — and " burst out Tiger from his place at 
 
 the table between two labourers, ' ' I give warning, master. 
 I'll go at the end of my month. I won't stop here no 
 more — God's my judge! He says that I've took his 
 money, and I'll beg my bread on the high-road rather 
 than suffer it. I've never touched a crumb, nor yet a 
 straw, what didn 't belong to me by rights ; and after all 
 you've done for me — to hear as Martin thinks I could 
 do such a thing against him ! And I catched him hunting 
 in the little cupboard out of the back kitchen where I 
 live — thinking to find his money hid there; and I wish 
 I may die this instant moment if " 
 
 "Shut your mouth!" said Philip, "and get on with 
 your meat. I'll go bail for you, and for everybody else. 
 There's none under this roof would take a pin as didn't 
 belong to them. I know that, and Martin knows it — 
 or ought to. We must hunt elsewhere. 'Tis well known 
 folk do queer things in their sleep. So like as not Martin 
 have hid it himself somewhere." 
 
 The theory brought little consolation, however, and for 
 twenty-four hours some anxiety and tribulation marked 
 the life at Hartland. The household was distracted and 
 suspicious. Each soul thought that all the others sus- 
 pected him, and Ouldsbroom's reiterated assurances by 
 no means allayed the discomfiture. 
 
 Martin, unknown to himself, was watched very closely 
 by the farmer, and for once his fancied father saw unjust 
 suspicion, unreasoning passion, as well as natural boyish 
 bad temper, long protracted. That Martin should have 
 suspected Tiger was a grief to Ouldsbroom. Martin's 
 attitude before this disaster cast him down, while Tiger 's 
 rage, wild oaths, and large threats of terrific retribution, 
 cheered him up again. 
 
 When night came the boys went to bed enemies, and 
 Philip crept to Martin's door to watch him, if possible, 
 through the keyhole. He could see little, but he heard 
 a prayer. Martin made another careful examination of
 
 188 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 every corner of his chamber; he then sighed deeply 
 several times. Slowly he undressed, and then knelt 
 down by his bed and prayed out loud. His mind was 
 now at peace, and no evidence of his past temper ap- 
 peared in a mild petition to Heaven. He begged that 
 God would touch the heart of the robber and so make 
 him return Martin his savings. He added a faithful 
 promise that, if they were returned, he would put two 
 shillings into the church plate on the following Sun- 
 day. 
 
 He ended up with the words: 
 
 "And this I promise for Jesus Christ's sake, Amen." 
 
 Then he got into bed, tossed awhile, and sighed him- 
 self to sleep. 
 
 "You was right," said the farmer to Unity soon after- 
 wards. "He's fond of money. I took it. 'Tis locked 
 up in my desk. You ought to have heard him praying, 
 poor chap. He's promised the Almighty two bob if his 
 li '1 box turns up ! " 
 
 Next day, Philip, having slipped another shilling into 
 the money-box, returned it when Martin was out at 
 school. He then waited with eagerness to learn the boy's 
 attitude to the great recovery. 
 
 He came down from his room breathless, flushed, re- 
 joicing. 
 
 "It's got back!" he cried. "And there's another 
 shilling in it. First thing I done was to iinlock it and 
 count over my money, and 'tis one pound, nineteen and 
 twopence now!" 
 
 Childlike, he puzzled not at all to know how his little 
 fortune went and came again. In fact, many children 
 would have been more interested in that particular than 
 Martin. Tiger, for one, ceased not to cudgel his brains 
 as to what craft had been employed and why the robber 
 had added to the hoard rather than subtracted from it; 
 but upon this point Martin was able to explain. 
 
 "I prayed it might happen so," he said. "I asked 
 for the money back, but, of course, I never thought to 
 ask for a bit over. That 's the Lord 's idea, and now I '11 
 only lose one shilling by it instead of the two I should
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 180 
 
 have. I promised two shillings, and if I'd promised but 
 one shilling I should have lost nought. ' ' 
 
 He asked Tiger to forgive him, and, indeed, begged 
 pardon all round for his ill-temper and suspicions. The 
 actual mystery did not trouble him; and he was only 
 concerned to have his money back. Indeed, that night 
 he prayed his God to pardon the sinner who had done 
 this thing; and on the following Sunday, without being 
 reminded, he put a florin into the offertory plate. He 
 did it rather reluctantly, and was very silent for a long 
 time afterwards. 
 
 Henceforth Philip sought to enlarge the boy's mind 
 and increase his instincts towards generosity. Perhaps 
 the only result of this practical joke was a shadow of 
 cooling regard between the boys. That, however, even 
 Ouldsbroom perceived was inevitable. Their differences 
 of outlook and intellect were not such as promised to 
 strike a lasting spark of friendship from the contact. 
 Yet the farmer felt angry with Tiger for liking Martin 
 less. To his wife sometimes he uttered the familiar, 
 futile wish that the children could be melted together 
 and cast anew with a different proportion of character- 
 istics.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 On a day in December Unity heard the rattle of hoofs 
 upon the stones of the farmyard and saw young Jona- 
 than French, Birdwood's new assistant at Teign Head, 
 gallop off at a great pace to Postbridge. She was up- 
 stairs, and witnessed his departure from her bedroom 
 window. A moment later her maid hastened to her with 
 the man's news. 
 
 Henry Birdwood, who had been ill for some weeks, 
 supposed himself better, disobeyed orders, and went 
 about his business in bad weather. He was now stricken 
 down and at the point of death. The doctor had stopped 
 with him and sent French with messages to Postbridge. 
 Birdwood desired, before all else, to see Philip Oulds- 
 broom, and French brought that message. The girl had 
 directed him to Postbridge, whither Philip was gone. 
 The messenger from Teign Head then purposed fetching 
 Mrs. Dury, the sick luirse. He would carry her luggage 
 on his horse, and she might walk or ride a pony. The in- 
 accessible position of Teign Head increased the difficul- 
 ties, but the gravity of Birdwood's case was doubly his 
 own fault, for Dr. Dickinson had advised him, some 
 weeks earlier, to leave his home and go into hospital. 
 That he had refused to do; and then, when making a 
 good recovery, he went afield too soon, and now seemed 
 destined to pay for his folly with his life. 
 
 Unity Ouldsbroom found herself face to face with 
 danger, and devoted her whole gift of energy to the task 
 of conquering it. Why Birdwood w^anted her husband, 
 she guessed. The shepherd's troubled spirit thrust him 
 this way and that, and at last, in fear of his end, he de- 
 
 190
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 191 
 
 sired to tell the truth to Philip before he should depart. 
 Her mind delayed not a moment. Indeed, there was no 
 time for delay. Had she seen the messenger, she might 
 have deflected his course and kept him away from Philip ; 
 but now her husband would know what had happened 
 and set out for Teign Head. She must get there first, 
 and instantly she started. Her impulse was to go oft' 
 on foot; her reason delayed her at the beginning, to 
 make swifter speed in the long run. She was stout now, 
 and not a speedy walker. Therefore she went to the 
 stable, saddled Ouldsbroom's riding-horse, and, as soon 
 as she was a hundred yards from the farm, she mounted 
 and rode like a man. Two points were thus gained : she 
 would get to Teign Head quicker, and Philip would come 
 slower; because there was nothing left at Hartland for 
 him to ride but a cart-horse. 
 
 Much depended on the doctor, and Unity guessed that 
 he would be glad to hand the patient over to friends. 
 
 The horse trotted over the coarse integument of the 
 faded heath, all grazed close, all grey and harsh and sod- 
 den on the edge of winter. Only the asphodel's russet 
 death and blue rosettes of the moor grass, that had es- 
 caped the teeth of sheep and kine, still lingered, and 
 wove fading patterns upon the patchwork of the wilder- 
 ness. Sere was the way and silent, save for a sourly 
 whimpering wind that roamed the wet miles of the Moor, 
 shook the woman's hair about her ears, and seemed to 
 wail fitfully, like a sick child. 
 
 From the soaking heights of Siddaford, above the Grey 
 Wethers, there spread northerly a mottled desert patched 
 with darkness of heather on a ground of livid and dead 
 grass. This wan covering brightened in the bogs, where 
 sedges perished in red death and spread dark, ruddy 
 stains, as though blood had flowed out there. The land 
 rolled desolate, water-logged, spiritless even to Cosdon's 
 rounded shoulders heaving to the north. Under Unity's 
 eyes in the cradle of Teign, where it now extended be- 
 neath her, stood the home of Birdwood— the loneliest in- 
 habited dwelling upon Dartmoor, but not beyond the 
 beat of death. A little reclaimed land stretched round
 
 192 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 about, and the house showed no larger than a great, moss- 
 grown stone flung here long since and now welded into 
 the hillside. The lintels of the doorway were washed 
 with white and flashed far off under a rusty red roof. 
 
 Overhead arched the cold, grey sky, fretted aloft with 
 horizontal bars of dark vapour; while beneath them 
 round wool-pack clouds lumbered up from the south- 
 west, laden and leaking with the next downpour. The 
 place of the sun was hidden, and the day was dark 
 though noon had not yet come. 
 
 Unity now dismounted, and walked her horse down 
 to the valley. She was soon at Teign Head cot, and the 
 old doctor hastened out to meet her. 
 
 "Where's your husband?" he asked- "The man's 
 crying out for him." 
 
 "He'll be here presently. He was away when the 
 news came, and they've sent to fetch him. I came so 
 quick as I could. How is the poor chap ? ' ' 
 
 "He's dying. I think he's conscious, but that's all. 
 Nothing can save him. In fact, it was all over before I 
 got here to-da3^ He's killed himself, as I told him he 
 would long ago. I must get to Chagford now, and I'll 
 come back this way, if I can, to-night; but none can 
 help him." 
 
 "I'll stop till the nurse comes. Maybe he'll tell me 
 what he wanted to tell my man. ' ' 
 
 "How he's existed so long in this den I hardly know. 
 For years he has been weak and ailing. ' ' 
 
 Dr. Dickinson went in and cast a look at his patient ; 
 he directed Unity how to relieve him, and then got on 
 his horse and rode away down the valley. It began to 
 rain again. 
 
 Birdwood 's bed had been brought into the kitchen and 
 stood near the fire. The room was smoky and very hot. 
 He sat propped up, with his shoulders lifted, struggling 
 for air. 
 
 "Ope the window, for God's sake," he said when they 
 were alone. 
 
 "Mustn't do that," she answered. "Lie so still as 
 you know how."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 193 
 
 He implored for the window, and she opened it. 
 
 "Where's Philip?" he asked. 
 
 "Coming. He'll be here soon." 
 
 Her eyes were on the distant hillside. 
 
 Birdwood was comatose, but conscious. 
 
 "I'm going to tell him," he whispered. "It's got to 
 be. I wanted to tell him once — for hate; to show him 
 I was the strong one — not him. Now — now 'tis only 
 for justice — I won't go on stinging the man from the 
 grave. I " 
 
 "Can't you think for the child?" 
 
 "Don't I? He'll be a shining light some day. Born 
 good, he was. Born good out of our wickedness. That's 
 how things happen. Philip " 
 
 He fell over on one side and she helped him and put 
 her arm round him. 
 
 "You — you don't count," he continued. "You've 
 hated me for years. You'd like to smother me now with 
 my pillow — wouldn't you? Why don't you do it? I'd 
 thank you, for that matter — dying by inches like this is 
 hell." 
 
 "Don't talk." 
 
 "I'll wait for Philip. As for you— let your God get 
 you out of this mess." 
 
 He grinned into her hard face. She itched to silence 
 him, and he knew what was in her mind. 
 
 "Do it!" he said. 
 
 He became unconscious a moment later, and she 
 thought that he was dying. She looked at the brandy, 
 but put none to his mouth. He appeared to recognise 
 her again presently. But he began to sink. 
 
 On the hill Unity saw a man. She propped Birdwood 
 up and went out. She ran to reach Philip as quickly as 
 possible, and when she did so, they stood a quarter of a 
 mile from Teign Head. 
 
 For a moment she gasped with her hand to her heart. 
 Then she spoke. 
 
 "I've got a message. He's thirsty and implores for a 
 drink of champagne. 'Twill be his last drink on earth, 
 if there's time. I told him that I'd sighted you. on the 
 
 13
 
 194 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 hill and he said 'Ax him for God's sake to run over to 
 "Warren House" and get me a bottle of champagne. 
 'Twill help me to die easier.' " 
 
 "Is he dying?" 
 
 "So doctor says. He'll go to-night, or maybe last 
 till to-morrow." 
 
 "What did he want me for?" 
 
 "Only to say 'good-bye.' You be more to him than 
 any living man. He thinks the world of you. But now 
 he's cruel set on the wine. Will you get it? I'm doing 
 everything the doctor directed till Mrs. Dury comes. ' ' 
 
 Philip hesitated. 
 
 "I'd like to see the poor chap again first." 
 
 "As you please, but he's terrible impatient for it. 
 You'll be doing him a better service by getting the drink. 
 His whole thought and longing be on it. 'Tis the last 
 thing you'll ever be able to do for him. When I said I 
 saw you on the hill, he prayed as I'd run out swift and 
 ax you. He thinks 'twill help him to go easier; and 
 dying men be always right." 
 
 Philip looked roimd about him. 
 
 "Let me see how the land lies. Yes — if I keep right 
 over White Ridge and Assy combe. Tell him I've gone 
 for it then, and will make the very best pace I can. ' ' 
 
 She feared that her husband would mention the horse ; 
 but he did not. He had not been home, and was unaware 
 that she had ridden. 
 
 Ouldsbroom set off and she walked a little way beside 
 him. Rain swept them heavily. He urged her to return, 
 and presently she left him and did so. 
 
 Her mind was full of uncertainty, and her hope cen- 
 tred in the belief that by the time Philip came back Bird- 
 wood must have passed out of sense, if not life. She 
 w^ondered whether it might be possible to advance that 
 end. She told herself the man was as good as dead, and 
 that the welfare of the living must not be endangered by 
 a moribund creature. 
 
 The patient had fallen forward when she returned to 
 him and appeared to be quite unconscious. Then a fear 
 struck her mind that he might be simulating this state,
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 195 
 
 and would wake into life again when her husband re- 
 turned. He must be away for the better part of two 
 hours ; the nurse would doubtless arrive sooner. 
 
 She did not lift or touch Birdwood, but went out into 
 the passage to reflect. She argued with herself that he 
 was virtually dead ; she tried to make herself believe that 
 he was actually so. 
 
 She returned to him presently, and put her hand to his 
 heart. Poultices had slipped down off his back and chest. 
 His eyes were open but unseeing. She could not feel a 
 pulse, and went out and left him in the same position. 
 Then she suddenly remembered that if young French or 
 Mrs. Dury came over the hill they would see her in the 
 yard ; therefore she retreated and went into the parlour. 
 Mist was driving down upon the Moor, and herein ap- 
 peared another cause for hope. Her husband might lose 
 his way back. Time, that she desired to crawl, raced 
 with her. An hour passed and she returned to Birdwood. 
 He was still humped up with his head on his knees. 
 Again she felt him and found his hands and feet were 
 cold. She laid him back, laielt beside him, and thanked 
 God from her heart that he was dead. 
 
 No doubt remained longer, and her attitude changed. 
 An immense load rolled from off her mind. She shut the 
 window and set about making some fresh poultices. 
 These she applied to the corpse. She could have sung. 
 Death never faced a more light-hearted woman. She 
 forgave Birdwood all that he had cost her of late. She 
 regarded him now with a stern complacency and traced 
 the lineaments of her own child in his. He was begin- 
 ning each moment to look younger ; and she believed that 
 presently, if his face was shorn, death would be found to 
 have taken ten years from it and ruled out many of the 
 deep lines and crosslines scored upon his forehead and 
 cheeks during that period. Henry Birdwood had 
 stamped his image on their child's body. He had often 
 said so, and she knew it very well. She had watched 
 Martin growing more like his father, had marked the 
 thin, long limbs, colour of skin, and poise of head on 
 neck. She had speculated drearily on the future, and
 
 196 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 marvelled at the blindness of the people who could not 
 note a thing so apparent to the eyes in her head and the 
 eyes in her soul. Only the greater gravity of the dead 
 man's personal threats had made this impersonal dread 
 less paramount. And now all fear departed from her, 
 and took years with it, even as death was taking years 
 from the dead. She reflected on the slender accident 
 that might have turned that day from the best in her 
 life to the worst. Had Philip been at home; had the 
 messenger delivered Birdwood's cry to him, he, and not 
 she, must first have arrived at Teign Head. Her hus- 
 band, in that case would have been in time to hear the 
 confession. 
 
 ' ' My sin is forgiven, ' ' she said to herself, and believed 
 an interposition of Providence. 
 
 She prayed that Birdwood's image might vanish from 
 people's minds as quickly as his body from their sight. 
 There was a photograph of him extant. Her husband 
 had a copy and one or two others possibly existed. One 
 hung close by in the parlour. This she now secured and 
 flung into the fire. 
 
 Another hour passed, and then from the outer gloom 
 came shouts. She ran to the door, made answer, and 
 directed the fog-foundered Jonathan French and Mrs. 
 Dury to Teign Head. They had missed the way beyond 
 Siddaford and were wandering half a mile above the 
 cottage. 
 
 The man rode and carried Mrs. Dury's bundle; she 
 tramped beside him, wet to the skin and much ex- 
 hausted. 
 
 "Look to yourself, Betty," said Mrs. Ouldsbroom, as 
 she received them, and settled her face into solemnity, 
 "It's all over, poor fellow. I got here hours agone, but 
 he was just flickering out then. The doctor said he was 
 so good as dead before he left. I've kept poultices to 
 him, but he 's gone this longf ul time. ' ' 
 
 The nurse regarded Birdwood closely and satisfied 
 herself that he was dead. 
 
 ' ' Take all they things away and ope the window, ' ' she 
 said. " I '11 change my clothes and then I '11 lay him out,
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 197 
 
 poor blid. Where's the brandy? French and me had 
 better have a drop hot. We 're finger-cold. ' ' 
 
 Within another half-hour Philip Ouldsbroom arrived 
 breathless and soaking. His clothes steamed upon him 
 with the haste that he had made. Unity met him at the 
 porch. 
 
 "Thank God you'm come. I thought you was lost!" 
 she cried. 
 
 "The biggest bottle in the pub," he said: "and 
 Gregory's going to get over to have a tell, if the fog 
 lifts. He didn't know things was so bad." 
 
 ' ' Hush — he 's gone, my dear. His last thought was for 
 you. 'Eemember me kindly — remember me kindly to 
 Phil, ' was the very last word I could catch. Then he got 
 dwaling and rambling. And then he died in my arms. ' ' 
 
 "Dead— dead!" 
 
 "An hour and more." 
 
 The man relaxed all over and exhibited grief. The 
 great bottle he had dragged across the Moor fell out of 
 his hand and broke. Its contents hissed into the mire. 
 
 "He knowed what you'd gone for. He said 'twas like 
 you to go. You 'd best come in quick and get — or better 
 still, take the hoss and ride home so hard as you can and 
 change your clothes." 
 
 "I must see him," he said, and pushed past her to 
 look at Birdwood. 
 
 Betty Dury was washing the body, but threw a sheet 
 over it at his approach. 
 
 "Do 'e think you could shave his poor cheeks, Mr. 
 Ouldsbroom?" she asked. " 'Twould make him look 
 more vitty and like himself." 
 
 Philip took Birdwood 's hand and squeezed it, 
 
 "Good-bye, old chap; good-bye!" he said.
 
 BOOK III 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Henry Birdwood was buried at Widecombe with his 
 mother, and certain friends attended the funeral. Some 
 walked with the dead and some rode on horseback. 
 Gregory Twigg and Philip Ouldsbroom returned together 
 with young French. They asked the latter whether he 
 objected to stop at Teign Head alone, and he told them 
 that he did. 
 
 The question of a new Moor-man for the East Quarter 
 of the Forest was not yet determined. 
 
 At the 'Warren House' Philip alighted to drink, but 
 Unity, who was in the market cart and had driven with 
 Martin to the funeral, did not stay. 
 
 Gregory uttered some reflections upon the event of the 
 morning for the benefit of Peter Culme and others who 
 were in the bar. Then arose argument between Peter 
 and the innkeeper, on one side, and Ouldsbroom and 
 the ancient man, Nat Woodley, upon the other. 
 
 *'He was back in the fold afore the end, and that's a 
 tower of strength," said Gregory. "It was my work — of 
 course the Lord aiding. I can see poor Henry coming 
 up to me when I go over — I can see his hand stretched 
 out and feel his angel hand-shake and hear him say, ' 'Tis 
 all thanks to you, Twigg — all thanks to you. ' ' ' 
 
 "There'll be bands playing and banners flying when 
 you go aloft, Greg," said Philip. "A regular revel, I 
 reckon, and everybody given a whole holiday. How the 
 mischief they can rub along without you up there be the 
 puzzle to me," 
 
 198
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 199 
 
 Mr. Twigg reproved the farmer and turned to Woodley. 
 
 ' ' I never heard tell the man was dead till an hour ago, ' ' 
 said Nat. "I comed in this here bar for my afternoon 
 drop and your missis told me. What took him?" 
 
 "What '11 take us all, neighbour," answered Gregory. 
 "I saw him the next day, for 'tis among my chastening 
 rules of life never to miss the sight of a corpse. If us 
 living creatures saw more dead people 'twould be very 
 good for us. I think there was victory on Henry's face. 
 I hope so. If anybody hadn't learnt to read the little 
 touches that mean death, they might have said 'twas 
 sleep." 
 
 "Death and sleep be cousins," said Peter; "at least 
 that was the f ansical way pastor put it in his sermon. ' ' 
 
 "Trash!" answered Ouldsbroom. "Don't you believe 
 that, Culme." 
 
 " 'Tis true," declared Gregory. " 'Tis true beyond 
 question. Sleep restores our natural powers of mind and 
 body — don't it? It gives us a new life every morning; 
 then why shouldn't death do the same and give us a 
 new life altogether?" 
 
 ' ' Doan 't knaw why it shouldn 't, ' ' said the aged Wood- 
 ley. "But I'm damned certain it won't. Sleep be rest, 
 and there's nought in common betwixt that and death — 
 pretend as you may. Who should know if I doan't? 
 Why, death, as it gets nearer to us, kills sleep. What's 
 my sleep now but a sort of dog 's sleep, broken every time 
 I turn my neck by a pang where death be hammering 
 home his wedges? Death be death, and all the talk in 
 all the Bibles won't get you out of his net when your 
 turn comes." 
 
 "True for you, Nat," declared Ouldsbroom; "and 'tis 
 a very manly thing in you at your age to face it so 
 fearless. ' ' 
 
 "Death's no hardship to the dead — that's why I face 
 it," replied the ancient. "We've got to go, and, if you 
 live long enough, you're glad to go. And w^e, who know 
 the meaning of life, would never call back any we cared 
 about. 'Twould be cruelty to do it, and they wouldn't 
 come for certain — even if they could."
 
 200 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 But Philip denied this. 
 
 "You're out there," he answered. "I'd come for one 
 — gladly and thankfully come. If I didn't drop till I 
 was a hundred, still I'd crawl rejoicing back, if 'twas 
 only to shake a man 's hand, or hear a woman 's voice, or 
 list to a bird singing. I'd come just to look at the sky 
 and the clouds travelling on it. I'd come to have one 
 drink along with an old pal. If 'twas only for five min- 
 utes I'd throw off death and come." 
 
 "You entirely forget what I hope you'd be leaving, 
 Ouldsbroom," said Mr. Twigg. 
 
 " 'Leaving'! Leaving a cheerful family of worms — 
 poor company, Greg — you may take your oath of that. 
 Bah ! Give me another drop of beer to drown the thought 
 of it." 
 
 " 'Tis your narrow way not to look beyond the pit," 
 said Mr. Twigg, ' ' and Barbara Hext be largely to blame. 
 We, who have understanding, can only pin our doubtful 
 hope for you on the mercy of the Lord. We don't deny 
 your M'orks; but works without faith be as much use to 
 mankind as a bladder without wind in it to the drown^ 
 ing. The bladder must be blowed out with air, Philip, 
 if 'tis to be of any consequence ; and the human creature 
 must be blowed out with faith, or else he'll sink to the 
 worm which dieth not; and that's a very different 
 creature from the poor churchyard sort." 
 
 "First time as ever I knowed 'twas faith as had made 
 your barrel so rovind, Greg," answered Philip. "If 
 'twasn't for what we've just done, I could burst my sides 
 laughing at that; for look at Medlicott, your minister. 
 Faith haven't fattened him over much. You can see 
 through the man. He'm little better than a dry built 
 wall, that the wind and rain play hide-and-seek in." 
 
 "His work's over," answered Peter Culme. "He's 
 going away to live the fag end of life in a lew corner. 
 And there 's another who be failing fast, and that 's Miss 
 Hext herself. A landmark gone she'll be — a very wise, 
 kind woman — whatever she believes or don't. She 
 judges none, and few can say as much." 
 
 ' ' None but the Dissenters, ' ' declared Gregory. ' ' We 've
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 201 
 
 all our weakness, and that's hers. 'Tis a very sad and 
 startling thing in her, and I can't understand it. To 
 think she has lived all these years in the very shadow of 
 us Little Baptists, you might say, and yet can't see the 
 light. However " 
 
 ''Damn Time!" burst out Philip. "The cruel wretch 
 won't let nothing and nobody alone. Time's the only 
 devil, say what you will, Greg." 
 
 "You've little to grumble at," declared Culme. 
 "He'm gentle enough with you, whoever else he may be 
 busy with. He's taking your hair a bit; but that's 
 nought. ' ' 
 
 "We ought to get old, and 'tis very indecent in you 
 not to do it, Ouldsbroom," declared the innkeeper. 
 "Why for you bide so young, and so foolish here and 
 there, I never can understand or forgive in you. There '11 
 come a day of reckoning. You may feel certain-sure of 
 that. 'Tis better far for time to jog steadily and bring 
 its weight of years and weight of knowledge with 'em, 
 than hang fire like it do with you; for, mark me, 'twill 
 come with a rush when it do come, and you'll go down 
 afore it, like a green tree afore an autumn gale. And 
 what is there to stay you up when the storm falls ? Now, 
 I have always, as it were, spoken face to face with the 
 Lord, like Moses on the Mount, and come away shining; 
 and I can tell you " 
 
 But Ouldsbroom felt no desire to listen further. 
 
 "Shine on," he said; "but you've shined enough for 
 one day, in my opinion. I be going down the hill to Post- 
 bridge to tell a neighbour or two about the funeral now. ' ' 
 
 He went to see Barbara presently and, moved by the 
 things that Culme had said, scrutinised her face narrowly. 
 
 "Left that fool Twigg chin-deep in drivel. Couldn't 
 stand no more of it. A funeral brings out the very mar- 
 row of the man. I long to lift my fist and beat him 
 down at such times." 
 
 "We're all humbugs, Phil, and other people's humbug 
 always looks nasty to us. But none are free of it. 'Tis 
 certain in us, as that we 've all got ten toes. Every living 
 creature has some dirtj^ little holes sealed up and white-
 
 202 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 washed over in their cellars. We pretend we have not; 
 but we know we have." 
 
 "Don't you begin to preach too. Remember as I. 
 have had Twigg on my hands ever since we left Henry's 
 grave.* 'Tis a very nice spot they've chose, and I be 
 going to put up a stone to the man presently. I knowed 
 more about him than anybody, and understood him bet- 
 ter. His last word was 'good-bye' to me, and I shall 
 miss him a lot." 
 
 "Did the missis go to the funeral?" 
 
 "She did, and so did Martin. I'll swear he got a spark 
 of pleasure out of it. But you know him. He'd be a 
 parson himself, I believe, if he could. But I told him a 
 bit ago that I'd sooner see him in his coffin than in a 
 white choker, and he looked at me — in that measuring, 
 doubtful way of his ; but he said nought. ' ' 
 
 ' ' He 's growing a fine fellow. ' ' 
 
 "So he is, and getting clever at the farm too. I shall 
 have to talk presently, but I'm putting it off, for he'll 
 be away to school after Christmas, and that will enlarge 
 his mind a bit." 
 
 ' ' Certainly it will do so. " • 
 
 " 'Tis that he wants. He's just, but awful narrow. 
 He judges right; but why the hell judge at all? that's 
 what I'm always axing him. 'Judge not at all,' says 
 Christ, doan't He? Then why do these prize Christians 
 want for to be always doing it, and casting a stone at 
 tramps and freethinkers and socialists and everybody 
 else, as don't walk head to head with 'em? I want my 
 son to be large-minded. Justice is a good boss, but 
 Mercy's a better one, Barbara; and the older I get, I 
 find myself that terrible merciful that I'll forgive any- 
 body anything — if they'll only let me alone and mind 
 their own business." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " 'Twill be a great strain for Unity parting with the 
 boy." 
 
 "And for me. I shall miss him cruel, for all he 
 
 You see, Barbara, somehow — what's the word? Well, 
 they do take sides against me. Yes, they do. I'm not
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 203 
 
 angry — I 'm calm as a frog. Haven 't I just come from a 
 funeral, and have I got more than two half pints inside 
 of me? No, I haven't. But, in a way, they take sides. 
 Not meaning to hurt; yet 'tis two for one and — and " 
 
 He grew red — at pictures cast upon his mind by 
 memory. 
 
 ' ' Think nothing of it. 'Tis the strength of your wife. 
 But you '11 ever find her safe on the side of wisdom. ' ' 
 
 "That's as may be. A man must be master in his 
 own house, Barbara. There'll be Cain let loose at Hart- 
 land if any creature thinks to come between me and the 
 master's place. What right — what right, I say, has the 
 woman ? ' ' 
 
 He broke off, conscious that he was about to utter an 
 unbecoming thing. He laughed. 
 
 "There — there! We'm such old friends that I seem. 
 like to trade on it and wash dirty linen afore you. God 
 forgive me for thinking to do such a thing. 'Tis only 
 my stupid pride. They meant nought. Ban't I the life 
 and soul of 'em both ? What would they be without me, 
 or me without them?" 
 
 "That's right, Phil. Now 'tis you talking." 
 
 But when Ouldsbroom went home he left Barbara with 
 some fertile food for thought. She was not an inquisi- 
 tive woman ; yet she knew the character of Unity Oulds- 
 broom exceedingly well, and now she asked herself with 
 interest what had happened. That Philip's wife had 
 somewhere failed of her usual perfect tact and skill ap- 
 peared. That she had hurt and even angered Oulds- 
 broom was clear. He revealed the fact less in words than 
 by the lifted voice and angry flush that accompanied 
 them. Miss Hext was concerned for him, and trusted 
 that the incident had been isolated and provoked by some 
 untoward chance not likely to recur. 
 
 She guessed that Martin's forthcoming departure to 
 a boarding-school might diminish further opportunities 
 for friction.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Martin's departure was delayed until the spring. Then 
 came the great event. His box was packed, his farewells 
 were made, and he drove off with Philip to a school at 
 Bovey Tracey. 
 
 It was typical of the boy and man that Martin re- 
 mained collected and calm, while Ouldsbroom became 
 more agitated as the goal of the journey approached 
 them. Only when he left his mother did the lad's lip 
 falter. He would not show Tiger his face when his play- 
 fellow, having carried the box to the trap, stood at hand 
 to say 'good-bye.' Then Philip, marking the tears, sig- 
 nalled Tiger away. Unity stood at Hartland door as 
 long as the vehicle was visible. When she saw that it 
 was about to disappear, she waved her apron, noted the 
 answering flutter of her son's handkerchief, and went to 
 her work. 
 
 She hoped great things of this change, and had stinted 
 for it through the past ten years. Her ambitions for the 
 boy were high, but as yet he had manifested no special 
 taste. Secretly she pictured him a clergyman, since by 
 that door his social position might most easily be lifted; 
 but Philip raged so violently against the thought, that 
 it never escaped her lips a second time. Martin's future 
 was exceedingly safe with Martin. From that certainty 
 she drew consolation, and her own rare powers of pa- 
 tience did the rest. He was gone to be educated, to learn 
 the first lessons of a larger life than Hartland could 
 show him, and to mix with a higher class than his own. 
 She did not fear for him. He was a kindly boy, and she 
 had brought him up to obedience and consideration for 
 elder people. His niggard instincts she did not deplore 
 in the light of her husband's character. They were a 
 
 204
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 205 
 
 shield to him, and she hoped for future fruit from them. 
 A time must come when the lad's nature would enter 
 into closer union or combat with Philip's. That time, 
 indeed, was near, for the man continued little more than 
 a boy in many large particulars, while the boy had ever 
 been precocious, thoughtful, and not overmuch wedded 
 to childish things. He went away eager to learn and 
 eager to please. Unity therefore returned to her work 
 now with no tears in her eyes and a measure of peace at 
 her heart. 
 
 On Merripit Hill a group of children was assembled 
 to take leave of Martin. He did not lack for friends, and 
 among them were two of his cousins from Stannon : 
 Minnie and Jacky Crymes. The girl was shooting up 
 into some beauty. Her eyes still wondered at all they 
 saw ; still asked their question of the world and its ways 
 as life dawned upon her understanding. Her affection 
 for Martin was ver.y real, and he liked her well — better 
 than he showed. She seemed beautiful to him, and her 
 part of humble pupil and listener at all times, pleased 
 the boy. Few children would heed him when he was 
 serious, but she cared most for him at such hours, and 
 never wearied of his second-hand knowledge and youth- 
 ful dogmatism. He and she often lost themselves in 
 speculations concerning the larger world and the things 
 that flashed to them sometimes from old newspapers. 
 Their mothers marked the friendship, and Gertrude 
 Crymes was pleased at it, but Unity hid her mind. 
 
 Now Jacky flourished his cap, while the rest shouted 
 and Minnie waved a wet handkerchief. Philip, who had 
 pulled up a moment for the leave-taking, marked her 
 sorrow, and his heart went out to the little girl. He 
 thought of her afterwards, exalted her sentiments to 
 Martin, and loved her. And then, as they trotted along, 
 the man uttered his words of wisdom and, after his kind, 
 counselled much beyond his own power ever to put in 
 practice. Sometimes Martin secretly dissented; but he 
 listened quietly, made manj^ promisees, and often said, 
 'Thank you, father, I'll remember.' 
 
 "Be sporting always," said Philip. "There's no call
 
 206 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 for me to tell you about being good, because you've got 
 all that from mother. But there's just a few things a 
 woman — not even the best — can teach a boy, and they 
 be summed up in that word, 'sporting.' You'll have to 
 play all manner of games that you ban't used to, and in 
 the heat of 'em, if you be keen to win, as you should be, 
 there come moments when there's a temptation some- 
 times to do things that ban 't right or fair. Always play 
 fair, and think fair; and if you win, don't crow about 
 it, and if you lose, don't fret. You'm a fine chap, with 
 long legs and a great power of running, so I lay they'll 
 be glad to have you in their games. And nought will please 
 me better than to hear they 've chose you presently. The 
 book larning will take care of itself with such a one for 
 reading as you be ; but mind and go in for the sport too. ' ' 
 
 ''So I will then, father." 
 
 "And don't be near, mind. I wanted to give you a 
 bit more in your pocket, but still, as mother says, you 
 wouldn't know what to do with it. Give where 'tis 
 proper to give and share the hampers I be going to send 
 you. And don 't you think I shan 't see you till the holi- 
 days, because I shall. And I wouldn't wonder if a 
 tempted mother over in a month or so for a sight of you. 
 She won 't want much tempting, I lay ! ' ' 
 
 "It would be very nice to look forward to it. But 
 mother won 't do that. ' ' 
 
 "Take my word she shall. A bit strange you must 
 feel at first, but you'll soon settle down and make friends ; 
 and choose the chaps as be good out of doors as well as 
 at their books. And write and tell me all about every- 
 thing. And mind you stick up for yourself from the 
 first, Martin. I'd fought many a pitched battle afore 
 I was your age ; I took and gave and was none the worse. 
 Not as I want you to go fighting, I'm sure. But the 
 boy as quarrels with you will be the sort as wants knock- 
 ing about, and if you reckon you can do it, or even if 
 you fear you can't, go for him just the same." 
 
 "I shan't quarrel with nobody if they don't quarrel 
 with me." 
 
 "Quite right; and if they do, don't you cave in, but
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 207 
 
 show 'em how a Dartymoor chap can hold his own. Then 
 they"'ll soon larn to respect you. Mother will write how 
 we go on, and I reckon Tiger will try his fist at it, though 
 his penmanship ban't very grand." 
 
 "I'll write to Tiger about things that would interest 
 him." 
 
 "Do so — 'twill be good for him to know. I'm glad 
 you thought of that." 
 
 They parted presently, and the boy went out placidly 
 to join two other new arrivals in the playground. His 
 father drove away, stopped in Bovey, made some pur- 
 chases, drank with sundry friends, and then returned 
 home. His wife heard every incident of the day, but 
 declined Philip's proposal that she should call with him 
 to see her son in a week or two. 
 
 "No, no; that won't do," she declared. " 'Twill only 
 throw him off his books and make him restless. I told 
 him that I shouldn't see him till the holidays, and 'tis 
 better far you shouldn't neither. I lay schoolmaster 
 don't want you messing about at Bovey." 
 
 "Quite right, quite right," declared Philip instantly. 
 "Right as a nail; but, you see, there'll be hampers now 
 and again, and my business will take me to Bovey some- 
 times, no doubt, and — what with one thing and another, 
 I shan 't be able to help catching a glimpse of the nipper 
 off and on. Couldn 't help it if I would. ' ' 
 
 She smiled and Tiger grinned. 
 
 Later on, as the term advanced, Mrs. Ouldsbroom, 
 meeting with Gregory Twigg's wife, uttered one of her 
 rare laughs and stated the case. 
 
 "My boy? Very happy, I do believe, and very good 
 for sartin. 'Tis funny what a lot of business Phil finds 
 to Bovey nowadays — a place as he never had no dealings 
 with afore last Easter ! ' ' 
 
 "The boy draws him as the childer will the parent's 
 heart," said Mrs. Twigg. She was a watery edition of 
 the innkeeper. She thought as he thought, believed as 
 he believed, judged as he judged, and, in a fashion, even 
 spoke as he spoke, and uttered tangled shreds and patches 
 from his deep stores of piety and platitude.
 
 208 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "Yes, the boy draws him; but 'twould be better if 
 he stopped farther off— far better." 
 
 "No doubt. The young must fight their own battles. 
 Us can only buckle on the shield of Truth for 'em and 
 set them the example of steadfastness. Martin be very 
 like my Alfred in his disposition — a soaring child. He'll 
 walk into the bar among grown men and they'll listen 
 to him without a murmur. 'Tis a case of being actually 
 born a Little Baptist. As Mister Twigg says, 'tis better 
 than being born with a silver spoon in your mouth, like 
 your boy. 'Tis the silver spoon of the Spirit that our 
 Alfred have got — to put it like my husband does." 
 
 There came a day when Tiger and his master went 
 down to the great peat cuttings under Archerton Tor, 
 to carve out winter fuel. The weather of early July 
 was hot and fine; the peat already spread — piled cake 
 against cake — like tiny tents of some great fairy encamp- 
 ment on the heath. 
 
 A haunt of beauty was this place, whence came their 
 winter warmth for the upland men. Its lines and clefts 
 brought ripe colour upon the waste; its dusky walls 
 here shone, cut freshly from the peat sponge, here rose, 
 weathered to rich harmonies of yellow and grey. From 
 agate to ebony the peat beds ranged in their colour. 
 Within their chocolate-hued hearts, and on each shimmer- 
 ing pool, sedgy marsh, and shaking mire, bloomed half 
 a hundred different flowers; the sphagna beds were 
 brighter still and full of lemon and orange, emerald 
 and purple. They massed and spread and made rich 
 setting of the flower jewels of the bog; they hid the 
 fount of the spring, yet declared its presence from far 
 off. 
 
 Upon the peat beds cotton grass danced silvery, and 
 the buckbean's fairy flowers ascended above their trefoil 
 green. The red rattle sparkled in its lacework of foliage ; 
 the heather sprang like a flower cornice along the black 
 slab walls of the cuttings; and by rill and pool were 
 lifted shy, small spires of the sun-dew and the frail atom 
 of the butterwort's blossom — as though it had been a
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 209 
 
 little amethyst fly that hovered above each grey rosette. 
 Round about the land sloped upward from this bottom, 
 and to the north Archerton's flat crown of stones capped 
 a gentle hill. 
 
 Tiger piled the unctuous slabs of dripping soil while 
 Ouldsbroom, who enjoyed peat-cutting, carved at the 
 ridge, and with rhythmic sweep of the knife made each 
 downward stroke, then used the peat-iron and flung cake 
 after cake upon the heather. 
 
 He rested presently, and the boy brought him a little 
 runlet of cider. 
 
 ' ' Only a fortnight, ' ' said Philip. ' ' Only thirteen days, 
 to be exact, and he'll come home along. I be cudgelling 
 my brains a 'ready to think of good sport for him." 
 
 "He'll want nought but that beautiful boss," pro- 
 phesied Tiger. "The only thing about Dartymoor as he 
 cares about be riding, and even then he'd never ride 
 along hunting or anything of that. He told me once, 
 when I slew a want,* that he hated killing things, and 
 he'd read in a book us hadn't got the right to do it. 
 ' What about thicky long-cripple as bit you ? ' I axed him. 
 ' Twas my fault, ' said he. ' If I hadn 't stepped on it I 'd 
 have got no hurt. ' But for riding you can 't beat him. ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis the very truth," declared Philip; "built for the 
 saddle far better than me. Have 'e marked how long 
 he runs from fork to knee ? 'Tis so he gets his beautiful 
 natural seat. Wonnerful hands too. Might have gone 
 for a jockey if he'd been a little un." 
 
 Thought of Martin as a jockey made the jovial Tiger 
 laugh aloud. 
 
 ' ' Lord ! the cruel funny things you say, master, ' ' he 
 cried in ecstasy. 
 
 "Of course 'twasn't in his nature," explained Philip. 
 "I ban't the sort that expects miracles, and I wouldn't 
 no more ax you to cram your head with book-learning 
 than Martin to do things what you do very clever. I'm 
 only saying the cleverness was there. ' ' 
 
 "There's nothing he wasn't clever enough to do," 
 declared Tiger. 
 
 * Want — A mole. 
 
 14
 
 210 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Distance lent its kindly veil to the hearts of boy and 
 man. They united in praising Martin, and when Tiger 
 called up some feat of skill or trick of speech, Philip ap- 
 plauded him and capped the recollection with another. 
 
 Anon Martin arrived home in triumph: happy and 
 healthy and full of learning. He brought with him a 
 black eye and a prize for good conduct. The latter Philip 
 regarded as inevitable; the former pleased him more, 
 until he learned that it had only come from misfielding 
 a cricket ball. 
 
 But there was rejoicing that night in the house, and 
 ere he went to bed the farmer made Martin read aloud 
 from his favourite chapter in Job. 
 
 "On great days, such as this be, I do like to hear the 
 twenty-eighth," said Ouldsbroom. " 'Twas Barbara set 
 me on to it scores of years ago, and there's fine things in 
 it for every time. But nought finer than this. So wet 
 your whistle, Martin, and let's have it." 
 
 The boy was very willing, and when he had done, all 
 praised him and declared that his reading had now 
 attained perfection.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 For years had Philip continued to trust that, under the 
 patent qualities of his mother, there might in Martin 
 lurk latent some attributes of his own. With time this 
 hope was called to die, and Ouldsbroom suffered in the 
 process. He received and accepted it reluctantly ; strove 
 to evade it ; at times denied it. But, while a man of little 
 wisdom, his perceptions were not dull. He faced the 
 truth and was constrained to allow that Martin varied 
 from him as widely as boy could vary from man. Until 
 the present this fact had not lessened his devotion. In 
 his darker hours he fretted at it ; in his happy moments — 
 and they were still not few — he declared that it was well, 
 and that a sane father should be proud of getting a 
 cleverer son than himself. But he was tenacious at cer- 
 tain points, and the hearty delight that he declared when 
 Martin elected to be a farmer grew a little clouded in 
 circumstances that followed. 
 
 Philip's sole vanity might have been said to lie in a 
 conviction that his knowledge of Dartmoor agriculture 
 was complete and final. He trod in the steps of his father 
 and his father's father. Innovation was offensive to him, 
 and he resented advice upon his business. While, there- 
 fore, not jealous of others; while he was content that 
 Martin should make new friends, enlarge his acquaint- 
 ance, and win wider measure of attention, a thing that 
 did not please him was the boy 's attitude to his new and 
 vital interest. Martin said that he wished to be a farmer, 
 and Philip rejoiced, since such a wish brought the boy 
 closer to him ; but Unity did not rejoice, neither did she 
 mourn, for she believed the wish a whim; she felt as- 
 sured that education would lift her son's ambition to 
 higher things. 
 
 211
 
 212 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 For the present, in holiday time, Martin addressed 
 himself to the routine work of Hartland ; and then it was 
 that what had promised so great a delight to the master 
 proved, in the event, a source of tribulation. 
 
 Because, now the growing child began to show more 
 than his mother's qualities, and as the mingled oils of 
 ancestry that burned in his lamp of life added each its 
 own quality to his nature, there came the light of new 
 things. Martin's character began to develop — clean-cut 
 and decisive. He was religious-minded, he was thrifty, 
 and he was thorough. He lacked imagination and the 
 sunnier qualities — a want which, thus early declared, 
 promised austerity when manhood dawned. He revealed 
 not only a sense of justice, but also a strong inclination 
 to judge. He thought a great deal and wondered a great 
 deal about his father. His mother's attitude especiall.y 
 puzzled him. From the present standpoint of his ex- 
 perience, he could not understand why Unity condoned 
 incidents and passed utterances that he knew won dis- 
 pleasure from her. His eyes grew round sometimes when 
 his mother nodded, showed no concern, and said, 'Have 
 it as you please, master,' to some assertion or intention 
 expressed by her husband. Martin puzzled to understand 
 why she hid her true opinion and even pretended agree- 
 ment, when right well he knew that she thought his 
 father wrong. Personally he had not yet dared to con- 
 tradict Ouldsbroom; but each day found him better 
 armed and at wider variance from the elder's opinions. 
 His old, childish devotion to Philip was also fading away 
 in the light of larger ideas and increasing knowledge. 
 It was not in his nature to win much further joy of such 
 a man. 
 
 The matter culminated when Martin, now home for the 
 summer holidays, began to read a book lent to him by 
 one of his schoolmasters. He interested his teachers, and 
 they were willing to help him. The work concerned the 
 chemistry of soil, and indicated modern methods of learn- 
 ing first the constituents of a given earth and then adding 
 thereto the special properties required by different crops. 
 Philip knew little of such a subject and eared less. He
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 213 
 
 was wout to saj^ that his stable supplied everything that 
 the hungriest ground could cry for. He pointed to his 
 own produce, and was content to contrast it with that of 
 his poorer neighbours. Agriculture did not interest him, 
 and his particular pursuit was breeding of beasts. 
 
 Now Martin began to air the new knowledge, and when 
 Philip, thunderstruck, asked him what nonsense he was 
 talking about, he blushed and burnt to the heart with 
 a sense of injustice. He had planned his little items of 
 information very carefully. He had taken the guide 
 as infallible, for it belonged to his nature to trust books; 
 and he brought out the modern opinions when walking 
 upon the land in late August with Ouldsbroom. 
 
 It happened that what he said ran counter to Philip's 
 most rooted convictions. The elder had just uttered 
 some moth-eaten wisdom current in his grandfather's 
 time, and upon it, seeing that the moment was apposite, 
 Martin piped in with his chemistry. 
 
 ' ' 'Tis in my book, ' ' he said with a wounded voice upon 
 the farmer's rough challenge. 
 
 ''Is it? Then you'd better burn your book; and if 
 t 'others tell the like trash, then burn the lot, and be 
 damned to 'em and the fools that wrote 'em. Don't you 
 never spout your books to me till I ax you to, my fine 
 chap. Larning be all right, but it don't always square 
 with facts — remember that. If the know-nought fool who 
 printed that stuff was to step up along from his chemist's 
 shop to Dartymoor and listen to me for an hour, no doubt 
 he 'd tear up his twaddle and be sorry ever he wrote it. ' ' 
 
 "But, father " 
 
 "Don't 'but' me. 'Tis lies, and there are three acres 
 of ground under your nose to prove it. If you want to 
 larn your job, come to your father, who'd forgot more 
 than this book-writer ever knew, before you was born. 
 And if you think to teach me my business, Martin, in- 
 stead of coming to me to learn yours, then you'll do 
 better to change your mind once for all and keep away 
 from Hartland when you grow up." 
 
 ' ' I only thought 'twould be interesting to you to hear. ' ' 
 
 "Don't think such foolishness no more then. Teach
 
 214 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 me all you can about the things I don't know, and larn 
 from me the things I do. And one thing is that nobody 
 on God 's earth be going to get a better turnip out of that 
 field, or heavier oats out of t'other than what I can. If 
 you want to farm Hartland, come to your father, and 
 don 't let 's have no more silliness out of books. Good God 
 Almighty! to stick up that little thin atomy of a book 
 you pore over and put it afore what I know ! I wish I 'd 
 got the fool who wrote it here — to sweat for it and freeze 
 for it and drown for it a bit in the ups and downs of our 
 weather. Then we 'd see what would become of his ideas 
 and all this blasted mess they tell about to fling upon 
 land nowadays. When they've poisoned a few things 
 and killed all the fish in the river, and so on, they '11 begin 
 to believe the farmers understand best, I dare say. And, 
 be it as 'twill, I know a long sight better than to let any 
 of their trash inside my gate." 
 
 "I'll say nothing more about it, father." 
 "So much the better, Martin. And if you want to 
 please me, you '11 burn the book and be done with it. ' ' 
 ' ' 'Tis a lent book. I must take it back. ' ' 
 "And tell 'em what I say about it, and ax 'em, with my 
 compliments, to larn you a bit better. " 
 
 "When he went home the boy put his book in his box and 
 presently told Unity of what had happened. She took 
 his side, yet bade him obey his father. It was one of the 
 occasions when her attitude puzzled his sense of justice ; 
 but if she left him something to think about, the mother 
 herself remained with a still harder problem. ■• Unity saw 
 the difficulties now. rising ahead, and she perceived that 
 they must increase with Martin's advancement in know- 
 ledge and understanding. The line of least resistance 
 presented itself, and she felt that it would be well, once 
 for all, to wean Martin from farming as a future. Her 
 power over him was great and she did not anticipate 
 much difficulty. The danger of the task lay with Philip, 
 and she knew that if he guessed her purpose, or saw it in 
 operation, he would become deeply angered. Her patience 
 with him continued to sustain the home; but sometimes, 
 as at this juncture, she felt the severity of the strain.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 215 
 
 Occasionally she found herself doubting whether patience 
 was always wise, whether, as he grew more headstrong, 
 some manifestation of her power, rather than her pa- 
 tience, might not prove more salutary and more sane. 
 
 Upon the other side there fell rare moments in the hus- 
 band 's mind, when he went under a cloud that shadowed 
 his customary enthusiasm with respect to Unity. Once 
 he confessed to Barbara that he had come from feeling 
 the sharp edge of her tongue. He laughed it off the next 
 day and accused himself of injustice and folly in ever 
 thinking that his wife could be severe to him. He took 
 all the blame; assured Miss Hext that he had richly de- 
 served a scolding, and declared that the wonder was he 
 received so few; but she understood. She marked how 
 that his wife was rather less often on Ouldsbroom's lips, 
 how his fits of admiration and shouts of applause at her 
 cleverness and tact waned a little in their frequency. 
 The thing had become a habit with him and the practice 
 of praising Unity persisted ; but the old emphasis, the 
 sudden beam of countenance and rise of colour when he 
 named her were rarer. None save the postmistress had 
 noted the change, for it developed slowly through a 
 period of years; but she marked it and grieved for it; 
 she asked herself whether any sort of remedy existed, 
 and knew that there was none. 
 
 Thought upon Philip's future often made this woman 
 sad. She herself had aged of late, and sometimes felt 
 sorry that she must pass before the crisis of Ouldsbroom's 
 life broke upon him. But she comforted herself with 
 reasonable trust in the possibilities of chance. Chance 
 might lift the shadow yet for him; chance might thrust 
 aside the threat of the storm and clear his horizon of a 
 gloom that began to gather upon it in her ageing eyes. 
 
 The holidays, regarded as a period of joy and intimacy 
 for Martin among his own, proved a partial failure. He 
 was immensely delighted with the horse that Philip had 
 got for him; but he spent so much time upon it that 
 Ouldsbroom often failed to see him through a whole day. 
 For fishing he cared not at all ; and when September came 
 and he spent long hours in carrying his father's game-
 
 216 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 bag over the bogs after snipe, he could only once be made 
 to fire ; and then he missed. 
 
 Coming home again he ventured to explain to Philip 
 that, as Tiger had said of him, he did not like killing 
 things; but an attitude more irrational in his father *s 
 eyes could ill have been imagined. Philip talked to the 
 other boy about it, and gave it as his opinion that it was 
 unnatural — a pathological condition in Martin calling 
 for serious treatment. 
 
 He said : 
 
 "Sport be as proper to a lad as mousing to an owl. 
 Martin must be sick not to like it. Who ever heard tell 
 of a nipper near fifteen not wanting to catch trout or 
 fire a gun?" 
 
 " 'Tis terrible eoorious in him," confessed Tiger. **I 
 never seed nothing so strange ; but then he 's different to 
 us common boys. I lay there never was such a chap. 
 'Tis the great cleverness in him. He was always like 
 that. I mind a year ago, when I found a gladdy's nest 
 and strubbed it, he catched me blowing the eggs to put 
 along with others for a necklace for Jonathan French's 
 sister, and, if he could have done it, he'd have given me 
 a proper hiding." 
 
 Philip was interested instantly. He looked at Tiger 
 and compared the boy's large-boned, stout-built frame 
 Avith the neater and taller and far lighter physique of 
 Martin. 
 
 " 'Twould be very interesting to see you chaps have a 
 set to in a friendly way," he declared. "You've got the 
 powder, and you could take all and more than Martin 
 could give, I reckon; but he's got the reach of you and 
 he's twice as quick on his toes. I doubt if you could lick 
 him, though he 's younger. ' ' 
 
 This personal aspersion touched Tiger on a tender spot. 
 
 His old ambition to be fierce was now elevated some- 
 what. He desired at present only to be prodigiously 
 strong, and he did all that he could to bring this condition 
 about. He ate like a wolf and worked like a pony. He 
 watched his biceps tenderly and investigated his ribs, 
 loins, thighs and calves with profound affection. He
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 217 
 
 measured himself once a month against the wall of the 
 loft wherein he slept; and if his frank heart held one 
 spark of envy for Unity's child, it arose from Martin's 
 superior agility and superior height. That there could 
 be a shadow of doubt as to his power to thrash Martin, 
 did such an unthinkable necessity arise, Tiger would not 
 dream. He was quite startled that, of all men, his hero 
 and exemplar entertained a question upon it. He felt, 
 however, that the subject was delicate, and some spark 
 of feeling silenced him now, though he grew very red 
 and opened his mouth to answer. 
 
 Philip marked the emotion, but could not appreciate 
 the silence. 
 
 ''You think they fat arms of yours would soon polish 
 him off. But we won't talk of it. I'd get two pair of 
 gloves to-morrow, only he'd never don 'em. He ban't 
 the fighting sort. Though plucky enough, mind you. 
 Tiger. For all he's so terrible unnatural, he's got pluck. 
 I 've seen him show it with a bull afore to-day. ' ' 
 
 "So he has," acknowledged Tiger. "Besides, the 
 missis would soon send me to the right-about if I get 
 sparring along with Master Martin." 
 
 "None sends you to the right-about but me, my bold 
 hero. 'Tis to be 'Master Martin' now — eh? 
 
 "Ess, it is." 
 
 The farmer considered. 
 
 "Did he ax you to, or missis?" 
 
 ' ' Him ! No ; he never would. She said so yesterday. 
 'Tis to begin from when he comes home next time." 
 
 It was Philip 's turn to keep silence though tempted to 
 speech, and he left the boy abruptly. 
 
 Martin's solitary rambles, his rides, and his occasional 
 visits to his cousins at Stannon, made up the chief 
 pleasure of his holidays. He went with his mother twice 
 to Tavistock market and drove her proudly. Then came 
 the time for going back to school, and he faced the ordeal 
 without regret. 
 
 In Philip's heart there dawned a vague sense of relief 
 when the boy was about to go ; but it vanished instantly, 
 and sadness took its place after he was gone. Fond hope
 
 218 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 — his soul's heritage — awoke. He explained everything 
 away. 
 
 " 'Tis always the winter our lad likes best, I do be- 
 lieve," he said to his wife. "Us '11 give him some proper 
 fun come Christmas time, and if he once goes out for a 
 gallop when hounds meet hereabouts, he's bound to get 
 the hunting fever. Something tells me that he will do 
 so, for 'tis a very common thing with they fox-hunters 
 that they never care a brass farthing about any other 
 sport. No doubt 'tis the king of sports for that matter. ' '
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 On a day when autumn was far spent and winter again 
 at hand, Unity called at the shop of Barbara Hext and 
 fell into conversation with the postmistress. They were 
 not friends, but entertained a very genuine respect each 
 for the other. His wife knew Philip 's regard for Barbara 
 and was aware that her husband heard nothing but sense 
 from her. The elder woman had sometimes served Oulds- 
 broom well and helped him to wise conclusions when 
 Unity's arguments proved powerless to do so. She felt 
 in debt to Miss Hext, and never hesitated to acknowledge 
 it. They discussed the farmer frankly, and he knew that 
 they did and cared not. 
 
 Of late Barbara had marked a little acerbity on the 
 other woman's tongue, and she had guessed correctly at 
 the reason. 
 
 ' ' No currants, ' ' said Philip 's wife. ' ' Such good things 
 ban't for us just now. Time enough for currants when 
 Martin comes home." 
 
 Barbara nodded and ceased to weigh a weekly ration. 
 
 "Keeping your boy at this big school calls for 
 thought. ' ' 
 
 "It does, and I'm always reminding my man that we 
 must remember sixty pounds a year be a lot of money. 
 But what cares he? He's never felt a pinch, and he 
 snorts if I say a word. I'm feared of my life for our 
 savings sometimes. He 's too old to be so rash, Barbara. ' ' 
 
 "He'd sooner be rich in friends than money." 
 
 "A fool's wish; because the one only lasts as long as 
 
 219
 
 220 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 t'other. You can't buy friends in this world; you can 
 only hire 'em; and if pay day comes round and the 
 money's gone, you'll soon find what nine in ten be 
 worth." 
 
 "A bitter word," answered the other; ''but I don't 
 say it's less than the truth. Philip knows nought of 
 human nature ; he never did, and never will. He counts 
 to find every man a proper man and every woman so 
 clever as his wife. Yes, he asks women to be reasonable 
 and fools to be wise. Yet ; when you offer him reason 
 and wisdom, 'tis any odds but he '11 scorn 'em. But what 
 a nature he hath, Unity ! Who that 's worth their salt 
 but cares for him?" 
 
 " 'Tis a prettier nature for outsiders than her that's 
 got to guide it. He's more difficult than he was, and I'll 
 tell you for why. As he gets older he gets busier, and I 
 ban't let into every secret now till it's too late." 
 
 ' ' He does love to surprise folk with his little tricks and 
 plans. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Too well I know it. Such a thing be making me sore 
 this minute," answered Mrs. Ouldsbroom. "But last 
 week he thought to give me a mighty surprise, and he 
 went and made a bargain in Tavistock market that Tiger 
 wouldn't have made, let alone my son. He was fresh, of 
 course, at the time, as I got to hear afterwards through 
 Jonathan French. But there it was. He came home full 
 of a great secret, and wouldn't let it out till morning. 
 And then he surprised me all right, no doubt; but 
 'twasn't the sort of surprise he'd hoped; and when I ex- 
 plained, so quiet as I could, the things that he hadn't re- 
 membered, and the cruel nonsense of flinging away five 
 pounds — for 'twas little better — then " 
 
 ' ' I know. I can see it all and hear every word he said. 
 I admire your patience." 
 
 "There's other things beside money. I can speak 
 to you, because you don't tell again, Barbara, and you 
 know Philip better than anybody living after me. 
 There's a thing now that's growing into mischief, if it 
 ban't mischief a 'ready, and that's Tiger. I've nothing 
 against him: he makes no trouble in himself, but I can't
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 221 
 
 but fear he's no longer the best companion for Martin 
 in holiday time. What should you think?" 
 
 "He's got his work." 
 
 "Yes ; and Martin will oft go and help him at it. They 
 be as different, of course, as chalk from cheese. And 
 that 's not all neither : my husband relies more and more 
 on Tiger — so far as a man can rely on a boy. He thinks 
 a lot of him. ' ' 
 
 "Why shouldn't he?" 
 
 "No reason, perhaps; but a mother's quick to smell 
 danger for her own. Suppose that Philip so far forgot 
 himself as to set Tiger before Martin? He's just the 
 reckless creature to do it, in my opinion. Something 
 might gall and vex him and he might dash off and " 
 
 Miss Hext interrupted. She was amazed to win con- 
 fidence from one who gave no confidences; but she was 
 quick to feel the mother's fear and glad to allay it. 
 
 "Don't dream of such a thing. Nobody — not even 
 you, I see — can tell exactly what Philip feels for his boy. 
 He has wearied my ear — yes, wearied my ear, Unity, with 
 praise of Martin. He's taking a point of view about Mar- 
 tin that's very much indeed to his credit, in my opinion. 
 Jealous I doubt he couldn't be; but there was a time 
 when he grow^led a lot to think his son was so different 
 from himself. For years he made a sort of silly grievance 
 of it — you know he did as well as I do; but that's all 
 altered. He's as proud as a peacock of Martin now. 
 He'll tell me by the hour of all that he said and did last 
 holidays, and what a wonderful thing he feels it to have 
 got a son who is cleverer than he is himself. There's no 
 danger there. He likes Tiger very well; but he loves 
 Martin with his whole heart." 
 
 "Tiger can do more with him, however." 
 
 "That's natural too. Love can't always be counted 
 upon to see sense ; and the more we love people, the more 
 our view of them is twisted out of clearness. He comes 
 to Martin with all his senses strung up — he 's cruel tender 
 in that quarter ; and if Martin says, a word he weighs it 
 and looks at it from a dozen points of view, and makes 
 too much of it very like, or doesn't understand it, or
 
 222 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 reads something mistaken into it. "With Tiger he meets 
 the living likeness of the boy he must have been him- 
 self." 
 
 "No, he don't," said Unity. "Tiger's got a lot more 
 wits already than my husband. And that's why I begin 
 to doubt about him. Suppose he grows crafty come a 
 few years? Suppose he was to creep up my husband's 
 sleeve and do harm to Martin? 'Tis idle to shake your 
 head. Such things do happen. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I laugh at you, ' ' declared Miss Hext. * ' 'Tisn 't often 
 anybody does that, Mrs. Ouldsbroom ; but knowing what 
 your husband thinks of his boy, and what Tiger thinks 
 of him too, for that matter, I can 't help laughing. Noth- 
 ing on earth — ^and Tiger last of all — will cut your son 
 out with his father. 'Tis only ]\Iartin's self that can ever 
 do it; and for my part, seeing the goodness and nice, 
 quiet ways of the boy, I 'm positive sure that 'twill never, 
 never be. He's growing up, and his brains are growing 
 up even quicker than his body. Such sense you seldom 
 see in such a young creature ; and that sense will very 
 soon teach him to understand his father and see the great- 
 ness of his father, and let the real, solid part of Philip 
 weigh against the other things. I do hope that is what 
 will happen ; and then they would be more to each other 
 in the future than ever you could expect them to have 
 been in the past." 
 
 "It sounds a hopeful saying," answered Unity, "and 
 I'll try to find it so. And, if you want to do me a kind 
 turn with my husband, you preach thrift to him in sea- 
 son and out — that and steadiness. I've opened my 
 mouth wider to you to-day than ever I did in my life 
 afore to mortal man or woman. But I know you'll not 
 put what I've been saying to evil purpose. 'Tisn't often 
 in such a small place as this you'd find two women with 
 the power of holding their tongues ; but you and me both 
 know how to do it. ' ' 
 
 Unity went away, and the elder's conscience pricked 
 her a little. She had been surprised into saying smooth 
 things that were not quite her honest conviction. She 
 reviewed her recent assertion, and shook her head at her-
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 223 
 
 self. That the sense of Martin would ever see the bright 
 side of his father, or appraise the worth of him as 
 weighed against the worthlessness, she knew was im- 
 possible. The growing sense of Martin must disapprove 
 more and more emphatically; there was not in him the 
 power — even had love inspired a wish — to understand 
 or appreciate the qualities that made such a man as 
 Philip precious.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Under the shoulder of Bellaford Tor there stands a little 
 grove of ragged pines. Many have perished, yet still they 
 rear, stark in death, among their living neighbours. Be- 
 hind them, on an evening in December, sloped Bellaford 's 
 shoulder, all shining with light; and below. Dart wound 
 with many a curve about the foothills of the tor. Earth 
 and sky melted together in one fuliginous darkness; but 
 in the notch of the hills behind the wood a brilliant 
 orange flame glared out like a cresset of fire, sent flashes 
 down the glen, touched the twilight murk, and flamed 
 upon the fir trees. The hour was mild and reeking with 
 moisture. Torrential rains had fallen until after noon, 
 and the sky threatened to brim over once more ere night 
 should come. 
 
 Against the savage radiance between the hills there 
 moved two black specks in the direction of Postbridge. 
 A boy and girl sauntered together homeward, and Tiger 
 shortened his stride to keep pace with the feet of Mary 
 French. She lived with her brother Jonathan at Teign 
 Head, for the youth had succeeded his dead master and 
 was now a shepherd under the new Moor-man of the 
 Eastern Quarter. Tiger was Mary's 'friend' in the 
 technical acceptance of that word. It signified between 
 them mutual amity and an understanding closer than 
 any existing with others ; but it meant no more. Neither 
 stood committed, and each was at liberty to establish 
 another friendship if he or she pleased to do so. Tiger, 
 however, in whom the dawn of sex now glowed, hoped 
 for greater things from Mary, and her flaxen hair, long 
 legs, and very red mouth were good to him. As for her, 
 
 224
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 225 
 
 she was well content to be in his company, and she knew 
 that with a rise of wages Tiger would formally invite 
 her to become betrothed. 
 
 Mary had reached seventeen; but Tiger's birthday was 
 hidden in obscurity and his exact age uncertain. He had 
 always regarded himself as older than the workhouse 
 people thought; and when he learned the date of Mary's 
 birth, decided once and for all that he must be con- 
 sidered exactly a year older. 
 
 They talked of their little interests and hopes, and the 
 lad was concerned with the return of his master's son; 
 while Mary, too, felt concerned in this subject upon a 
 side issue. 
 
 "Minnie Crymes be properly fond of him," she said. 
 "I often wonder why, for she ban't his friend. She'm 
 terrible serious-minded, and did ought to suit him down 
 to the ground." 
 
 ' ' For that matter she do. I lay his hoss will take him 
 to Stannon oftener than out fox-hunting, for all master's 
 so set on it for him. I'm going back now, this instant 
 moment, to help with some fuzz-bushes and hurdles we 'm 
 setting up in the big meadow. They be for us to jump 
 Master Martin's hoss over, and teach un to be clever 
 against he comes back. He's taking to it kindly too — the 
 hoss, I mean." 
 
 "A lot kinder than your young chap will, I reckon." 
 
 "Very like. But the master be so resolved, that I do 
 hope as he'll see his way to go after foxes. I wish to 
 goodness I could. All the same, Mr. Ouldsbroom be such 
 a grand hero hisself, and so fond of sport, that I will say 
 he don't grudge me a bit of fun now and then. I be a 
 very good shotsman, Mary, and next time I shoot a game 
 bird I '11 bring it up over to you. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Thank you very much, Tiger. ' ' 
 
 "Just had a wonnerful feed to Squire ;^ackairs. I 
 went down at daylight with a pony that he've bought 
 from us for his little girl. And I stopped to the kitchen 
 dinner, and I never want to eat better food or more at 
 a go. A footman said that 'Tiger' was the right name 
 for me, after he had seed me let down my meal. And I 
 
 15
 
 226 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 axed if they'd like to look at my arm muscles, but they 
 didn 't — for shame, no doubt, being a skinny lot. ' ' 
 
 "I lay they was nought beside you for strength." 
 
 "Nought, though grown up. I told 'em they didn't 
 know what work be. 'You chaps,' I said, 'breaks out in 
 a presspiration if you've got to carry a box of coals in 
 the parlour. But I — I could drag a hundredweight sack 
 ten mile and never turn a hair,' I said to them. Of 
 course they wouldn't believe it — true though it is." 
 
 ' ' You couldn 't expect indoor servants to be like you, ' ' 
 said Mary. "I never yet seed an indoor man as hadn't 
 got a cold in his nose. Poor, pinnicking things, I 
 reckon. ' ' 
 
 As they approached Hartland, Philip, at work in a 
 croft, marked the boy and shouted to him. 
 
 ' ' Come here, you caddlin ' rogue, and you be off, Polly. 
 I lay you 've had enough of the rascal for one day. ' ' 
 
 She laughed, and went on her road, while the boy 
 hastened to his master. 
 
 "After the girls a 'ready, I see," said Ouldsbroom. 
 
 "Not me. I don't care nothing for 'em in general. 
 But she's different. We'm friends." 
 
 ' ' Glad of it. I ain 't got no use for the frosty sort. ' ' 
 
 "Us might go so far as to get tokened come I get a 
 rise," said Tiger, striking while the iron was hot. 
 
 "You'll have to wait a bit for that. Money's tight. 
 Did Squire like the pony?" 
 
 "He did then, and nothing would suit miss but they 
 put the saddle on that instant moment." 
 
 ' ' Lend a hand with these hurdles, ' ' said Philip. ' ' And 
 to-morrow us will have the hoss out and you can take 
 him over 'em." 
 
 The hurdles were set up, and next morning Tiger en- 
 joyed some exercise on Martin's horse. All went well, 
 and the beast appeared to enjoy himself as much as the 
 boy. Philip was in high good humour and praised the 
 steed and its rider. 
 
 "Always knowed there was a bit of hunter in him, and 
 if he can jump 'em with a solid lump like you on his 
 back, he 'II fly over with Martin. ' '
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 227 
 
 "So he will, no doubt," declared Tiger. "He rides a 
 lot better than me, of course. ' ' 
 
 "He does — not that you ban't very clever, but he's 
 built for the saddle and you aren't." 
 
 They practised the horse daily until Martin returned, 
 and he — warned by his mother of the trouble that had 
 been taken — essayed to show interest. He felt no fear 
 of the hurdles, and leapt them well ; but the prospect of 
 hunting gave him scant pleasure. To satisfy his father, 
 he attended three meets, and Philip heard afterwards 
 that the boy had ridden straight and kept well up as 
 long as his steed could gallop. But when the beast be- 
 came distressed, he had stopped. He excused himself 
 from another attempt, and his father used harsh lan- 
 guage at finding a last hope dead. 
 
 Martin was regretful, but the incident revealed a flash 
 of something new in him. He showed unexpected firm- 
 ness. He explained that the horse was his own; that it 
 was not a hunter; that even under his light weight it 
 could not live with an ordinary Dartmoor field. 
 
 "Then you ought to make up in cleverness what he 
 lacks in pace," argued Philip. "You know the Moor 
 inside out, and you ought to be so well up in short cuts 
 and dodges, that you ought to take your hoss where 
 t 'others dare not go, and be in it all the time — specially 
 with the harriers. I won't say nothing about fox-hounds 
 if you'll stick to the harriers." 
 
 "I'd rather not, father. I'd much sooner just go 
 out quiet and take my own way and think about things. 
 'Tis no pleasure to me to be in a crowd of hounds and 
 people and all the rest of it. ' ' 
 
 "You might think of my pleasure, then, and remem- 
 ber I 'm a bit wiser than you still and a bit longer sighted 
 too. A time will come, as you mean to turn farmer, when 
 you'll be sorry you didn't know the country-side better. 
 The way to do it is to be friendly with your own genera- 
 tion and make friends and get well thought upon. Then, 
 when you grow up and take your share in the work of the 
 world, there you are : you 've got friends waiting every- 
 where around."
 
 228 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "There's other ways of making friends, father, besides 
 hunting, ' ' declared Martin ; but the farmer lost his tem- 
 per and called the boy a milksop and a psalm-singing 
 young humbug. 
 
 The sabbatic temperament of Martin soon learned to 
 value these outbursts at their own slight worth. They 
 rose and passed like a summer storm, and the boy 
 mourned them, yet did not suffer largely from them. 
 He tried hard to please Philip, and in some directions 
 succeeded. 
 
 Martin spent a good deal of his holiday time at the 
 house of Quinton Crymes, and he liked his aunt, Gertrude 
 Crymes, right well. Her piety was genuine. He dis- 
 covered that religion was more to her than to his mother. 
 And Minnie proved very serious too. 
 
 He took walks with Minnie and imparted much of his 
 growing knowledge to her. She loved him now, and 
 dearly loved him, while he felt pleasure in her company 
 and a lively satisfaction at her trust and faith in all that 
 he said or did. 
 
 He talked to her of Tiger. 
 
 "I'm very fond of him," said Martin; "but I wish 
 he'd let me tell him a bit about serious matters, Minnie. 
 He's took father for his model in all things; but there's 
 another side to it — good as father is, and so kind-hearted. 
 He doesn't say his prayers no more — Tiger, I mean; and 
 when he used to, he only prayed to be made fierce ; and 
 when he gave up that silliness, he only prayed to have 
 the biggest muscles on Dartymoor. He told me so, and 
 when I said 'twas wrong, he said that a chap naturally 
 prayed for what he wanted most." 
 
 "He's awful good and kind." 
 
 " In a way — yes ; but you want more than that. You 
 can't live your life without help, Minnie." 
 
 "No, Martin." 
 
 "Tiger hasn't had any troubles yet. He has nobody 
 to care for." 
 
 "Yes, he has. He's friend to Mary French." 
 
 "That! That's nothing. I mean he hasn't got a 
 father or mother or any brothers or sisters."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 229 
 
 ** That's not the same as troubles, Martin." 
 
 "Not with you. But father is a trouble sometimes, 
 because I know he does wrong things, and it isn't my 
 place to interfere." 
 
 "I suppose we all do wrong things sometimes, Martin. 
 But my mother and father never seem to do any. ' ' 
 
 "More does my mother. If father would only listen 
 to her more. She's very wise, Minnie." 
 
 "So mother always says, Martin." 
 
 "Tiger, you see, hasn't got more than bare reading 
 and writing, and doesn't want more. I offered to give 
 him some lessons of an evening in figures, because I'm 
 pretty good at figures for my age; but he said that he 
 hadn't got no use for them at present. What interests 
 him about school are the fights and games, and so on. ' ' 
 
 "You're so different, Martin." 
 
 "Games are very interesting, but I don't care for any 
 but cricket." 
 
 There had come a new pastor to the chapel of the Little 
 Baptists, and Martin asked Minnie what her mother 
 thought of him. 
 
 "Mother's not very pleased with him," she answered. 
 "She says he's too young to have got to know what sor- 
 row and trouble mean. And a pastor as don 't know that, 
 mother says, ban 't going to be useful yet awhile. ' ' 
 
 Martin considered. 
 
 ' * Has he got a fine run of words ? " he asked. 
 
 "I don't know," she replied. "You'd better ask 
 mother. He 's shorter in his prayers than what Mr. Medli- 
 cott was." 
 
 "What does Mr. Twigg think about him?" 
 
 "I couldn't tell you, Martin." 
 
 "I should like to hear him for myself," declared the 
 boy; "but I always go to church along with mother, and 
 I don't know whether she'd like for me to go to chapel." 
 
 "Perhaps she'd come. I've heard father and mother 
 say that she always used to go afore she was married. ' ' 
 
 "I know; but she's a thought against the Little Bap- 
 tists, if anything, now. Father's so hard on 'em that he's 
 set mother against 'em a bit, I fancy."
 
 230 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "She might come and hear the new gentleman, now- 
 ever. ' ' 
 
 "I never thought to ask her to do it. But there 
 wouldn't be no harm done in asking her." 
 
 Martin was impressed with the idea, and kept silence 
 for some time while he reflected upon it. The children 
 went home to tea presently. His holiday was nearly at 
 an end, and he had come to say good-bye to aunt and 
 uncle. Now he asked Mrs. Crymes concerning Gregory 
 Twigg's opinion of the new pastor. 
 
 "Mr. Twigg haven't given me the benefit of his judg- 
 ment yet," she answered, "only I happen to know what 
 he said to his wife. He's a little uneasy on doctrine ; he's 
 going to speak to Mr. Bewes himself and throw some 
 light. Mr. Bewes is only thirty-four." 
 
 But this seemed a great age to Martin. 
 
 "I should like to hear him," he said. 
 
 ' ' There 's nothing against his words. He 's very earnest 
 and his face shines. Beautiful words, and a voice that 
 makes you jump, after so many years of Mr. Medlicott's 
 weak pipe. But there's no warmth to the man. He han't 
 a very patient person by the sound of him. But no doubt 
 'twill all come." 
 
 The boy parted from them presently and returned 
 home again. Minnie went as far as the gate with him, 
 and there were tears in her eyes when he said ' Good-bye. ' 
 He saw them, but they did not move him except to 
 words. 
 
 " 'Tis very, very kind of you, Minnie, to be sorry I'm 
 going, but you must remember how good it is for me. I 
 wish 5'our father was rich enough to send you to school. 
 But, as he can't, you must let me hand on such things 
 as you'd like to learn." 
 
 "You've taught me all I know already, Martin." 
 
 "That's nothing yet. But I'll try and teach you a 
 lot more come next spring." 
 
 ' ' Do you get any holiday at Easter, Martin ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 "And shall I write you a little letter next month on 
 your birthday, Martin?"
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 231 
 
 *'Yes, Minnie, and I promise to answer it. But don't 
 send no present or anything like that. If you think to 
 give me one " 
 
 "Of course, Martin!" 
 
 "And very kind it is. But keep it till I come home. 
 No use wasting money to send it by post. I shall think 
 just as much of it when I come home. ' ' 
 
 "So I will then, if you'd rather I did." 
 
 "Yes, I would. It's a great thing to be saving. I 
 wish my father wasn't so free-handed. I often see it 
 worry mother. But there's one thing. He gives me a 
 lot, and I tell mother on the quiet that it's all safe in my 
 money-box, so that makes her feel happier, because she 
 knows I don 't waste it. ' ' 
 
 When Minnie had gone, Martin thought about her, and 
 told himself that she was good and kind and fond of 
 him. He felt that he was fond of her too ; and, upon re- 
 turning home, talked about her to his mother before 
 Philip. 
 
 Ouldsbroom agreed, and praised Minnie heartily. 
 
 "She's a dinky maid, and if 'twasn't for all the psalm- 
 singing at Stannon, she'd be a cheerful one," he said. 
 "Uncle Quinton's all right, Martin; but don't you give 
 too much heed to your Aunt Gertrude. She's a bit given 
 to " 
 
 His wife interrupted him. 
 
 "Now we've agreed to drop that, father. And as to 
 Minnie, none likes her better than I do. And Martin is 
 right to like her, and like her brothers and sisters also, 
 for that matter. They be all nice, sweet childer — save 
 Samuel. And when he goes off next year to the training 
 ship at Devonport, he'll soon be so good as the rest." 
 
 "He's the best of the boys now," declared Philip. 
 "There's a pinch of the devil in him, as there ought to be 
 in every nipper." 
 
 That night, when they were gone to bed, her husband 
 began again to talk to Unity on the subject of Minnie 
 Crymes. 
 
 " I 'm a great stickler for boys to marry early, ' ' he said, 
 "though I didn't do it myself — luckily for me. But if
 
 232 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Martin has a liking for that quiet girl, I don't think we 
 ought to stand in the way of it. " 
 
 ' ' They 're children. You do run on so, ' ' 
 
 "Children now; but she'll be wife-old afore you can 
 look round, and Martin would be of age to marry in three 
 years. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Don 't put no such folly into his head. ' ' 
 
 "You needn't fear that. He's got no use for my sense 
 — or my folly either. I only mean that 'twould be a 
 settling thing for him, come presently, to be properly 
 tokened to her. 'Twould keep him happy, surely, and be 
 the light of his life if he loved her. ' ' 
 
 "The light of his life will never be a woman. To be 
 straight, Phil, I don't reckon such an arrangement would 
 be very clever — even if Martin thought of it. Let him 
 look around and see life and learn his lessons. He's not 
 the girl-loving sort, and a good thing he isn't. He'll see 
 plenty of girls higher and cleverer than Minnie Crymes 
 presently. 'Twould be a silly business to get tied up 
 to her before his eyes be opened." 
 
 "You want for him to find somebody as would take 
 him away from Hartland and into another business than 
 farming !' ' 
 
 "I don't want to find anybody or think of anybody," 
 she answered. " 'Tis little less than ridiculous to dream 
 of such a thing for a child. Why, he don't know the 
 meaning of love yet. How should he at sixteen ? ' ' 
 
 "I'll grant that," answered the man. "But I've a 
 notion that come he did, it might be the saving of him 
 and get him to take larger views all round and be a little 
 kinder to everybody. ' ' 
 
 "He's kind enough. But 'tis one of them rare natures 
 that can't understand the temptations of people, because 
 'tis so seldom tempted itself. You know his master said, 
 when he wrote last Christmas, that he was an extraor- 
 dinary good boy." 
 
 "I know; and he wrote it as if he was a bit disap- 
 pointed in him." 
 
 "Nonsense, Phil!" 
 
 "Well, I do wish with all my heart he'd fall in love
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 233 
 
 with Minnie presently. Such a thing might make him 
 larger-minded. And it might tempt him to spend a little 
 out of his precious money-box. He was asking me yes- 
 ternight if he 'd got enough to put out at interest. Lord ! 
 To hear him ! ' ' 
 
 "That was Barbara's fault. He has ten pound in the 
 Post Office Savings Bank, and she's told him he could 
 get better interest elsewhere. And that's troubling him." 
 
 ' ' I wish to God something bigger would come along to 
 trouble him. And maybe when it does " 
 
 "Don't be fretful. He's going on all right. You'll 
 be proud of him yet, Phil." 
 
 He snorted, and expired a great impatient breath. 
 
 "Well, here's another holiday ended anyway," he said. 
 
 And when Martin had been at school again a week, his 
 father was already planning the first hamper and decid- 
 ing upon what day he might go to Bovey. Neither did he 
 forget Minnie Crymes, but went more than once to Stan- 
 non on purpose to see her. He felt as though he had dis- 
 covered her. His mind already wove romances round 
 her. He pictured her his daughter-in-law. He found 
 out that Martin was her hero, and he listened to her tell- 
 ing stories of the boy's wisdom and greatness. To learn 
 so much of Martin from a new point of view was pleasing 
 to Philip. He shouted Minnie's praises in and out of 
 season to many ears. He gave her presents. These some- 
 what embarrassed her, because the farmer whispered 
 with them that she was not to mention the gifts to any- 
 body. 
 
 "Things may happen," he said, "and I'd be very well 
 pleased if they did, Minnie. And I w^ant for you to 
 know that, whatever does hap, I'm your friend and on 
 your side — and on Martin's side." 
 
 He prattled on and hinted of possibilities; but he was 
 talking over the girl's head, and only puzzled her. She 
 looked into his great beaming blue eyes, felt his hand 
 grip upon hers, and wondered what he meant. But she 
 saw that he was happy and hopeful, and that he liked 
 her the better for liking Martin. Therefore she felt 
 vaguely happy too. When Martin's birthday came,
 
 234 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Philip heard of the arrangement concerning Minnie's 
 present. 
 
 ' ' You send it, ' ' he said ; ' ' and don 't you never let him 
 dictate to you in matters of money. He's a thought too 
 fond of money — to say it lovingly ; and you mustn 't help 
 him to hoard : you must help him to spend — if you want 
 to please me." 
 
 Minnie understood ; but she was old enough to feel 
 that the master-wish of her life centred in Martin's 
 pleasure, not his father's. She kept the present until 
 Martin returned, because he had told her to do so.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 A YEAR had passed, and Gregory Twigg, grown elderly 
 now, but otherwise unchanged, gazed from the door of 
 his home into a wet and stormy gloaming toward the end 
 of December. Before the 'Warren House' there stretched 
 wide spaces of former activity, where once tin miners 
 had worked; and more than this dreary, broken region 
 of rotting mounds, dry watercourses, and deserted ma- 
 chinery could not be seen, for the air was full of a shout- 
 ing storm-wind and of driving clouds that shut out all 
 things save the water-logged foreground. 
 
 Mr. Twigg looked forth without depression. He was a 
 man whose heart carried him high above such minor 
 tribulations as winter and harsh weather. 
 
 " 'And the fountains of the deep were opened,' " he 
 said to himself. Then he was about to return to his 
 empty bar when a sound of wheels and a galloping horse 
 arrested him. 
 
 Along the road from Moreton they came, and Mr. 
 Twigg delayed a moment to see if the traveller might 
 stop. 
 
 A market cart appeared, with a man and boy in it. 
 The vehicle proceeded swiftly, and in two minutes Philip 
 Ouldsbroom, with Martin beside him, drew up and 
 greeted Mr. Twigg. 
 
 *' Never better pleased to see you and your shop, Greg. 
 We'm storm-foundered and wet as fish; but I ban't going 
 no farther without a drop of hot Scotch, and Martin must 
 have some too." 
 
 The boy, who had not expected Philip to stop, spoke, 
 under his breath, for fear of hurting Mr. Twigg. 
 
 "Wouldn't it be better to keep going right home, 
 father? We're very wet." 
 
 235
 
 236 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ''Stuff! Get down and take the hoss round the lew 
 side of thicky shippon. Then come in the bar. But 
 throw the tarpaulin over him. Us won 't be five minutes. ' ' 
 
 Martin obeyed, and presently joined Mr. Twigg and 
 Ouldsbroom. The latter already stood by a big- peat 
 fire. His clothes were steaming, and upon the mantel- 
 piece a tumbler of hot drink also steamed. 
 
 "The same for the boy, Greg. You needn't roll your 
 eyes. He's a teetotaler most times — ban't you, Martin? 
 But the whole Ancient Order of Eechabites would want 
 a drink if they was catched out in such weather as this. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Eegarded as medicine, or as the means to keep a chill 
 out of the frame, I've never heard anything against 
 whisky," declared Mr. Twigg; "and I'm the last man 
 to speak against it. Such as me respect liquor, same as 
 we respect all good things; and just as I wouldn't have 
 a bad servant on my staff, so I wouldn't have bad liquor 
 in my cellar. ' ' 
 
 He helped Martin, and the boy sipped and coughed. 
 
 ' ' Put some more water, please, Mr. Twigg, ' ' he said. 
 
 Gregory, who esteemed Martin very highly, was about 
 to obey, but Philip stopped him. 
 
 "Not at all. Let him taste it and 'twill brace him 
 and make a man of him. Down with it! And don't 
 pull faces, else Greg here will be cross." 
 
 "Far from it," declared Mr. Twigg. " 'Tis the last 
 drink for boys, speaking at large, and I'm the last man 
 to give it to boys — that or beer either — in a general way. ' ' 
 
 "Give me another, anyhow." 
 
 Martin fought with his liquor, and waited, cold and 
 uneasy, while his father drank. He liked Mr, Twigg, 
 and was always glad to see him and listen to him. Now, 
 when Philip was not looking, he poured the greater part 
 of his glass into the sawdust, and when Ouldsbroom 
 urged him to take more, he refused. 
 
 The innkeeper supported him, and the men argued, 
 while the boy went out to look to the horse. 
 
 Philip lighted his pipe and set his feet to the fire. 
 
 " 'Tis worth while waiting a bit," he said. "I reckon 
 the weather will break presently. And what d'you think
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 237 
 
 of my nipper, Greg'? He'll be pretty near so clever as 
 you yourself at the gait he 's going. ' ' 
 
 "You are blessed in a very proper boy," said Mr 
 Twigg. ''I've watched him grow in wisdom and favour 
 with God and man, neighbour. He's the sort to leave 
 the world better than he found it — as I shall have done 
 myself when my Maker calls. ]\Iy wife was saying to 
 me that, little though I see him, he's got my mark on 
 him already. He's serious-minded and a seeker after the 
 things that cannot perish." 
 
 ' ' Don 't you talk about ' your mark. ' Keep your mark 
 for your sheep and ponies. 'Tis his brains I set store by. 
 Sharp as a needle and full of great ideas. Damned if 
 I ban't most frightened sometimes when he comes home 
 for the holidays! To walk him round be kicklish work. 
 A lot of silliness too ; but that's not his fault. You can't 
 go to school and not larn a bit of worthless stuff along 
 with the rest. I tell him that they can't teach him how 
 to farm Dartymoor down to the in-country. For why? 
 They don 't know. But 'twill come right. ' ' 
 
 He drank, and talked, and drank again. 
 
 "Between ourselves, there's a fault, however. He's 
 terrible religious, but he's near. For my part I wish he 
 was neither ; because you religious men be not a rap more 
 certain in your dealings than the likes of me — not when 
 it comes to business; but nearness is a vice, and if you 
 can tell me how to stamp that out of him, I '11 thank you. ' ' 
 
 "We must be just before we are generous," declared 
 Mr. Twigg. "Still, the saying is often an excuse for a 
 man to be mean, I grant you that. He who giveth to 
 the poor lendeth to the Lord. I'll speak to Martin and 
 tell him that the saving spirit can be pushed too far. ' ' 
 
 "He's all for putting money out at interest, and such 
 like." 
 
 "Don't prevent it; don't prevent it. But show him 
 where the best interest can be got. However, you haven 't 
 learnt that yourself, so you'd better leave the teaching 
 to me. I shouldn't take another, Ouldsbroom — really I 
 should not. You 've got to get home. ' ' 
 
 "Damn it; don't I know that? I say, don't I know
 
 238 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 that? 'Tis because I've got to get home I want another 
 — and another on top, very like." 
 
 Martin returned. 
 
 ' ' The dark is coming down, ' ' he said. 
 
 ''Let it," answered Philip. "We Imow our way, I 
 believe. Twigg here wants to talk to you, Martin. He's 
 marked what I have marked in you; and 'tis a beastly 
 fault — I say 'tis a beastly fault, and you're got to stir 
 yourself and do better." 
 
 The boy flushed deeply under his brown skin and 
 looked from one man to the other. 
 
 "Don't be troubled," said Mr. Twigg. " 'Tis a fond- 
 ness for money, my poor boy — not a fault exactly, if 
 kept in the bounds of reason and religion; but it often 
 grows to be a canker in the human heart, till we lose 
 sight of what money is given us for and give worship to 
 it for itself. You mustn't get fond of filthy lucre, Martin. 
 Oh no, you must remember that we are stewards, and 
 that a tithe is not ours at all. You mustn 't rob the watch- 
 ing, loving Lord, Martin. You " 
 
 "Stop!" cried Philip. "If you be going to talk that 
 twaddle, Greg, I'll be gone. Give me another of the 
 same and then I'm off. You put it all wrong. I say 
 you put it all wrong — wrong. I can preach better than 
 that — so can his mother." 
 
 Mr. Twigg was hurt and startled. 
 
 "If you really think so " 
 
 "Gimme my drink; and you can pay, Martin. Out 
 wi' your cash! I know you've always got a store. Be 
 you one to deny your father a drink? I'd break your 
 neck — I say I'd break your neck if I thought so. I'd 
 break any man's neck — I'd " 
 
 The distressed boy brought forth a little leathern 
 purse, and his father made him count the contents. 
 
 "Dammy, he's rolling in money — rolling in it! Five 
 and twopence." 
 
 "Two shillings are mother's." 
 
 "And mine. Be us to have separate purses — us three? 
 Mine's yours and yours be mine, and all's mother's. 
 And now us had better get on the road — I say us had
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 239 
 
 best to get on the road, else they'll think we'm drowned." 
 
 Mr. Twigg helped Ouldsbroom into his trap with some 
 difficulty, and he Avas glad that the farmer made no ob- 
 jection when the boy took the reins. 
 
 Philip began to sing a bawdy song, and Martin felt 
 dull anger throbbing in him as he drove swiftly forward. 
 Great indignation burnt in his young heart. To him this 
 display was gratuitously wicked. He resented his father 's 
 drunkenness ; he resented his song ; above all, he resented 
 his indictment. That his father could complain of him 
 to Mr. Twigg left Martin bruised and almost bitter. 
 There was none whose good opinion he valued more than 
 Gregory 's. 
 
 A tramp approached them as they descended the hill 
 into Postbridge. He was ragged, lame, and dripping. 
 The man stopped as the cart passed him, and touched his 
 hat; but Martin paid no heed. Then Ouldsbroom bade 
 him draw up. 
 
 "Hullo, my brave hero, you'm a thought wet seem- 
 ingly," he said. 
 
 The man began a sorrowful tale, and Philip cut him 
 short. 
 
 "I know — I know — a hell of a world if you draw a 
 blank. Give the chap that half-crown out of your purse, 
 Martin." 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 "Yes, 'father.' Give him that half-eroAvn, and be 
 quick about it. Who be the like of us to keep him stand- 
 ing in the mire when he wants to get on his way to food 
 and shelter ? I say who be the like of us ? Be quick, or 
 I '11 fling you out of the cart ! ' ' 
 
 Martin obeyed ; the wanderer uttered a flood of thanks, 
 and the boy drove on. Out of his eyes dropped fiery 
 tears. He felt sick and frightened. He did not speak 
 again, but his father did. 
 
 "That'll larn you to be large-minded. You don't 
 know your luck yet. You don't know all the good for- 
 tune you're born to. And that poor, harmless dirt there 
 ' — just so good as you or me once, I dare say. Just so 
 good as you or me. Maybe a damned sight better. And
 
 240 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 that bit of money will be the turning-point for him so 
 like as not. 'Tis time your mind was stretched a bit, 
 Martin, and I be going to stretch it — to stretch it, I say. ' ' 
 
 That night the boy slept little. He had spoken to his 
 mother when Philip went to bed, and she had counselled 
 patience, and foretold that, with another day, he would 
 find the master sane and contrite. But she smarted much 
 in secret, and looked without joy upon the future when 
 Martin must return home to leave it no more. 
 
 Meanwhile the boy debated many things, and, before 
 he slept, determined that he would speak quietly to his 
 father when morning came, and try if he might influence 
 him. He would approach under the a^gis of his mother's 
 name. He would speak as one who loved her only less 
 than Philip himself loved her. For while Martin could 
 not understand the man's failings, he had sense to mark 
 that Philip's affection for Unity was the leading, reign- 
 ing principle of his life. To her, when sober and self- 
 contained, he was always loyal; against her none had 
 ever heard him say an unkindly word. He might grum- 
 ble to Barbara, or protest to his wife herself at some 
 passing failure or difference of opinion, but Unity con- 
 tinued his abiding beacon. And Martin loiew it. He 
 planned his little remonstrance, therefore, and fell asleep 
 rehearsing the form that it should take. 
 
 He met Ouldsbroom in an evil hour next morning, for 
 the man was suffering from his intemperance of the pre- 
 vious day. He endured physical discomfort, and shame 
 had made him sulky. 
 
 "May I speak to you, father?" asked Martin as they 
 met in the farmyard ; and the other answered : 
 
 "Yes; if you've got a drop more sense in you since 
 yesterday. ' ' 
 
 "I — I — you see, father, it's cruel to be so hard on me. 
 I know how 'tis about money, and how you've got to 
 
 stint to send me to school, and I Of course 'tis your 
 
 money, and all I've saved be yours too. It came from 
 you " 
 
 "Ban't I always saving myself — or trying to do it? 
 But there's a sort of saving that loses all. You're so
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 241 
 
 beastly mean, and I won't have it. I ban't going to give 
 you back a penny of your money — not a penny. And 
 you can grumble as much as you please." 
 
 " 'Tisn't that. I'm not fond of the money for itself, 
 father. Only mother is always saying to me to look 
 ahead. My way pleases her, and I save for her sake, and 
 I wish that you too — for her sake, father " 
 
 Then Philip raged as no man had seen him rage before. 
 
 * ' ' For her sake ' — ' for her sake ' ! God damn you, 
 you whelp ! D 'you think I want you to teach me my 
 duty to your mother?" 
 
 He lifted his fist and struck Martin a heavy blow on 
 the head. The boy fell stunned, and while he lay on the 
 ground, with his hands lifted to his forehead, Oulds- 
 broom cried out again. His words tripped each other, 
 and he roared. 
 
 "Let that larn you sense and decency. 'For her sake' ! 
 You unnatural dog ! When you can love like I can ; when 
 you can worship your mother like what I do — when 
 you've got a heart in your cur's body that's the shadow 
 of your father's heart — then come and tell me how to 
 treat your mother, and not afore ! You dare to preach 
 to me again, and I'll do more than hit you down — I'll 
 break your blasted neck. To your own father — to dare ! 
 And to name my duty to her ! I could weep, I tell you — 
 ess fay, I could shed bloody tears to think a child of 
 
 mine Get up and crawl out of my sight, and ax your 
 
 blessed God to teach you your duty to your father — as 
 have done his duty to you, faithful and loving and true, 
 since the day you was born. Get going, and don't you 
 see me no more to-day. ' ' 
 
 The boy rose and slunk off; the man, panting and 
 raging, strode to his stable, brought out his horse, and 
 went away bare-backed into the Moor. 
 
 He did not return till dusk, and by that time the evil 
 of yesterday's drink had departed from him, and he 
 mourned to think what he had done. As the hours passed 
 a great grief settled upon him and in the silent places 
 aloft his act looked awful to his eyes. He perceived that 
 the words Martin let fall with such deadly force were 
 
 16
 
 242 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 meant otherwise than he had understood them. He 
 judged that his boy did not know the meaning of the 
 thing he had uttered. 
 
 Philip returned at nightfall, contrite and ready to 
 make amends. There was a bruise on Martin's forehead, 
 and the lad was tearful and very nervous in his father's 
 presence. But none spoke of the incident, and Unity 
 did not allude to it even after her son had gone to bed. 
 She waited for Philip to do so. The matter was on his 
 lips in a moment. 
 
 He told her everything, declared that he had wickedly 
 misunderstood Martin, blamed the drink of the previous 
 day, swore that the fault was all his and none of Martin 's 
 making. She answered that the boy had cared nothing 
 for the blow. 
 
 " 'Twas that he had not made his meaning clear what 
 hurt him most, not your fist," she explained. "He's 
 terrible fond of me and — well, least said soonest 
 mended, I reckon. The sooner he's back at school the 
 better." 
 
 She sighed, and Philip saw that she had been much 
 perturbed. He talked, but she said little; then he went 
 upstairs to see Martin. The boy was speaking aloud, and 
 did not hear his footfall. At the door of the little room 
 Philip stood a moment and listened. As a gift handed 
 down to him — perhaps a donation of heredity from his 
 preaching grandfather — Martin had an instinct to offer 
 oral prayers and, when moved, he often did so. To-night 
 he called upon his God to make him better and wiser — to 
 forgive him for wakening his father into such anger, and 
 to pardon his father for being angry. Philip heard and 
 was crushed to the earth. 
 
 He went in to Martin, and lifted him from his knees, 
 put his arm round him, gripped his hands, and begged 
 humbly for forgiveness. He promised amendment; he 
 showered censure upon himself; he explained to Martin 
 all that he was doing and planning to make life better 
 and happier for Unity. He made Martin forgive him and 
 promise to understand him better. He vowed that now 
 indeed he knew what Martin was, and that no shadow
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 243 
 
 could ever come between them again. The boy, tearful 
 and hopeful, slept presently; but it was long before his 
 mother or her husband did so. 
 
 Philip's excitement would not abate. He talked on 
 for hours after he and his wife were in bed. He ex- 
 hibited an absolute trust in what to-morrow must bring 
 forth. That day had seen wonderful things, he declared. 
 It was a day to be marked with a \\hite stone, albeit no 
 morning had ever dawned darklier. 
 
 " Us be nearer together than ever before since the snake 
 bit him," declared Philip. " 'Tis as if a shadow was 
 lifted from between us. Never, never again will there be 
 so much as a frown separate me and him. I see what a 
 wonder he is, and I see that he can't but do right and 
 reason with the love of you he's gotten. You be his 
 guiding star, same as you be mine, Unity ; and with such 
 a light upon us, how can us be anything 1)ut close, close 
 father and son? 'Tis impossible, I tell you. I know 
 him inside out now, and he knows me too — so well as a 
 child can know a man and the depths of a man. Hence- 
 forth there'll be such a friendship grow up as will sur- 
 prise you. By God, there will! Give and take, mind. 
 We shall please each other. Unity — we shall plan how 
 to do it. 'Tis all clear as light between us. We've 
 talked it all out; we've forgived each other; we'm heart 
 to heart a 'ready, you may say — in a fashion we never 
 was till now." 
 
 She listened.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Time passed, ana each holiday of Martin's dawned in 
 hope and set in gloom. As for the boy, his observation 
 quickened much and he progressed steadily in under- 
 standing. 
 
 He spoke to Tiger two days before he returned to 
 school after his summer vacation. 
 
 "You're older than me, and you've the knack to do 
 things that I can't do," he said. "I've come to see of 
 late what a deal father thinks of you, Tiger; and quite 
 right too, for you please him properly and you think 
 like him." 
 
 "He've made me," declared Tiger; "I owe him and 
 missis everything, and I'd do anything in my power 
 for 'em." 
 
 "I know. You feel very properly to him, and you 
 ought to. If you went to church and felt thankful for 
 all the good that's happened to you, Tiger, you'd feel 
 properer still. As it is, you thank father for all, instead 
 of looking beyond father, where you ought to look. But 
 the thing is that you have got a power over my father. ' ' 
 
 "Never, Master Martin!" 
 
 "Yes, you have. I'm very fond of my poor father, and 
 I'm very wishful to help him. You know what I mean. 
 But I can't get at him like you can. Don't pretend 
 'tisn't so. In a word, I want you to do everything you 
 know to keep him — to keep him steady, Tiger. I don't 
 say 'tis in your power, or anybody's, to do much good. 
 If my mother can't put it right, 'tis very sure you can't 
 
 244
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 245 
 
 and I can't; but he does turn to you a lot. And he'll 
 take from you what he wouldn't from anybody living, 
 for I've marked it. 'Tis your rough-and-ready way, I 
 suppose. I 've often wished you were a bit more serious- 
 minded, Tiger, for you might have worked wonders with 
 my father if you had been." 
 
 "Not me," declared the other. "He'd wince away 
 very quick; he'd soon have no use for me if I was that 
 sort. And I ban't that sort, and don't want for to be. 
 He's good enough for me and good enough for anybody. 
 What's cussing and swearing against the things he 
 thinks of? What's his words against his deeds? I'd 
 sooner be large-minded like him than pious-minded like 
 other people." 
 
 "Whether or no, he drinks too much, and each time I 
 come home I see him drink more; and 'tis turning my 
 mother's hair grey. He forgets his age. 'Tis very bad 
 for him, and an evil example to the men and you." 
 
 Tiger was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. 
 
 "I know you're right enough there," he said. "And 
 I do try, so far as I dare, and I will again. ' ' 
 
 "That's what I ask, and I tell you that you could do 
 a bit towards it. You're said to be eighteen years old 
 now, and you're strong and sensible. I beg you. Tiger, 
 for my mother's sake, and because we've been friends 
 ever since we were children, to do what you can. I've 
 got another year at school, and then I shall come home 
 for good, and do all I know to help mother with father, 
 and pay them well for all they've done for me. But a 
 year 's a long time. ' ' 
 
 " I '11 bear in mind what you say, ' ' answered the elder. 
 
 And he kept his word. But there developed from 
 this attention a difficulty that neither of the boys had 
 guessed at, and Ouldsbroom's wife was the first to per- 
 ceive it. A glimmering dawn of jealousy against Tiger 
 had faded for a time, and now it revived and waned no 
 more. After the promise to Martin, the older lad pur- 
 sued a part agreeable enough to himself and sought his 
 master more than formerly. He had always entertained 
 a profound admiration for Philip, and as Tiger entered
 
 240 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 into manhood this regard increased with his own waxing 
 understanding. He was built on a mental pattern to see 
 little more than the goodness of his master. He liked the 
 genial and reckless natui-e of him ; he desired to be such 
 another, and imitated Philip as much as possible. And 
 Ouldsbroom gradually grew to find Tiger a very vital 
 feature in his life. The lad had more common sense than 
 the man; he was able to retain Martin's goodwill; he had 
 often succeeded in bringing Philip back into friendship 
 with Martin after a quarrel. He had steered him out of 
 strife in other directions. All this Unity perceived and 
 welcomed ; but she also awoke to the fact that Tiger was 
 no longer a boy; and she suspected that his control 
 threatened to become supreme with her husband. That 
 the influence worked for good and peace she could not 
 deny ; its force alone she began to fear. More than once, 
 in a passion, Philip had openly wished that Tiger and not 
 Martin was his son. After such explosions he did indeed 
 lament and redouble his affection for Unity's child; but 
 she knew well enough that nature bent Ouldsbroom more 
 and more towards Tiger, and she asked herself what 
 might come of this as the man grew weaker and the 
 youth more strong. 
 
 There was none save Barbara Hext to whom she cared 
 to speak upon this subject, and even there she hesitated, 
 because she guessed that the postmistress would laugh 
 at her. Philip's farm was not entailed. He might do 
 what he pleased with it. She felt no difficulty in pictur- 
 ing him making a new will and handing everything to 
 Tiger. So mad a step he might regret and possibly re- 
 voke when effected; but the likelihood of it made her 
 uneasy; she felt that Tiger's influence for good upon her 
 husband was too dearly purchased by the increasing 
 trust and amity that Ouldsbroom displayed towards him. 
 
 Unity spoke to none ; but at last there came the needed 
 inspiration, and she decided to appeal to Tiger directly. 
 Well she knew him, and well she knew that he was loyal 
 and honest. He had never dreamed of the thoughts in 
 her mind; he had never asked or hoped for anything 
 better than presently to work for Martin and rise to be
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 247 
 
 his right hand. But Unity knew how ambition ripens 
 with age; she guessed at the conversations held between 
 man and boy; she felt positive that the time had come 
 for Tiger to leave Hartland while yet his mind was clean 
 and unsullied by vain hopes and hungerings. She judged 
 him by herself, and remembered what, at his age, had 
 served most to influence her thoughts and actions. The 
 difificulty of getting him away would be considerable ; but 
 she did not shirk it. She understood him and guessed 
 that an appeal to his nature would cut the knot. He 
 must go of his own free will. He must desire to go and 
 insist upon going, no matter how hardly Philip might 
 try to keep him. She decided to be exceeding frank 
 with Tiger. He was the heart of frankness himself and 
 might best be influenced in that spirit. 
 
 Unity matured her scheme and weighed her words 
 before uttering them. Then there happened an incident 
 that postponed her intention; for trouble and a threat 
 of great loss fell upon Philip, and she felt that this was 
 no moment to bring further care upon him. She was 
 shaken in another particular also. Martin had told her 
 of his speech with Tiger and of the boon that he had 
 begged. She watched, therefore, and was constrained to 
 admit chat Tiger had come between Philip and the bottle 
 on more than one occasion. He had a power that now 
 Unity herself began to lack. Her old authority over 
 Philip was diminished, but she could not tell how or by 
 what means it had decreased. And the lost credit prom- 
 ised to belong to Tiger presently. She was jealous at 
 this; she even found it in her heart secretly to rejoice 
 when Tiger failed, as he often failed. Her pride resented 
 it that Tiger should possess a power of control lacking 
 in her son ; yet, while she felt angered in thought, reason 
 told her plainly enough that the thing was inevitable if 
 not desirable. 
 
 She was about to speak to Tiger when Barbara Hext 
 fell ill and postponed her action. 
 
 The postmistress had for some time been failing, and 
 now she suffered a stroke and came into the shadow of 
 death. She couJd speak freely, and her mind was not
 
 248 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 obscured. She desired to see Philip on the morning after 
 her attack, and he hastened to her. They were left alone 
 together, and he sat beside her bed. 
 
 "The end, Phil," she declared. "I'm well past three- 
 score and ten, remember. Seventy-five this year, and 
 not sorry to go." 
 
 "Don't yon talk of it. 'Tis just a warning that you 
 musn't work so hard — no more than that." 
 
 "I'm not sorry to go, I tell you. And I want for you 
 to see me under ground. I thought to be taken across the 
 road long ago, and I've chosen my place. There must 
 be no nonsense talked over me, Philip. I must be buried 
 as I have lived — free. If there's anything after, then I 
 shall have my share in it. If I'm wrong in what I be- 
 lieve, I shall be glad. But as it is with me, I go to a 
 dreamless sleep and can't believe in any awakening. I 
 want you to read a bit of Job beside the grave — nothing 
 else at all." 
 
 "Yes, I will, then. But 'tis bad for you to run on 
 so. Time enough. I don 't believe you be at your latter 
 end, Barbara. You don't look like it. Your voice rings 
 so clear as a bell." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 * ' It can 't be long, even if I get over this. 'Tis a stroke, 
 Philip. We tough old people that Death can't sweep 
 away at a breath, he tackles different. He gets the thin 
 end of the wedge in, like a woodman. Then 'tis all up 
 with us, and he only waits his own good time to drive it 
 home and bring us down. I 'm sorry to leave you, Phil. 
 I'm very, very fond of you, and I know what you are 
 better than any living creature." 
 
 "You can't go — you shan't go! I couldn't get on 
 without you, Barbara. Your sense be a big part of life 
 to me. None ever had such understanding — none. ' ' 
 
 They talked, and she told him that she had left twenty 
 pounds to Martin and twenty pounds to Tiger. That 
 she had willed a hundred pounds to Philip himself, she 
 did not mention. 
 
 "My little estate goes to my nephew at Plymouth," 
 she said. "I like him, for he's a freethinker and an
 
 THE THIEF OP VIRTUE 249 
 
 honest man and a good one. He has five children and a 
 sick wife. 'Twill be light on their darkness. He's a 
 watchmaker, and well thought upon and badly of!:." 
 
 Philip rose presently to go; but not before he had 
 promised to come and read with her on the following day. 
 
 *'Kiss me, Phil," she said. "And to-morrow — and 
 to-morrow us '11 go bit by bit through Job, and fasten 
 on such few words as I could wish spoken to them that 
 may stand by my grave." 
 
 He promised to obey ; he then departed from her much 
 cast down. For the first time he pictured life without 
 Barbara and found it very empty. He had lived so near 
 her and seen so much of her that he had not perceived 
 her approaching end. He forgot her age, for age sat 
 lightly upon himself. He felt surprise now to learn that 
 she was nearly seventy-five. He himself approached 
 close to sixty, but nothing spoke of it to him. He was 
 strong and hale as ever. Only his hair had grown thinner 
 and whiter. On his good days, the genial life of him 
 still bubbled over, and generosity and sympathy con- 
 tinued to be the notes of his character. 
 
 He returned home sorrowful, and walked thrice again 
 to the valley that he might learn how Barbara fared. 
 The last report was good, and he went back to Hartland 
 more cheerful. That night he read aloud from Job, and 
 when his throat grew husky, he made Tiger continue to 
 do so. 
 
 "I'm to speak from it over her grave," he explained 
 to Unity after they had retired. "She's not going to 
 have no parson say anything. She's going to be buried 
 as she's lived — free. But I hope to God the time is far 
 ways off yet. She's got all her wits, and that's saying 
 a lot. She's gived our Martin twenty pound — bless her 
 kind heart, and she's gived Tiger twenty too." 
 
 His wife guessed that this might be an opportunity 
 to approach Tiger, and even considered whether she 
 should now discuss the possibility of his departure with 
 Philip himself. But he spoke on while she debated, and 
 soon she learned that the shadowed death of his friend 
 had sorely troubled him. She had never seen Philip so
 
 250 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 despairing, so stricken; and before this grief she per- 
 ceived, for the first time, all that Barbara Hext had been 
 to him. 
 
 She determined to delay any step in the matter of 
 Tiger until after the threatened misfortune.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Philip read Job to the sick woman, and she bade him 
 mark this verse and that. The exercise gave her con- 
 siderable satisfaction and occupied some hours on several 
 mornings. Then, little by little, the evil symptoms were 
 modified and a new lease of life was gi'anted to Miss 
 Hext. 
 
 Its duration promised to be precarious, but for the 
 time she enjoyed comfort and some return of strength. 
 Her activity was much curtailed henceforth, yet as soon 
 as possible she came again to the shop, sat in the midst, 
 and directed the two girls who now worked for her, A 
 young man from Plymouth was in temporary control 
 of the post-office. 
 
 Philip rejoiced extravagantly before this recovery, and 
 his exultation extended to many others. None but was 
 glad to know that a leading figure in the hamlet, and 
 one well liked by most of her neighbours, might still 
 for an uncertain length of days be spared. 
 
 There met by chance a gathering in the shop near 
 Christmas, and the people were happy to see that good 
 store of the season 's luxuries adorned IBarbara 's counters 
 and decorated her windows as of old. 
 
 Peter Culme, the hunchback, was there, and Mr. Twigg 
 of the 'Warren House' had called. Mary French, from 
 Teign Head, came for Christmas shopping, and there 
 entered also Philip Ouldsbroom, and Tiger with a basket 
 in each hand. Miss Hext sat in a comfortable chair be- 
 hind the counter and directed her two assistants. She 
 trembled often to leap up and serve herself ; but the time 
 for that was over. At best she needed now two sticks to 
 guide her going, 
 
 251
 
 252 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 The egregious Gregory was in a large and retrospective 
 mood. He condescended to include Miss Hext in the 
 flight as he ranged back upon his brilliant past. 
 
 "Neighbour Culme here and a few others must listen 
 and learn from such as us," he began. "I may say that 
 I have walked in a sphere not to have been expected 
 from my beginnings. They were as humble, or nearly 
 so, as Tiger 's here. But there was that in me that soared 
 from the womb. I was never even a common suckling 
 child. The Light came to me at a very tender age. And 
 understanding men soon saw my nature and were proud 
 to lend a hand. You and me. Miss Hext, have mixed 
 in a better class of society, and much has been naturally 
 revealed to us that is hid from Postbridge. Religion is 
 a great bond and also a great uplifter. I had it so abun- 
 dantly that it couldn't be hid, and my betters — so to 
 call them — soon found out my nature. Hands were 
 stretched out to me on every side. 'Twas the case of 
 the humble being called to the place at the upper end of 
 the feast. It often happened, and I can say without 
 boasting, that 'twas an everyday thing for me to eat at 
 the tables of the rich. ' ' 
 
 "Their kitchen tables — yes," said Tiger. "So have I." 
 Philip laughed, and Gregory was much annoyed. 
 
 "Is that your manners?" he asked sharply. "But 
 there — you are what you are. If a man's godless, 'tis 
 ten to one but he's also without any veneration. But 
 don't you speak again, please, when I'm in company. I 
 ask your master to forbid it. Respect I have from my own 
 generation, and so much the more should I command 
 it from the next. If you took upon you a decent name, 
 and went to chapel, or, failing that, the Establishment, 
 you might hope to cut a properer figure in the world 
 than ever you will cut, you indecent boy. ' ' 
 
 "A boy no more," declared Philip. "He's a man — 
 eighteen-year-old, and big and strong at that. He's my 
 bringing up, ban't you, Tiger? and I'm proud of 
 him." 
 
 ' ' Then teach him modesty to his superiors, ' ' answered 
 the innkeeper. "The young ought to be on their knees
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 253 
 
 before the face of such as me or Miss Hext here. Fun I 
 allow in its proper place, but not familiarity. The new 
 generation is too familiar, and it 's all summed up in that. 
 We, as have the solemn awfulness of age upon us, ought 
 to be treated according. But grey hair's a laughing-stock 
 noM', and a bald head's a joke." 
 
 "Things must be as they must," said Barbara. "We 
 can glimpse what's coming, but we shall be taken away 
 from it. I don't say 'the evil to come,' but the changes 
 to come. Good changes, for certain." 
 
 " 'Twill be evil," declared Mr. Twigg. "We're drift- 
 ing to Antichrist faster and faster. We've got to go 
 through it, and just the blessed few will weather the 
 storm and keep their lamps burning to help light the 
 battered world again after 'tis over. But he's got to 
 come first and work his terrible will ; and we can 't hope 
 for any lasting improvement till he's been and gone. 
 That's how I read Scripture, and I've not heard that 
 anybody reads it truer." 
 
 ' ' Us shall be away afore he comes, ' ' said Peter. * ' 'Tis 
 something, no doubt, to have escaped him; but such as 
 have childer and grandchildren ought to be careful to 
 warn 'em." 
 
 "Tell these old men they be damned fools, Barbara." 
 said Philip. 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " 'Tis what they are nourished on," she said. "If 
 you eat child's meat, you'll be childish. You chaps — you 
 that take a big size in boots and a terrible small one in 
 hats — are prone to think your view 's the only view. You 
 cling to the old ship, and fancy you can set the world 
 right from her sinking deck. But the world's looking 
 the other way. It can't be saved by you. 'Tis you that 
 will have to be saved by it, if you live long enough. The 
 old things are worn out — full of holes — beyond any more 
 patching. They've tinkered and mended till there's 
 nought of Christian Gospel teaching left. What you've 
 got now is only the shadow of it. You may wade chin- 
 deep in words, Gregory ; but where 's the man or woman 
 can build their deeds on the Bible now ? 'Tis impossible,
 
 254 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 because the world's always moving, and it's moved on 
 beyond. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Pray God 'tis moving in a circle, then, and will com^ 
 back again," said Culme. 
 
 "There's the Spirit to quicken, if the Letter is dead, 
 Miss Hext, ' ' suggested the young man who controlled the 
 post-office. He was very earnest and of a religious mind. 
 
 "You and the likes of you miss the Spirit," she 
 answered. " 'Tis because the Spirit is missed that the 
 thing has died." 
 
 "We show different," declared Gregory. "We Little 
 Baptists shine with the Spirit; and if all men don't see 
 our good works and glorify our Father w^hich is in 
 Heaven, then that's because they are blind, not because 
 we are wrong." 
 
 "And what do the world want now. Miss Hext?" 
 asked Tiger. 
 
 "It wants to be more brave," she answered. "It 
 wants to face change and not stick its head into the past, 
 like an ostrich thrusting its beak in the sand. There's 
 a number of things outlived, and 'tis no good that we 
 pretend they are alive any more, because they're not. 
 We must give heed to them that tell us so; not to them 
 Avho pretend different. We're too weak and too soft. 
 We run in herds, and think in herds, and crowd together 
 to keep each other's courage up. I'd say to a young 
 man, 'Branch out; get away from all this dead stuff; 
 break loose, and look before you — not behind. ' 'Tis like 
 Lot's wife — them as be always staring back be turned 
 into stone." 
 
 " 'Twould be a terrible world if that happed," said 
 Mr. Twigg. "If the young shouldn't look back to the 
 tried wisdom of the old, where should they look ? ' ' 
 
 "To the untried wisdom of the new," she answered. 
 "The old goodness is played out, I tell you. It's served 
 its turn, and now we want a new goodness. ' ' 
 
 The post-office clerk asked where higher goodness 
 could be found than in the Bible. 
 
 "To seek for it is seeking better bread than can be 
 made of wheat," he said.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 255 
 
 "And why not seek?" she asked. "Is wheat the last 
 word about corn? Everything's moving; and you good, 
 Bible-believing people — I don't trust you — I don't be- 
 lieve in you. You pretend — you fool yourselves. 
 
 That a woman could say such things made Mr. Culme 
 suspect possession. 
 
 "She've got an evil spirit crept in/' he whispered to 
 Philip. 
 
 ' ' Have she, Peter ? Then I wish to God 'twould creep 
 into a few more of us," answered the farmer. There- 
 upon he laughed, and told Miss Hext what the hunch- 
 back feared for her. 
 
 "Evil or good, 'tis the spirit of the hour," she 
 answered. " 'Twill cure a lot of sickly thinking when 
 you start to serve man instead of God. Maybe our whole 
 duty to the one is our whole duty to the other, if we could 
 see it." 
 
 Martin Ouldsbroom entered at this moment, and most 
 of the people in the shop left it. The boy had returned 
 for his holidays three days before. Now he shook hands 
 with Barbara and declared how very glad he was that 
 she had recovered. 
 
 "Thank you, Martin," she answered. "What a man 
 you grow — not much more schooling for you till you go 
 into life's school now!" 
 
 They talked, and Martin bought a Christmas present 
 for his mother. The action inspired Ouldsbroom; he 
 bade Tiger and Martin depart that he might make 
 various secret purchases. 
 
 After they had gone, Philip found himself alone with 
 Barbara. They left the shop, and he helped her into 
 her little room behind it. Then he spoke to her. 
 
 ' ' I want for my son to smoke, but be beggared if he '11 
 larn," he said. " 'Tis the hardest thing that's happened 
 to me, for I've reached a point now when I know that 
 whatever I hit upon as a happy thought will strike him 
 just contrariwise. Cold — cold — and colder to me every 
 time he comes home. Never wrong, that boy — never 
 wrong ! But his cold goodness have bred hot wickedness in 
 me. I thought back-along that I'd larned the secret of
 
 256 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 him, and I could have shouted for joy. Things promisad 
 to go better ; but they didn 't. He 's come back now that 
 pushing and that full of ideas. Not an uncivil word, 
 mind you. No chance for a bit of a flare up and friends 
 again — I could endure that. But just silence when he 
 ain't of my opinion — and that's most times." 
 
 ' * How does Tiger do with him ? ' ' 
 
 "They'm like starlings — always quarrelling, though 
 they will keep together. He raps out at Tiger and Tiger 
 raps out at him. 'Tis fire and water, and if I come along 
 and take Tiger's part, as happens now and again, then 
 Martin, instead of keeping up his end of the stick, shuts 
 down and says no more. ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis out of respect for you." 
 
 '*I don't know. Silence be a sort of disrespect, I 
 think. Ban't I worth arguing with? Be my wide know- 
 ledge of life and experience nothing? Can't he lam 
 from me? Be I a man behind the times? 'Tis the boy 
 that's behind the times, with his stiff-starched larning. " 
 
 She considered. 
 
 "I know the sort, Phil. You must take him as he is, 
 and not fret. You and me are simpler — commoner. I 'm 
 not a stickler for the grand virtues. They've got no 
 friends — only admirers. And oft enough even the ad- 
 mirers keep their tongues in their cheeks." 
 
 ''Such virtue stinks," said the man hotly. "I hate 
 it. 'Tis unnatural. He's a mountebank of virtue — a 
 thief of virtue — stole it without paying for it — about so 
 virtuous really as my grandfather's clock — ticks good 
 time and nothing else. That 's not virtue ; 'tis machinery, 
 and he ban't no more inclined towards anything but this 
 parched-up, frozen, heart-breaking goodness than a 
 wheel's inclined to do anything but turn round and 
 round. ' ' 
 
 "His nature leads him mostly to right. He can't 
 help it. He's a creature of good habits," she said. 
 
 "If you can't do wrong, you don't know what it is 
 to do right," he answered. "I feel this — it's been seeth- 
 ing in my brain for years and it's showed me wonderful 
 things. 'Tisn't goodness, I tell you, to be like him — ^no
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 257 
 
 more goodness than an acorn's good to grow into an oak. 
 Goodness have got to be fought for, not filched. He's 
 never paid the price. He's made good. He's born good. 
 And they talk of original sin ! Where the hell have his 
 got to, I should like to know? All gone into love of 
 money — the only thing I couldn't forgive. And my son 
 — my blood in his veins — me, a sinful, loving, breathing, 
 feeling human man — have got this horrid lump of per- 
 fection. That's the damned sickening thing. How can 
 I tear it out of him ? How can I make him like Tiger and 
 like me? 'Tisn't his mother neither. I'd forgive it all if 
 it was. She 's a wonder, but she 's a woman too — a woman 
 with hopes and fears and a heart, and a temper also, for 
 that matter. Should I have married a graven image? 
 She can do wrong so well as right. She knows how to 
 suffer and how to weep. We have words, and we own 
 up our sins and love again. We're one in pinching and 
 scraping to keep him learning anyway. But Martin " 
 
 "Be patient with him. He's himself, and presently, 
 when life begins to pound him, he'll be softer and more 
 understanding. There's nothing like the fret and tear 
 of living. He's got a fine, lofty nature, and life will 
 give it an edge. I believe in him. If you can only keep 
 him from being pious — try to do that, Phil. It's death — 
 death and frost-bite and ruin. ' ' 
 
 "Don't I know it? But how?" 
 
 "I'm hopeful of the world, I tell you. Let him see 
 sorrow — better still, let him feel it. 'Tis the only thing 
 that ripens some natures. 'Tis the only thing that 
 ripened mine." < 
 
 ' ' I want for him to marry in a year or two. I 'm hope- 
 ful that will be a good, useful eye-opener to him. He's 
 got blood in him somewhere ; he must have — my son." 
 
 "Be sure 'tis so. A wife of the right pattern might 
 do much." 
 
 "Yes, she might. But he'll choose the pattern, not 
 me. I know the girl for that matter, and I've nought 
 to say but good of her, save that she thinks too well of 
 him and would spoil his shadow if it could be done. But 
 Unity and me ban't of a mind there." 
 
 ' 17
 
 258 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "Be hopeful — very hopeful," she said. "After all, 
 such a son is better than a bad lot — a rip that wo\jld do 
 nothing but wrong and end by breaking his mother's 
 heart, perhaps. He's human and he's very young." 
 
 Philip nodded. 
 
 ' ' I feed on hope, you might say. And I look back now 
 and again. See here." 
 
 He produced a pocket-book and took an old letter 
 from it. 
 
 " 'Twas what he wrote after the snake stung him. I 
 swore I'd never part from it, and I never shall. Some- 
 how I feel the little chap that wrote that letter must be 
 my son all right." 
 
 They talked awhile longer, and she cheered him, so 
 that he made great purchases and went home in good 
 spirits. 
 
 Christmas was the prime event of the year to Philip, 
 and he planned mighty things on this occasion. His 
 wife, as usual, had much ado to modify his schemes be- 
 fore the time of their fulfilment came.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 The interest of life shifts so slowly that those still in the 
 heat and turmoil thereof perceive not when they begin 
 to drift from the central position. But surely, steadily, 
 as the adult become old and the young take up the burden, 
 the focus centres on new faces; those who were children 
 enter the midst of it as men ; while they who formerly 
 figured there pass into the blur beyond and are pro- 
 tagonists of the play no more. They guess it not them- 
 selves, and suppose that still the throb and pulse of life 
 beats at its highest where they sit by the fire, or in the 
 sun; but others know difi:'erently. The most filial, the 
 most dutiful, understanding that the prime concern lies 
 beyond their fathers. It is their children who call loud- 
 est to those that bear the heat of the day. 
 
 Philip Ouldsbroom was the last man to grow old with 
 any distinction, or accept the inevitable in a philosophic 
 spirit. He resented the slightest hint or suggestion that 
 his physical strength was upon the wane; yet he did 
 his best to further its declension by carelessness and in- 
 temperance; he quarrelled with his wife when she es- 
 sayed to limit his energies or hint at the gathering weight 
 of his years and the dignity and increasing repose proper 
 to them. Unity and her husband provided matter for 
 discussion between Quinton and Gertrude Crymes. 
 
 "If I — a man ten years younger than him — can slack 
 off and leave heavier work to Jack and the hind, how 
 much more did ought he? I cited Coaker to him but 
 yesterday. 'You mind Jimmy Coaker, who worked for 
 me long years ago?' I said. 'Your end will be like his 
 if you go on at this gait. Coaker didn't know when Time 
 
 259
 
 260 THE THTEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 had beat him. He 'd have dropped here if I hadn 't made 
 him go, and as 'twas, he shortened his life by^his own 
 silliness. The things that be little to youth be big to 
 old age. Yet foolish men will cling to youthful ways and 
 fret when Time says, "No more of that!" Coaker 
 would walk two miles on the high road, fine or wet, every 
 day of his life to the end of it. No matter how coarse 
 or how cold it might be, out o ' doors he 'd creep over they 
 two weary miles. Then he'd pipe out in his age-foun- 
 dered voice, "Nought's wrong — nought's wrong with an 
 old man as can travel two mile under the hour like what 
 I can." Go he would; and he went once too often when 
 the wind was in the east and he had a bit of a tissic in 
 the chest. It cut his carcass down like a dead leaf off a 
 bough. They found him halfway home again by the 
 roadside — asleep as they thought ; but 'twas death. ' ' ' 
 
 "You told Philip that?" 
 
 "I did so, and he only laughed at me and said I was 
 a lazy old man and the shame of such boys as him." 
 
 "If Unity can't get him to see sense, 'tis pretty sure 
 you won't." 
 
 "I'd hoped that Martin would have a bit of power 
 over him. The sooner the better." 
 
 "The very thing his mother said. And it will come, 
 but not afore Phil's a bit weaker and the boy's a bit 
 stronger," foretold Mrs. Crymes. 
 
 "There's one, however, as can hold him in a trifle, 
 and that's Tiger." 
 
 "He can," admitted Gertrude, "and even Minnie 
 marked it. And so did Martin too. There's no non- 
 sense about Martin. He knows what use Tiger is. He's 
 got a touch with Philip that none else have. ' ' 
 
 "Because he's so much on the same pattern," declared 
 Quinton Crymes. "In my judgment, and in my sister's, 
 'tis a great question if Tiger is any use really. He'll get 
 Phil past a public sometimes, or make him keep his 
 money in his pocket when he wants to bring it out ; but 
 in the weightier matters I hold with Unity that he's no 
 great good. There 's a danger, too, that Unity sees better 
 than we can. Phil turns more and more to Tiger. That
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 261 
 
 can't be denied. And Unity feels pretty strong about it. 
 In fact, she's told me, private like, that she'll breathe 
 easier when the young man 's gone. And you know what 
 that means. The next bit of news we shall hear, very 
 like, is that Tiger's said 'good-bye' to Hartland. " 
 
 ''Philip would never suffer it. There 'd be a terrible 
 upstore if such a thing was so much as hinted at," said 
 his wife. 
 
 "Trust Unity. She has her way still in all the big 
 matters, along of giving him his way in all the little. 
 But 'tis harder and harder to manage him, and she don 't 
 deny it. She's pretty well praying for Martin's school- 
 ing to be ended. He's a tower of strength to her, of 
 course. ' ' 
 
 ' ' She told me not long since that Martin can make his 
 mark now. 'Tis his education, she says. It won't be 
 denied. There's nought like learning to make a fool 
 cower afore you. Not that he'll ever make his father 
 cower; but Unity hopes, with time, that he'll force a 
 little sense into him." 
 
 "And he'll have to make my sister see clearer too, 
 here and there," added Quinton. "You know what I 
 mean. If anything is certain on this earth, 'tis certain 
 that Martin will care about our Minnie presently." 
 
 "He do now. 'Tis wonderful how much he shows it — 
 seeing how little he does show at any time." 
 
 "Of course he does, and why not? Even Phil sees it, 
 and you know how he's took up with Minnie in conse- 
 quence. The presents he gives her! Phil's longing for 
 it to happen, and would like to see 'em wedded out of 
 hand so soon as the boy comes back from school; but 
 Unity ■" 
 
 "She wants something more in exchange for all that 
 schooling than our Minnie," explained Gertrude calmly. 
 "She's an ambitious woman — as all be with an only son. 
 She '11 prevent it, and don 't you think otherwise. ' ' 
 
 "I don't say that Martin's stronger than her already. 
 But it rests with him. If he wants Minnie, he'll have 
 her." 
 
 "Well," answered his wife, "I'm the last to wish a
 
 262 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 quarrel with your sister. I may be a bit frightened of 
 the woman's intellect, or I may not, and I^own in her 
 young days I didn't like her; but she's strong and 
 straight, and we've got no call to be anything but her 
 friends. She's a wonder to have steered that man so 
 long." 
 
 ' ' And does still, ' ' he said. ' ' They are very good com- 
 panions for all his vagaries. Their quarrels come to 
 nought, and, when he's not drunk, he's still handsome in 
 his praises. Well, he may be, seeing he's all to blame." 
 
 ' ' Her patience is amazing. Will it last for ever ? ' ' 
 
 " 'Twill last till he's in his grave," answered the man. 
 
 Minnie came home at this moment. She had received 
 a few lines from Martin which were enclosed in a letter 
 to his mother. 
 
 " I 've got the letter Martin promised, ' ' she said. * ' He 's 
 gone in the first class as he expected. There's four new 
 boys to school this term, and one he likes and t 'others 
 he don't." 
 
 Quinton laughed. 
 
 "You'll have to mend your speech come Martin gets 
 back," he said. "You ban't talking so finicking and 
 nice since he went away." 
 
 She blushed. 
 
 "I try to remember," she said. 
 
 She had grown into a tall and handsome girl. Her 
 eyes were large, dark, and a little sleepy. Her breasts 
 were small ; her hands and feet were small ; there was 
 already the fragrance of budding woman about her, and 
 many young men were haunted by the thought of her. 
 As yet passion had not touched her and her deep love 
 for Martin was unfinished. 
 
 She was depressed at his absence; she felt secretly 
 very glad that, when another winter came, he would 
 return home to leave it no more. 
 
 "Martin sent his love to you, mother. But he's a 
 good bit worried. He's been called upon for two shil- 
 lings. One of the masters is going away at the end of 
 the term, and they be collecting for him to present him 
 with a silver inkstand when he goes; and Martin says
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 263 
 
 that he's been paid for the work he's done and is going 
 to a bigger school and better money, so there's no call, in 
 his opinion, to do any such thing. And he's standing 
 out against giving up the money, and the other boys 
 aren't very kind about it." 
 
 ' ' They v^^ouldn 't be, ' ' said Quinton. ' ' I dare say they 
 don't know the value of money so well as Martin does. 
 He always understood the worth of it in a way very 
 surprising for a young chap." 
 
 ''What ought he to do, mother?" asked Minnie. 
 
 ' ' He '11 put it to his conscience, ' ' she answered. ' ' Never 
 a boy had such a good, working conscience as Martin. 
 He takes his puzzles before the Throne and gets 'em 
 answered. ' ' 
 
 "He won't part," prophesied the master of Stannon. 
 "You mark me, his conscience will tell him the two shil- 
 lings be better in his pocket. They'll poke fun at him 
 and call him 'miser' and such like; but he's not the sort 
 to mind that." 
 
 "Did he ax your advice, Minnie?" inquired Ger- 
 trude. 
 
 "No; he never does. He's decided what he's going 
 to do. 'Tis at the end of his letter. He's going to give 
 threepence, after making it a subject in his prayers." 
 
 " 'Tisn't for us to judge him; but if ever a poor boy 
 promised to be a rich man, Martin 's that boy, ' ' summed 
 up his uncle. 
 
 "He gives money to charities, however," declared 
 Minnie. "He wouldn't tell me how much, because he 
 says your right hand oughtn't to know what your left 
 hand doeth. " 
 
 "Do his playmates like him, I wonder?" mused Quin- 
 ton. 
 
 ' ' Oh, yes they do — very much, ' ' replied Minnie. ' ' Mar- 
 tin says they do, and he never would say it if they didn't. 
 He says they often bring quarrels to him, because they 
 know how terrible fair he is. They oft make him judge 
 among them." 
 
 Sammy Crymes entered. He was at home for a holiday 
 from his training-ship.
 
 264 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Now Sammy hated Martin more than he hated any- 
 thing else in the world. %* 
 
 ''I wish I had the judging of him," he said. "I'd 
 judge for him to be took in our duck pond and held down 
 under the dirt till he was drownded." 
 
 ''You ought to blush to say such a thing," cried Minnie 
 indignantly. "He's done nothing to you but try to im- 
 prove you." 
 
 ' ' Beast — beast ! ' ' answered Samuel. ' ' I never knowed 
 a proper chap yet that didn't want to fling stones at 
 him." 
 
 "You wait till you've been to sea, my son, and larned 
 the ways of a boatswain's mate," said Quinton. "Then 
 you'll take another view of things." 
 
 Sammy was not convinced. 
 
 "If they'm like him at sea, I'll very soon escape and 
 swim back ashore again," he answered. "But well I 
 know they won't be. I'd sooner be lathered and cussed 
 and kicked to pieces than stroked and preached to, any- 
 way. Me and Tommy Bone and Will Westmacott have 
 all sworn to God we'll catch Martin Ouldsbroom out in a 
 crooked deed some day; and when we do, the air shall 
 ring with it ! " 
 
 "You never will — never," declared Minnie fiercely. 
 "He's as high above all you wretched boys as the sun 
 above the moon." 
 
 "You're as bad as him," answered her brother; "you 
 was pretty decent once; now you'm under his thumb, 
 and no good to anybody."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 When presently Philip Ouldsbroom announced he had 
 raised Tiger 's wages, in order that the young man might 
 save more money, Unity was reminded of former anxiety. 
 Her cares in this matter had slumbered of late, but now 
 they woke again; she marked the close-woven texture 
 of the friendship, and knew that never a day passed but 
 Philip praised Tiger and sought his company. She re- 
 membered her former intention, therefore, and prepared 
 to act upon it. But first she sounded her husband. 
 
 "I suppose, after Tiger marries we shall have to say 
 'good-bye' to him," she remarked on an occasion when 
 she and Philip were driving into Tavistock. 
 
 " 'Say good-bye to Tiger'!" he cried. "Me! Never 
 — never. Tiger stands for me. I've made him. His 
 sense, his mind, his way of looking at things — all be mine. 
 I've made Tiger, I tell you — everything but his thews 
 and sinews ; and I *be mighty proud of him. When fools 
 doubt me and cold-shoulder me, as I've been stung to 
 mark here and there, then I say, ' Look at Tiger. There 's 
 a chap that be me over again ; and who has a word against 
 him?' To go! I'd like to see him go! He won't be 
 wedded yet awhile — not till he's of age at earliest, for 
 I forbid it sooner; but come he does, then we must see. 
 I'd rather build him a cottage with these hands than 
 let him go. For that matter, he wouldn't go if I was 
 to try and make him. You must be daft even to think 
 such a thing. And Martin too? What would Martin 
 say?" 
 
 She calmed him down and set her thoughts to Tiger. 
 He was now nineteen, and while, indeed, largely imbued 
 with the spirit of his master, displayed as well a native 
 
 265
 
 266 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 sense that he had not gleaned from Quldsbroom. He 
 worshipped Philip, if he worshipped anything, and would 
 have laid his life down for the man. It was no hyperbole 
 that made him actually declare as much when Unity 
 advised him to leave Hartland. She chose a moment apt 
 for this direction, and waited to speak until her husband 
 was from home on business nigh Exeter. Then came a 
 day when she gave Tiger his favourite dishes at dinner 
 and treated him with unusual kindness. The meal ended, 
 she bade him light his pipe and come upon the Moor. 
 
 "You'll stare that I should waste my time or ax you 
 to waste yours. But 'tis not to do that that I want you, 
 though it may seem so. Your sense be very great for 
 your age, and I rely on it now. I'm going to say what 
 I wouldn't say to any other young man no older than 
 you. And 'tis a difficult and a hard thing to say. But 
 I han't feared to say it to you, Tiger. Only mind this: 
 I don't speak it out of any unkindness. Far from that. 
 You know how many depend upon me, in a manner of 
 speaking. And of course my son and his father come 
 first. Their good is your good — isn't it? Say it is." 
 
 "Be there any need to ? I owe them everything. Every 
 hope I 've got in the world pretty near depends upon 'em. 
 What they've been to me I shall never forget and never 
 be able to repay. If me and Master Martin have a tussle 
 now and again, 'tis nought, and we're no worse friends 
 after. He's far away cleverer than me, and well I know 
 it. And as for master, I'd give my life for him — God's 
 my judge." 
 
 "I know you speak in earnest, and that makes it easier 
 for me to go on. There's things harder than giving your 
 life, Tiger — harder far. I know what I'm saying, for 
 I've had trials and sorrows deeper than fall to the lot of 
 many women. Life's no great thing — though you can't 
 offer more, because, to the young, life looks everything. 
 Now listen to me. I want you to do something, and 
 'twill be the greatest thing you ever have done, or be 
 ever likely to. And first I '11 tell you what 'tis, and then 
 I'll tell you why 'tis." 
 
 "For master, or Master Martin?"
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 267 
 
 "For both of 'em. For their future peace and future 
 friendship; for justice and right and reason; for every 
 proper cause you can think of. ' ' 
 
 "Then I'll do it, ma'am, whatever it is." 
 
 "Don't you be too sure. 'Tis a hard thing, mind, and 
 I 've had many an hour of trouble thinking upon it afore 
 I could screw myself up to ask. Don't think I ask it 
 with a light heart — far from that. None will feel it more 
 than me if you grant it. And if you refuse — but you 
 won't refuse. I know you won't refuse; and 'tis that 
 that have made me hang fire so long before I asked. But 
 I know, so well as I know any mortal thing, that it ought 
 to happen for my son 's sake. ' ' 
 
 "It shall happen," answered the other. "If you say 
 'tis right, then I'll do it." 
 
 "Master's just put up your money, he tells me. And 
 very glad I was to know it. And I know more than 
 that. I know a man who '11 give you half-a-crown a week 
 higher yet. We can't, because we've got to think of Mar- 
 tin 's schooling for a bit longer ; and I may tell you now, 
 it have been a very great drain and struggle to find such 
 a lot of money; but for him — our only one — we did it 
 gladly. But it means close living, and I warn you 'twill 
 be years and years afore you can hope for another rise. ' ' 
 
 ' ' What 's that to me ? I 'm more than satisfied. I never 
 axed." 
 
 ' ' It must be something to you. Look forward. You 've 
 got a wife in sight, and a rare good girl too. Life's 
 different then, and ought to be diiferent." 
 
 He considered a moment and an expression of dread 
 crossed his face. 
 
 "D'you want ?" he began. Then he stopped. 
 
 "I'll be honest, Tiger," continued Mrs. Ouldsbroom. 
 "I won't pretend I'm saying these things for your own 
 sake only. I put your wisdom first; now I'll put your 
 duty. Master's very fond of you — ^very fond of you, 
 Tiger." 
 
 "I'd sooner know that than anything in the world, 
 ma'am, and I'm terrible proud to know it." 
 
 "And so's Martin fond of you."
 
 268 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ''I believe he is." 
 
 ' ' Are you fond of him though ? ' ' 
 
 '*Yes, I am — wish I may die if I ban't." 
 
 "The case is this. I've hesitated long to tell you; 
 but now I must. Martin's father finds Martin difficult. 
 'Twas bound to be so, because they have different natures. 
 And, because Martin's what he is, despite his hard efforts, 
 he can 't quite win to my husband. You 've marked that ? ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis only now and again. Master very well knows 
 the wonderful rare sort his son be. ' ' 
 
 "No, he doesn't — he can't; and I'll tell you for why. 
 He looks from Martin to you, and in you he sees what 
 he likes a thousand times better than his own son. ' ' 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 * ' 'Tis truth, and 'tis natural it should so fall out ; and 
 I don't blame you at all. Never have and never shall. 
 But master's proud of you; he sees a quick pupil and a 
 ready learner in you. He's made you what you are 
 largely, and of course we'm always proud of the thing 
 that we've made ourselves." 
 
 "And I'm proud to be like him, I'm sure. But Mar- 
 tin's higher and finer than me, of course. And the 
 master knows it." 
 
 ' ' Martin 's different. I don 't say he 's higher and finer. 
 You're a good, straight chap. Tiger, and you deserve 
 to be happy, and you will be; but, as things are, you 
 won't be happy here — just for this fatal cause that you 
 are more to master than his own son. ' ' 
 
 "Never! Such a thing couldn't be in nature." 
 
 "Such a thing has come to be. And such a thing 
 won't breed happiness presently. I'm not frightened of 
 it — for why ? Because I trust your growing wits to un- 
 derstand the master better than anybody but me myself ; 
 yes, better even than Martin can. You're like Philip in 
 a lot of ways, and so you see and feel about him in a 
 fashion that Martin can't. His mind is different, you 
 see, and the things that he likes and the things that he 
 shuns are different from those his father likes and shuns. 
 And so it's come about that while my husband is proud 
 of Martin and sees his gifts and virtues, yet he turns to
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 269 
 
 you more and more for companionship and understand- 
 ing. I trust you, as I said before. I know you're honour- 
 able and high-minded and would never influence my hus- 
 band against Martin " 
 
 **Good Lord, missis, how could I?" 
 
 **I know, I say; but you've got to ask yourself this 
 (luestion. Is it good for Martin for you to be here? If 
 you are at his father's ear all the time, how can Martin 
 get to it? If he gives heed to you always and hears 
 his own ideas and opinions echoed from you, is it helping 
 Martin to get any nearer to his father ? I don 't say that 
 you are anything but on the right side, and I know, 
 young though you are, you've got a bit of power with 
 master and have used it to help him to be wiser on a 
 Saturday night once or twice, and at other times also — I 
 don't deny that. But I do say that if there's a shadow 
 of fear you are coming between him and his son, or even 
 drawing him a thought away from his son, then, Tiger, 
 you must bethink yourself and look how your duty seems. 
 I'm only a woman, but I'm a mother and jealous for my 
 boy. I'll say no more than that, because I've a great 
 opinion of you and a great opinion of your sense and 
 judgment." 
 
 He nodded and gloom fell upon him. 
 
 ' ' You want me to go ? " 
 
 ' * God knows I do not, ' ' she answered. " I 've felt like 
 a mother to you these many years. You 're a good chap, 
 and the place will be the darker for your going to all of 
 us. I don 't want you to go, any more than Martin wants 
 you to go, or your master wants you to go. But I'm 
 quick-sighted and far-sighted. And I see that what's 
 brewing will be a cruel bitter cup for more than one of 
 us. I only want you to see it too. I don't bid you go; 
 I only bid you think. There's no hurry at all. Turn it 
 over in your mind. Look all round it. Remember Mr. 
 Ouldsbroom's nature, and the fiery unreason of him, 
 and the rage that sometimes flashes out of his power- 
 lessness to understand Martin. Remember that in right 
 and justice none should even cast a shadow between a 
 father and his son. Ask yourself your duty. You'd
 
 270 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 lay down your life for the master. You said it and I 
 know it. And I told you there was harder things that 
 men and women be sometimes called to do than to die. 
 Think of it — think of it with all your brains, Tiger, Say 
 not another word upon the subject, and come and tell 
 me what it all looks like in a month from now. And, 
 mind this, I'm your friend always, whatever you may 
 decide to do for my son's sake. It all comes back to 
 him. I won't deny that." 
 
 Tiger nodded slowly. He was already occupied with 
 the great problem. 
 
 " 'Twon't take a month," he said. "I'll turn it over 
 right away and decide so soon as I can. What you think 
 is always right — I know that. Who don't? I set great 
 store on all you've taught me, missis, because, of course, 
 you'm Avise and up in years and know the ins and outs 
 of people." 
 
 She was a little moved. 
 
 "Go and think; go and think," she said. "You're a 
 good boy — and you've been a real help to me — more of a 
 help than you know; but there it is. I've spoken, and 
 I can 't call back a word of it. ' ' 
 
 She left him then. She had not played a part. Her 
 words, while subtly chosen, reflected the truth. She 
 felt kindly to the young man, and would have been con- 
 tent to let him take a son's place at Hartland had no 
 son existed. But, for Martin's peace and prospects, she 
 believed that her husband and Tiger had better part, 
 and she had spoken accordingly. 
 
 She entertained no doubt of the issue. Tiger was as 
 good as gone. She knew him. He would not question 
 her. It remained to help him to go. The departure 
 must be difficult, and Tiger would need her help. Already 
 she began to consider the problem and how to appease 
 Philip when the trial came upon him. 
 
 She believed that she had won Tiger ; she also guessed 
 that only after a cruel rupture would the young man 
 break away from her husband. The quarrel must take 
 place and must be painful. The brunt she trusted to 
 throw on Tiger if possible. It could not hurt him after
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 271 
 
 he had left Hartland ; but there was nothing to be gained 
 and much to be lost by involving herself in differences 
 with Philip. Tiger must give warning ; and he must let 
 nothing shake him into changing his mind afterwards. 
 That attitude would certainly estrange Philip, and thus 
 the desired end must appear. If absolutely necessary, 
 she was prepared herself to be embroiled ; but only if ab- 
 solutely necessary. One thing was vital : that Martin 
 should not suffer. She saw clearly that he could not 
 do so, since he cared well for Tiger and would stand on 
 his father's side against his friend's departure. 
 
 Thus she argued, not without comfort to herself, nor 
 guessed how the interests of another w^oman would bring 
 her deftly woven web to ruin. 
 
 Tiger mourned this position very heartily. It be- 
 wildered him and even tortured him, for his young heart 
 was large ; his life was full and joyous ; he had dreamed 
 of no change, and his highest ambition in life was to have 
 Mary French and a cottage at Postbridge ; to rise until he 
 should be head man at Hartland ; to work for Philip, and 
 for Martin after Philip in the future. To be torn away 
 from the only world he knew — to be faced with this grim 
 necessity — quelled Tiger's spirit as life had never quelled 
 it until now. 
 
 He shook his head very wisely, very mournfully, to 
 himself, and went back to his work after leaving Mrs. 
 Ouldsbroom. 
 
 "I knowed it couldn't last," he thought. "Something 
 told me that life was going too suent with me ; and now — 
 but 'tis a facer sure enough. Yet who could have put it 
 afore me wiser than what she did 1 ' ' 
 
 He turned his mind to Mary French, and there came 
 a fleeting doubt whether he should ask her advice, or 
 merely tell her of his decision. 
 
 "She'll be all for my stopping and try to drive me 
 into it," he reflected. "Mightn't be ezacally fair to ask 
 her — especially as my mind's made up." 
 
 He decided without telling his sweetheart. Three days 
 later Mrs. Ouldsbroom met him returning from Post- 
 bridge alone.
 
 272 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "I've settled, ma'am," he said. ''You know best 
 about it. I'm hopeful that you'll let me come up over 
 sometimes. I couldn't bear to think I wasn't to be wel- 
 come to Hartland. Master's been more than a master to 
 me — a father a 'most — to say it respectfully, I'm sure. 
 I '11 tell him come Monday and give him a month 's warn- 
 ing." 
 
 ' ' I knew you would, ' ' she said. ' ' I know what you 're 
 made of. Remember all I 've told you and be firm about 
 it, Tiger. 'Twill be difficult to go; but you're right; 
 and, come presently, you '11 know you 're right. ' ' 
 
 * ' I '11 stick to it — say what he may. ' ' 
 
 "And I'll talk to Mr. Chave at Runnage. He's been 
 wanting you this longful time, and he'll be thankful to 
 get you at your own money, I believe. ' ' 
 
 He shook his head fiercely. 
 
 "Don't— don't," he cried. "For God's sake don't 
 name money, missis. 'Tisn 't for that — 'tisn 't for that. ' '
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Jonathan French's sister was a girl of some character. 
 The lonely life at Teign Head pleased her but little, and 
 she looked forward with keen anticipation to her mar- 
 riage and a home in civilisation. 
 
 To find her sweetheart cast down and abstracted was 
 an event so amazing that Mary sought now to learn the 
 reason. The lovers met upon a Sunday and walked over 
 the Moor together. But Tiger's pipe remained in his 
 pocket and an unfamiliar gloom clouded his brow. 
 
 The girl strove to cheer and charm him. She told him 
 to put his arm round her; she bade him rub her soft 
 cheek with his ruddy one. He did these things, and 
 more; but he relapsed again and again into his own 
 thoughts, and once, when she asked him a question, he 
 did not even answer. 
 
 Such a state was intolerable, and Mary set about end- 
 ing it. 
 
 "Pitch on this stone," she said. "I ban't going a 
 yard farther. I'd sooner walk along with a bear than 
 you. Sit down and fetch out your pipe and light it, and 
 then tell me plain what have happened. I know you 
 well enough — better far than you know me, for that 
 matter — and never, never afore have I seed you so down- 
 daunted. So out with it and hear if I can mend it. ' ' 
 
 "You can't," he answered. "If 'twas in the power 
 of mortal woman to do so, of course you would, Molly. 
 But this — well, 'tis a terrible bad business and I won't 
 pretend different. Mind you, it's got to be. I see that 
 clear enough. But I be cut up — cut to ribbons, you 
 might say." 
 
 273 18
 
 274 THE THIEF 'OF VIRTUE 
 
 "You ought to have told me long ago, then, and not 
 left me to tind out." 
 
 " 'Tisn't a thing of long standing. I meant to tell you, 
 of course ; but I had to make up my own mind first. ' ' 
 
 "I doubt if you'd a right to make up your mind about 
 anything without telling me," she declared. "Suppose 
 I don't hold with what you think?" 
 
 He lighted his pipe and did not answer immediately. 
 
 "You've got to hold with it," he said presently. 
 
 Then he told her of his conversation with Mrs. Oulds- 
 broom and of his decision to leave Hartland. 
 
 "You be going to be Mrs. Tiger," he said, "and my 
 secrets are yours, and my good's yours and my bad's 
 yours, though I wish I could keep that to myself. And 
 so I make a clean breast of it to you. But 'tis done, un- 
 derstand. To-morrow morning I tell master that I'm 
 away in a month. That will be just afore Martin comes 
 back for the summer holidays, you see." 
 
 " 'Tis a hugeous upheaval," she declared blankly. 
 
 "So 'tis, then, and I can't see my life going on away 
 from Phil Ouldsbroom. But it's got to be. And I shall 
 work at Runnage — for Farmer Chave, it seems." 
 
 "But you don't want to go?" 
 
 Tiger stared at her reproachfully that she could ask 
 such a question. 
 
 She knew him well and understood that his mind was 
 made up; and she loved him well and set about con- 
 sidering whether this blow might be averted. Mary her- 
 self cared not where he worked. She liked Philip Oulds- 
 broom, for he had smiled upon her romance, toid her 
 what he thought of Tiger, and praised her as a sweet- 
 heart worthy of such a valiant spirit. Mrs. Ouldsbroom, 
 however, had ignored her, and Martin she scarcely knew. 
 But the meaning of his home to her lover was very clearly 
 understood by Mary, and she entered straight into his 
 heart now and sympathised with its soreness. She came 
 and sat close to him and put her arm round his neck. 
 
 "Be there no way out?" she asked. 
 
 "Plenty," he answered; "but there's no way to bide 
 in. I 've told you all the woman said. She's terrible wise
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 275 
 
 and never wrong. She was kind too — kinder than ever I 
 knowed her to be afore. I might have been her own son. 
 She said that she felt a 'most as if I was." 
 
 " 'Tis for her own son she's done it. She's frightened 
 for him. She thinks more of him than of her husband. 
 I'm sure I never should feel like that." 
 
 "If us had ten cubs, your old Tiger would always be 
 first ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, he would." 
 
 "I know it," he declared. "Never a couple loved 
 each other like what me and you do. 'Tis terrible out 
 o' the common — I can see that, and it may not happen 
 again in the world. Why, you look round among the 
 married people, Molly, and you'll see at a glance they 
 don't feel half, nor yet a quarter, of what me and you 
 feel ! None of 'em don 't. But love you as I do, I ban 't 
 company for you this afternoon. I'm thinking of to- 
 morrow. I hate like hell to hurt that man. After you, 
 he's more to me than anybody in the world. And the 
 cruel thing is that I can't tell him why I be going." 
 
 She reflected, and his words woke the needed inspira- 
 tion. But she kept it to herself. She even concealed it 
 falsely with a sigh. 
 
 "No," she said, "you can't. What shall you answer 
 when he asks you why you want to leave ? ' ' 
 
 "Tell me. 'Tis here you can help. I had it in my 
 mind to ax Mrs. Ouldsbroom that very question. Then 
 I thought you was the properest one to help me. I want 
 to go off without angering the man. I should be wisht to 
 my dying day if he didn't forgive me. Set your wits to 
 work on that." 
 
 "I shall," she promised. " 'Tis right that you come 
 to me, and I should have been properly vexed with you, 
 Tiger, if you'd kept this a secret till 'twas done." 
 
 " 'Tis done — or so good as done. But if you can find 
 how I 'm to put it to him clever enough not to hurt, then 
 I'll say you're the wittiest woman ever comed out of 
 Dartymoor. ' ' 
 
 "It'll take a bit of thinking on," she replied. "For 
 the minute you must do naught. I can't be expected to
 
 276 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 light on the proper thought all to once. You must give 
 me a week, Tiger — a week at the least. I will have a 
 week. And little enough time for such a job, I'm sure." 
 
 He readily admitted this. 
 
 ' ' A week more or less don 't signify now, ' ' he answered. 
 ' ' And a week you shall have. I '11 tell the missis I shan 't 
 speak till Mondav after next; and I'll tell her for 
 why." 
 
 ' ' Don 't name me. Not a word about me. ' ' 
 
 "No, no. I'll just say that in giving notice I want 
 to weigh my words very careful. 'Tis natural I should ; 
 and so long as I'm gone afore the holidays come round, 
 her turn's served." 
 
 They dismissed the subject, and Tiger grew a little 
 more cheerful, now that Mary shared his burden; but 
 it was her turn to become silent. 
 
 She excused herself for it by the magnitude of the 
 problem that he had set her. 
 
 ' ' All the same, ' ' she said, ' ' you can keep up your hope, 
 for I feel 'tis a thing quite within my reach to tell you 
 the right word." 
 
 He doubted it, left her presently at the door of Teign 
 Head cottage, and returned home. 
 
 Then Mary began to think in earnest, and she followed 
 a conclusion that had already flashed upon her mind. 
 Left alone, without the distraction of Tiger's presence, 
 one resolute thought took possession of her, and she de- 
 termined to act before the day was ended. 
 
 She well knew the course of events in Hartland, and, 
 at evening time, when it was certain Mrs. Ouldsbroom 
 would have gone to church and Tiger be out of the way 
 upon the farm, Mary French paid her visit. Fortune 
 favoured her, and she found the master at home. He 
 stood at his door smoking and talking to a mounted 
 friend who had ridden over from Princetown. At sights 
 of the girl he was about to lift his voice and shout for 
 Tiger; but she stopped him. 
 
 a >fp-g y^^ J ^jjjj^ ^Q ggg^ gir; and I'll be very much 
 
 obliged if you'll not let Tiger know I've called." 
 Fearing a lovers' quarrel, Philip prepared to soothe
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 277 
 
 her. The visitor trotted off, and Ouldsbroom invited 
 Mary to come in. 
 
 "You and Tiger haven't had a row? Don't you tell 
 me that, for I won't believe it," he said. "Too sensible 
 for any such nonsense, I should hope. ' ' 
 
 " 'Tisn't very likely," she answered. "He says there 
 never was two tokened in this world as thought such a 
 lot of each other as him and me do. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I could tell him of another such a pair — not that he 'd 
 believe it, of course. He's a lucky young devil, Molly, 
 as I've often told him." 
 
 Tiger was heard outside, and the girl put her finger to 
 her lips. Philip thereupon went out, sent Mary's lover 
 away on an errand to the other side of the farm-houses 
 and returned to her. 
 
 "Now then — out with the trouble," he said; and she 
 obeyed. Mary took fewer words than Tiger had taken, 
 but they were well chosen, and swiftly she burst the 
 thunderbolt of Tiger's intended flight upon his master's 
 head. 
 
 ' * And whether 'tis wicked of me to tell you, or whether 
 it isn't, I don't know," concluded Mary. "But loving 
 Tiger like what I do, and knowing how awful he'd feel 
 it to go, I had to tell you or die for it. For I won 't keep 
 my tongue inside my lips and see that Tiger wronged ; 
 and you would have wronged him if he'd done this here 
 thing and gone and given you no reason. So I want for 
 to tell you the reason, and that is because your missis be 
 feared you'm too much addicted to Tiger. And I hope 
 you '11 forgive me for speaking ; and I beg to goodness as 
 you won't tell Tiger I've been here. I promised him I 
 should hit on a plan when he axed me whatever he should 
 say to you ; but I didn 't tell him what the plan was ; and 
 I'm very doubtful how he'd take it if he knowed I'd 
 been so busy. Still I felt 'twas only fair to him ' ' 
 
 "Say no more and get home. If you go down the lane 
 and up the stream he won't see you. Leave the rest to 
 me. By God ! we '11 have some thunder and lightning 
 over this! You've done right — dead right. And you 
 can set your mind at rest and be off. ' '
 
 278 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 He turned his back upon her and forgot her existence. 
 A mighty storm beat up black over the blue sky of his 
 mind, and its genial horizons vanished. He looked at his 
 watch and perceived that Unity would not be home until 
 an hour had passed. He strode about — for an age it 
 seemed to him — then he looked at his watch again. Five 
 minutes were passed, and he had thought that fifty were 
 gone. Dusk began to darken the earth as he went out 
 hatless towards Postbridge to meet his wife. He burnt 
 with a sense of unutterable injury. His soul was poured 
 out upon this matter. It dominated him as the first and 
 only thing in the world. It bulked larger and larger as 
 he thought upon it. From every aspect it appeared a 
 shameful, wicked, cold-blooded plot against him. It 
 meant so much. Not only had she planned to take Tiger 
 away, but she had so ordered it that Tiger, by the act of 
 departing, must make Philip his enemy; and that she 
 should have thought such a step was necessary at all 
 could only mean that she doubted her husband's love for 
 Martin. He worked himself into a fever of rage before 
 she appeared. Then, as Unity proceeded alone up the 
 lane from Postbridge homeward, Philip stalked out from 
 a gate by the way and immediately fell upon her. 
 
 "What the hell's this I hear about Tiger? I'd like to 
 know what it means afore I speak, and if 'tis true and 
 if 'tisn't. Let God judge me if — why don't you answer 
 — why don't you answer me?" 
 
 "Has he spoken to you?" 
 
 "No, he hasn't; but somebody else, as seemed to know 
 what she was talking about, have done so. ' ' 
 
 ' ' What have you heard then ? ' ' 
 
 "I've heard this: that you — you — behind my back — 
 I very near told the girl she was a liar. But jolly soon 
 I saAV she wasn't. You and only you it is. You've gone 
 unbeknawnst to me and told him to go — the chap that 
 I've liked better than anybody but my own son, since 
 poor Henry dropped. Shameful, I call it — and a damned 
 silly thing too; for don't you know me? Be I the sort 
 to let my will down afore — there — speak — speak, can't 
 you? Why be you so quiet? Tell your story, if you've
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 279 
 
 got one. I'm patient — ban't I? I know you — 'tis some 
 stupid t^vist in you. I'm reasonable, and I know you. 
 Get on, then, say what 'tis all about and what bee's in 
 your bonnet now. ' ' 
 
 They were standing midway between Hartland and the 
 village. A man came running up from Postbridge, but 
 neither heard him. 
 
 Unity answered. 
 
 "You say you'll be reasonable, Phil, and that's all I 
 ask. You shall know all about it. But first tell me who 
 told you?" 
 
 "That girl Tiger's got. It seems he's going to give 
 me notice, because you 've axed him to do so on the quiet. 
 That's the case in a nutshell, and I want to know whether 
 'tis true or false." 
 
 ' ' You must hear the ' ' 
 
 "Is it true or false?" 
 ' It 's true ; and now list to the reason- 
 
 "Damn the reason! There's no reason but some mag- 
 got in your fool's brain! I told you back-along, when 
 you hinted he might go, that I'd never suffer it. He's 
 mine — body and soul ; and if he was to fall on his knees 
 to me to leave, I'd not hear him. And knowing that — 
 behind my back " 
 
 She considered bitterly, 
 
 "How easy to be misunderstood," she said. "How 
 the carefullest plan may go crooked — once a man's 
 hitched to a woman ! But I know you '11 listen to me now. 
 Perhaps I was wrong; but you're not one to condemn 
 your wife unheard, Phil. At least you'll let me tell my 
 side." 
 
 * ' Tell it then ; but all the same you 've got none. ' ' 
 
 She was going to speak when they were overtaken, and 
 the running man reached them. 
 
 "Be that Mr. Ouldsbroom?" he asked. 
 
 ' ' Yes, it is ; and what do you want ? ' ' 
 
 "I want you, and 'tis good chance you'm on the way. 
 Barbara Hext's going. She's been struck again — but an 
 hour ago; and they'm with her, and Mrs. Dury says she 
 can't last the "
 
 280 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Philip heard no more. For the moment his own affairs 
 vanished from his mind, and he set off instantly to Post- 
 bridge as fast as he could go. 
 
 The old woman was dying, as it seemed, but she re- 
 tained consciousness and showed pleasure at sight of her 
 friend. They had got her to bed and sent for the doctor. 
 He came presently and directed treatment; though he 
 held out little hope that she could survive until another 
 dawn. Philip stayed with her, but the thing she desired 
 to impart she could not. She indicated that she wished 
 him to stop and he did so. He talked to her, and the 
 hours passed. Presently he remembered his own affairs, 
 and told her of what had happened. It was doubtful 
 whether she could understand him, but the recital awoke 
 his own indignation, and the nurse in the next room 
 heard him lift his voice and shout so angrily that she 
 hastened in to silence him. 
 
 He expressed shame, and spoke no more. At midnight 
 Unity sent down Tiger to know how the sufferer fared. 
 With him the young man brought Philip's supper and a 
 pint of beer in a can; but Ouldsbroom refused to eat 
 or drink and bade the other carry these things home 
 again. 
 
 "I'll talk to you to-morrow," he said. "This isn't 
 the time or place. And you can tell missis to write off a 
 letter to Martin and post it to-morrow morning. He's 
 got to be at the funeral; and so have you; and so will 
 every decent person in the neighbourhood. And I be 
 going to read Job over her, though God He knows how I 
 shall bear myself. Now, you'd best be gone." 
 
 He returned to the passing woman and felt at work 
 that force odylic — that power of gravitation men call 
 death. It was drawing her back and drawing her under. 
 Earth called out for this pinch of dust again, and Bar- 
 bara yielded, as autumn yields to winter, twilight to 
 darkness, matter to time. Life departed gently and ten- 
 derly from her, as though sad to go. Philip did not 
 know that she was dead until the nurse told him. 
 
 He was reading aloud from Job, and had done so for 
 an hour. Then Mrs. Dury bade him cease and depart.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 281 
 
 He went out into the first elfin light of another day — - 
 a trembling blink on the edge of dawn. For a long time 
 he roamed up and down in front of the little shop, then, 
 as the morning came on feathers of fire, a thought took 
 him to the churchyard. He went to the spot long since 
 selected by the dead woman. He stood there and looked 
 down at the dew-drenched gi'ass of it and he felt sud- 
 denly that she was indeed gone from him. Anon he 
 crossed the burying-ground, left a green track in the cob- 
 web-coloured dew, and then went homeward. 
 
 His thoughts next turned to Tiger and fiercely fas- 
 tened there. 
 
 ''Only him now," he said. "Only him — after Unity 
 and Martin. And to try and take him from me! Let 
 'em take my right hand — they shall do that sooner ! ' '
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 On a drowsy summer day, when the beech groves of 
 Postbridge made murmuring through their panoplies, 
 and the cuckoo called with a broken note, Barbara was 
 buried. The stern rite that she had directed came swiftly 
 to its close, and Philip uttered over her a dozen verses 
 from Job. Three score of the folk attended, and not a 
 few wept when the small coffin sank out of sight. 
 
 Martin and his mother were there, and Tiger stood be- 
 side Mary French, who had come with her brother from 
 Teign Head Farm. Peter Culme was also present, with 
 Mrs. Dury and her family. From Stannon came Quinton 
 and Gertrude Crymes, with Maggie and Minnie, Jacky 
 and Jane. Under protest, Mr. Twigg brought his wife 
 and unmarried daughter. He listened in lofty pity and 
 forgiveness to the faltering thunder of Ouldsbroom's 
 great voice as it stumbled over the prescribed portion. 
 
 Martin also gazed with secret regret upon Philip, and 
 would have gladly heard and seen a more conventional 
 ceremony. But the service ended swiftly. The people 
 departed, and at last only Philip and the chief mourner 
 remained to see the grave filled. 
 
 Miss Hext's heir was a man who kept a small jeweller's 
 shop at Plymouth. The bulk of her little fortune went 
 to him, but she had left numerous trifling bequests, and 
 Ouldsbroom found himself the richer by one hundred 
 pounds, while Martin and Tiger each received twenty. 
 
 Young Saul Hext, the eldest son of Barbara's dead 
 brother, asked Philip some questions, and invited his 
 opinion on the worth of the shop at Postbridge. 
 
 282
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 283 
 
 "My business is nothing of much account," he said, 
 ''and my children are ailing. D'you think that this 
 little shop would pay for taking up and improving?" 
 
 "No doubt 'twould pay for taking up," answered 
 Ouldsbroom, "but as for improving, 'twill want a better 
 man than you to do that. This here priceless creature 
 under us — she knew everything there was to know worth 
 knowing, and especially about the business of keeping a 
 shop of all sorts. To her dying day she was for ever 
 thinking upon it and how to better its usefulness. Never 
 was known the like ; and if you think to take it over, 
 you'll do well to abide by her plans in everything." 
 
 "I must go into her books." 
 
 "And wonderful books you'll find them. Nothing she 
 oouldn *t do, I tell you ; and you were a bit of a fool not 
 to see more of her, for she was a rare bird. Like brother 
 and sister — her and me. That understanding — such a 
 brain — and such a heart. I've no power of speech; but 
 if I had, I would have spoke a word or two to the people 
 and told 'em what they've lost. Ever doing kindly things 
 and ever thinking them. No power of unkindness in 
 her — always for seeing the bright side of the darkest 
 people — always for making excuses. Only one thing 
 roused her hate; and that was humbug and falsehood. 
 Afore them her eyes would flash and her tongue would 
 scourge. She looked through and through human nature, 
 I tell you. She was like me — patient with the fools. She 
 taught me patience, and I must be patient now she's 
 gone ; but— oh, how I shall miss her, young man ! Cruel 
 — cruel I shall miss her. From her heart came every- 
 thing; but she'd never let it out till the thought had 
 filtered through her head. That was her rare wisdom. 
 A very learned woman, mind you. Schoolmaster was 
 dust afore her, and he knew it. ' 'Tis all true what she 
 tells,' he said to me once. ' 'Tis all too true, farmer; 
 but I dursn't listen to her, because my daily bread de- 
 pends upon my teaching the children different.' These 
 here schoolmasters and mistresses, you must know, have 
 to walk in chains — so Barbara said. They've got to re- 
 member the parents' eyes and the parson's eyes and the
 
 284 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 squire's eyes all be upon 'em. That's what Barbara was 
 down on. And I hope you're the same. And now 'tis 
 done. ' ' 
 
 He referred to the filling of the grave. 
 
 "You'll set a brave stone here presently, I sup- 
 pose?" 
 
 "Yes, I certainly shall," said Mr. Hext. "She was 
 the right sort, and I hope I'll show you I'm the same, if 
 I come to these parts." 
 
 "Better walk up the hill and have a drink along with 
 me then. I was her first friend here. Us '11 go to the 
 ' Warren House, ' and I '11 show you the sort of man your 
 aunt couldn't abide at any cost. He was at the funeral, 
 and he looked at me as if he was praying to his withered 
 God to forgive me. I dare say he Avas. Gregory Twigg. 
 I mean — innkeeper and preacher and Little Baptist — a 
 very sleek, w^ell-meaning man, but getting old now ; lives 
 on his own fat, like a dormouse, and drips piety." 
 
 They walked up Merripit Hill and presently reached 
 the inn. 
 
 A brisk conversation stopped suddenly as Philip en- 
 tered with the dead woman's nephew. 
 
 "Ah!" he said. "D'you mark that — as if they was 
 all struck dumb? They was talking of Barbara Hext, 
 and Gregory was telling 'em she've gone to the bad place. 
 Wasn't you, Greg? Out wi^h it — you that always boast 
 to tell the naked truth." 
 
 "Shows how little you understand us, Ouldsbroom," 
 answered Gregory, passing his hand over his bald head. 
 ' ' I was saying that the prayer of a righteous man availeth 
 much. I was explaining to Culme here, and these other 
 neighbours, that for my part — though many think 'tis 
 a parlous doctrine — I don't see W'hy that text should run 
 out and finish at the grave. Our pastor, Bewes, he says 
 that 'tis flat popish idolatry to think otherwise; but I 
 withstand him there." 
 
 "To pray for the dead be one step more foolish than 
 to pray for the living," said Saul Hext, and Gregory 
 shook his head. But Philip clapped the young man on 
 the back.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 285 
 
 "You're the joker for me !" he cried. "It might have 
 been your aunt said that." 
 
 They drank, and entered upon a barren discussion 
 wherein none convinced another. The debate only bright- 
 ened at the finish. 
 
 Mr. Hext proved a dry and humorous thinker. 
 
 "I'm a watchmaker/' he said, "so, in a sort of way, 
 I've the right to speak; and what I say is that if God 
 made us in His own image outside, 'tis a thousand pities 
 and a great oversight that He didn 't make us in His own 
 image inside too. God's the only machine I ever heard 
 tell about that can't go wrong, and He ought to have 
 built us on the same pattern, in my opinion. And why 
 not?" 
 
 "I'll tell you for why," answered Philip. " 'Twas 
 just His sporting kindness. He knoweth, and none so 
 well as Him, how deadly dull a thing it is to be perfect. 
 Look at Twigg here, if you doubt me. And so God gives 
 us all the chance to get off the rails a bit, just to add a 
 pinch of salt to life." 
 
 "And most people jump at the chance," said Peter 
 Culme mournfully. 
 
 "Even God Almighty on His throne must have His 
 holy work," declared Gregory, "and ban't His work 
 regulating our wicked hearts, like this man's work is 
 regulating clocks? Some of us be too slow in righteous- 
 ness, and others of us be too fast in sin. And there it 
 is — God's work be never done, so long as a human 
 creature's left wandering in this vale." 
 
 "The better a man is, the duller he is," said Philip; 
 "and a real, right down good man be the dullest sheep 
 you'll meet with in any fold. I'd sooner go with the 
 gipsies, or herd along with the grey boys to Princetown 
 prison, than keep in step with your Little Baptists." 
 
 "Have you ever thought upon where you'll go when 
 you die, Philip ? ' ' inquired Mr. Twigg. 
 
 "No, Greg; but I shall meet a good rally of friends 
 there — wherever it is." 
 
 Hext and the farmer left the bar, and Ouldsbroom 
 relapsed into melancholy.
 
 286 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "God forgive me — laughing and chattering with they 
 fools," he said. "To think I could do it; and her but 
 now sunk back into the earth." 
 
 ' * She 'd sooner you laughed than pulled a long face, ' ' 
 answered the other. "She hated even a child's tears. 
 A very understanding woman, and left the world better 
 than she found it, in my opinion. ' ' 
 
 "She did — she did — if ever woman did. And I'm 
 mighty sorry I didn 't know your parts sooner, ' ' answered 
 the farmer. "For if I had done so, I'd have called upon 
 you to say a few words afore the earth closed over her. ' '
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A RARE day of ineffable splendour crowned Dartmoor, 
 and to the seeing eye, even upon this desert, was dis- 
 played a vision wonderful — a dream of life mating with 
 matter, of the protoplasmic element flying, swimming, 
 growing, ripening, multiplying, and displaying its 
 eternal miracle upon the bosom of the sun-supported 
 earth. The colour was of a cloudless noon in August: 
 the forms were familiar hill and stone-capped tor, broad 
 marsh and glittering stream, roaming herds and floclvS 
 scattered widely upon the undulating land. The earth 
 and the fulness of it rolled out glorious, ridge on ridge, 
 to the transparent blue of the horizon ; and not an inch, 
 not a morsel, of these ascending planes and shining slopes 
 but made a home for life and theatre of war. J^ons 
 have brought this scene to its present polity ; unnumbered 
 years have gone to order its present precarious adjust- 
 ment. To the fleeting eye it appears changeless, yet 
 hourly it changes, and will change hourly so long as it 
 exists. No permanent peace is here; not even a tem- 
 porary truce shall ever be proclaimed; fierce battle rages 
 at all points and for ever under this apparent concord. 
 Death's M^arp it is that threads each woof and completes 
 the web, for full half this far-flung glory is founded in 
 disintegration and decay; full half this gi-and harmony 
 is rioting and rooting in blood of perished things. 
 
 Martin Ouldsbroom and Tiger stood upon a great hill 
 and rested after climbing it. The latter saw no more 
 than a sunny day, felt only the heat; the former ex- 
 perienced a little of what such an hour might mean to a 
 young and thoughtful heart. 
 
 He looked about him, renewed friendship with the hills, 
 
 287
 
 288 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 and smiled at the immense world unrolled beneath his 
 feet; while the other youth puffed and wiped a wet face 
 and neck. 
 
 " 'Tis on a day and in a place like this that one can 
 feel the weight of some words," said Martin. ''Take 
 these: 'We bless Thee for our creation.' Don't they 
 mean a lot, lifted up here like this in the sun ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' I wish I was such a dry man as you, ' ' answered Tiger. 
 ' ' You haven 't turned a hair seemingly. This is Fur Tor, 
 and I be going to have a drink and a pipe afore I travel 
 a yard beyond it. ' ' 
 
 ' ' There 's no need to go farther. 'Tis somewhere about 
 here that the plant grows. My schoolmaster saw it in 
 a book. He's a great botanist, as I told you, and he 
 explained that in time past a sort of bilberry was used 
 to grow here — the only place on Dartmoor where it does 
 grow. 'Tis easily marked if seen, because its fruit is 
 red instead of black, and its leaves are like to a box plant. 
 I 'm hopeful to find it for him and fetch back a good root 
 or two for his garden. ' ' 
 
 "I'll help presently," promised Tiger; "but not afore 
 I've cooled down and drunk my tin of cider." 
 
 Martin had begged for his friend 's company, and Tiger 
 made holiday with his future master. The question of 
 liis departure was for the moment in abeyance. Philip 
 suffered much from the loss of Barbara Hext, and Unity, 
 judging that this was no time to bring further trouble 
 upon him, held her peace. She had not spoken again 
 of that matter to the younger man, and did not design 
 to do so until Martin was back at school again. 
 
 Now Martin hunted over the wild shoulders of Fur Tor 
 and stopped twice to survey the scene spread round 
 about him. Infant Tavy glittered to the west, and sud- 
 denly, turning his eyes therefrom back to the shattered 
 granite by his way, he found what he was seeking and 
 marked the Mount Ida Avhortleberry gemmed with scarlet 
 fruits. 
 
 He shouted to Tiger, who joined him. 
 
 Neither had seen the plant before. They dug up some 
 clumps of the little shrub and tasted the berries.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 289 
 
 ' ' I shall go over to Bovey with them, ' ' declared Martin. 
 "The chief's away on his holiday, and I shall plant the 
 things very carefully and well, and 'twill be a great and 
 glad surprise to him when he comes back, to find them 
 there." 
 
 They ate their lunch and spoke of personal interests. 
 Their friendship was still close, despite their opposite 
 natures. Tiger admired Martin's cleverness; the other 
 valued him for his kind heart and good temper. He also 
 believed that Tiger was of service to Philip. Yet shadows 
 were growing on Martin 's mind, and much that the elder 
 youth said both hurt and angered him in secret. With 
 his actions he could not cavil ; but his opinions, gleaned 
 from Philip Ouldsbroom, sometimes struck at what was 
 very precious and vital to Martin. This happened now, 
 and Tiger spoke of Miss Hext's funeral with approba- 
 tion, 
 
 " A lot better than the usual way, ' ' he declared. ' ' Jolly 
 fine, I called it; and if I was going to be buried, I'd like 
 nought better than to be treated the same. ' ' 
 
 "If you was to read the proper burial service you'd 
 think differently," answered Martin. "There's a right 
 and a wrong way of doing everything, and after hun- 
 dreds of years and the thought of many wise and re- 
 ligious men, it isn't likely that common, everyday people 
 can make a better thing than the prayer-book service. 
 I 'd be very glad if you 'd read it. ' ' 
 
 "She wasn't church, nor yet chapel. She always stuck 
 up for Job; and so does your father. He often asks 
 me to read it out to him of an evening after supper, for 
 he can't see by candle-light very well now." 
 
 * ' I don 't say anything against Job ; but I 'm all for 
 law and order; and we oughtn't to take a solemn matter 
 like the burial of the dead into our own hands." 
 
 ' * 'Twas her wish, and she left you twenty pound any- 
 way. ' ' 
 
 They talked and ate. Then Martin began a long cate- 
 chism on the subject of his father. 
 
 "Though I've been home a fortnight, I've had no 
 chance to ask about him," he explained. "But now I 
 
 19
 
 290 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 can. I do hope you've got good news for me, Tiger. 
 He seems a bit short and abrupt to mother since I came 
 home; and he goes about alone more than usual, 
 too." 
 
 " 'Tis because of Miss Hext's death. He was terrible 
 fond of her and spent a lot of time with her. ' ' 
 
 ' ' But I can 't see why he should be short to mother. ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis the sense of loss on his mind. He's short to 
 everybody, for that matter. 'Twill soon come right 
 when the sad thing be pushed farther back into his 
 memory. ' ' 
 
 "If anything, it ought to be the other way. Only my 
 mother has such a wonderful steady temper. Nothing 
 ever makes her hot." 
 
 ' ' Like you. But how do you mean that it ought to be 
 t'other way?" 
 
 "I mean that my father has done a good bit more to 
 vex her than she has to vex him. Not intentionally, 
 Tiger. I don 't mean that — very far from it. He always 
 means well to everybody. But he dashes at things so, 
 and doesn't look all round a bargain or a sale before he 
 closes. ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis his long experience. He's no need to take so 
 much time as other men. He's got it all in his head. ' ' 
 
 "Yes — all the past; but he's slow at making room 
 for new ideas. Even I see that. If the world was run 
 like it was when he was a young man, all would go well, 
 I dare say; but you're young, like me, and you must 
 know. Tiger, that we've got to change. Farming isn't 
 what it was at best; and if you won't take up with the 
 latest improvements and ideas, you get left behind." 
 
 "He's not like that. He's a very inquiring man. He 
 goes to all the shows and sees all the new things. ' ' 
 
 "He sees them — yes. But he's been rather unfor- 
 tunate of late. My mother was telling me about it. Of 
 course father didn't. The new sheep weren't what be 
 thought. ' ' 
 
 "A man lied to him at Okehampton cattle show." 
 
 "But father ought to have known better." 
 
 " 'Twas late and far on in the day, and "
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 291 
 
 Tiger stopped. 
 
 "And he was fresh. You may as well say it. Of 
 course he must have been, or else he'd have seen they 
 weren't Dartmoors crossed with South Hams." 
 
 ''Yes, they were; but just happened to be a poor lot." 
 
 "There are other things. He seems not to take 
 mother's advice like he did." 
 
 "I'm sure he does then. He's a reed without her. I 
 never knowed another man so terrible fond of his wife. 
 I'm like that too. I shall be just so fond of my Mary 
 when I'm sixty year old as master is of missis. I'm no 
 more than a copy of master. And I was proud when a 
 man told me so. And as for your mother, why, when she 
 travels, if 'tis only for a day to Moreton or Princetown, 
 he's glum as a raven without her — misses her something 
 cruel; and when she went for four days to her relations 
 at Exeter, the man couldn 't suffer it — not after the third 
 day ; so he went up after her and fetched her back home, ' ' 
 
 Martin continued his questions. He was civil, even 
 filial ; but he was remorseless. Tiger writhed under the 
 inquisition. Some points he evaded, and once or twice 
 he said the thing that was not. Even in his discomfort 
 he had time to marvel that a son could stand in such 
 stern judgment on his father. 
 
 Upon the subject of money Martin spared no investiga- 
 tion; but over the question of drink he was especially 
 pitiless. At last, indeed, he did a thing that much as- 
 tonished him and woke Tiger into sudden fury. 
 
 "God damn it!" shouted out the elder, "haven't you 
 got no heart in your body? Can you tear your own 
 father to pieces'? Ban't it for you that he strives and 
 stints? And if he makes a faulty bargain now and 
 again, who don't? And, be it as 'twill, the money's for 
 you, not him. What does he care for cash — save for the 
 joy of spending it on somebody else ? Such a man never 
 was seen, and he's like the sun to the shadow among all 
 these here frosty people, who go suspicious of their 
 neighbours and with never a kind word for a fellow- 
 creature. Why to God don't you see his vartues, and 
 copy 'em, instead of always being down on his faults?
 
 292 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 I tell you the very faults of such a man be vartues 
 against the mean and crooked spirit of most of us. 
 Granted he drinks. Does he ever drink as much as he 
 pays for others to drink ? Does he ever think again of the 
 good he does, or expect to get it back in his turn 1 Does he 
 ever remember all the little deeds to make this child 
 happier or this woman easier in her mind ? No ! Never. 
 He don't take no more accoimt of his quick, generous 
 acts than the summer sun of the Avork it's doing. And 
 if such things can be overlooked and forgot by all others 
 as well as himself, then damn all the men and women — 
 that's what I say. He's too good for 'em!" 
 
 ''I know all that, Tiger." 
 
 "Then why don't you remember it? Why must you 
 for ever be looking at the other side ? That man 's never 
 hurt anybody but himself — not since I've had the under- 
 standing to know him." 
 
 "But he does hurt himself. That's the point. And 
 'tis for us, who care about him, to stop him hurting him- 
 self. I don't ask these things for pleasure, but for duty. 
 I want to do my duty to my father, just as much as you 
 do. You've kept him out of many a public-house and 
 been useful to him. I only want to know all about his 
 weak places, so as to help him to make the weak places 
 stronger. He's been a good father to me — according to 
 his lights — and why shouldn't I want to be a good son 
 to him?" 
 
 "Can't you be a good son without judging him then? 
 I hate and loathe to hear you sigh over it — as if you was 
 a schoolmaster hearing tell of a naughty boy. I know 
 drink's bad for him, and I know it makes him quarrel- 
 some and breeds enemies for him; but I say that when 
 he's sober, no decent man can be his enemy. You mag- 
 nify what's wrong in him. 
 
 "No, Tiger, I don't. I see it in its proper light, and 
 I see the danger to us all. 'Tis the danger that you can't 
 see. You don't look ahead like I do. And well may I 
 sigh when you tell me he's not better. If he's not better 
 — then he's worse. There's no standing still with father. 
 He mav be large-hearted — though you ought to be just
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 293 
 
 before you are generous — but he 's very narrow-minded ; 
 and since I 've been educated I see that more and more. ' ' 
 
 "He's not — he's not, I tell you! And if he M^as, did 
 he put you to school to larn you how to see his faults? 
 Is that what your folk teach you? If he'd sent me to 
 school, and the people had told me my father was this 
 and that, I'd mighty soon have made trouble." 
 
 ]\Iartin perceived the hopelessness of explaining his 
 standpoint. 
 
 "We won't fall out. Tiger. I know what you mean, 
 and I wish you could see what I mean. But I'll try to 
 show you when my schooling is done. I come home for 
 good and all after next term. And I shall be sorry to 
 leave, and yet glad — very glad to be back. I love my 
 father in my own way. I 'm disappointed that you can 't 
 see my side. What more natural than that I want to 
 be of use to him ? What more natural than that I want 
 him to learn some of the things he's paid for me to 
 learn? But it's so difficult, and I look to you to make it 
 less difficult. You oughtn't to side against me — espe- 
 cially where you know I 'm right and father is wrong. ' ' 
 
 "I don't know you'm right," answered Tiger obsti- 
 nately. 
 
 "Yes, you do. I mean to do what's right, and I want 
 to find the way to show him I do. Take farming. Half 
 my time at school goes into that now, because it is going 
 to be my business. I'm coming back full of work. I 
 want to lift a lot off father's shoulders. But you know 
 how hard it is. You know if I say such and such a thing 
 is done differently now; or if I mention this or that new 
 way of doing things down in the in country — what good 
 is it? He always laughs at the 'in country' and says 
 no sense can come out of it. But you know I'm right 
 in many things." 
 
 "I do," admitted Tiger. "I'm not saying you are 
 not; and I've argued with him too. He's a great deal 
 gentler about knowledge than he was. He well knows 
 your cleverness, and he well knows that the world doesn 't 
 stand still. He's not narrow-minded really — far from it. 
 Anybody can get him to see sense, if they only go the
 
 294 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 right way about it. I've preached you to him many a 
 time, and more than once things you've said and he's 
 refused for the moment, he's done after, when I've re- 
 minded him about them." 
 
 This cheered Martin. 
 
 "I'm very glad to hear that," he said. "Don't think 
 I'm jealous of your power over him, because I'm not. 
 I'm getting on very well with him too — so far — these 
 holidays. I'm working more than I used to do, and 
 he much likes to see me at it. But 'tis very natural that 
 he should put you before me. I'm not hurt about that. 
 You've the knack to get at him far better than I can. 
 And I want you to teach me how to do the same. ' ' 
 
 The genial Tiger instantly came to his knees at this 
 gentle speech. 
 
 "Forgive me for speaking coarse, and swearing," he 
 answered. " 'Twas very unmannerly in me, and I'm 
 awful sorry I did it. 'Tis only because I see such a lot 
 of your father that I 've got his ear a bit. But I 'm nought 
 to him really, and you mustn't think so, or fear so. I 
 shan't be here much longer myself." 
 
 ' ' He would never let you go. ' ' 
 
 ' * Don 't say nothing about it, Martin. But, taking one 
 thing with another, it might be better. He's amazing 
 kind, and too prone to think that them he likes are far 
 better than they be, and them he don 't like are far worse. 
 I '11 speak more about that another time. But I 've heard 
 some wisdom on the subject from your mother, and she 
 don't waste words or tell a chap what it isn't useful to 
 him to hear. We had speech about my going just before 
 Miss Hext died, and then, owing to her sudden end, the 
 matter dropped. But I haven't forgot what missis said. 
 My girl mentioned it to Mr. Ouldsbroom and there was 
 a bit of a flare-up in consequence. But, as I tell you, 
 I haven't forgot it and shall do what I ought pres- 
 ently." 
 
 "This is the first I've heard of any such thing," an- 
 swered Matrin. "And I'm sure I hope you will do noth- 
 ing at all. Tiger. Just think what father " 
 
 "Leave it," interrupted the other. "Whatever you
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE '• 295 
 
 may think of the governor, there 's no two opinions about 
 your mother. She's wisdom alive — and kindness alive 
 too — I will say that. Shut up about it, Master ]\Iartin, 
 please, and trust her to know better than you or me. ' ' 
 
 Martin, wondering what this could mean, kept silence ; 
 and when they spoke again it was upon another topic. 
 
 At the earliest opportunity, however. Unity's son asked 
 her for information. She showed no small interest that 
 he had learned the thing in Tiger's mind; but she would 
 not discuss the matter at that time. 
 
 ' * There was trouble, ' ' she said ; ' ' and then came a 
 greater in the shape of Barbara's death. That put it 
 out of your father's head altogether, and 'tis far too 
 soon to bring it back again. Leave it alone. Tiger 
 knows all there is to know. He'll do the right thing 
 presently. ' ' 
 
 Martin showed concern and asked many questions, but 
 his mother bade him leave the problem for the present. 
 
 "All's going well," she said, "and father's getting 
 back his spirits. That's the first thing. You and him 
 be closer friends, seemingly. And nought 's ill if that but 
 lasts."
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Martin's conduct at this season satisfied Philip Oulds- 
 broom. The boy understood a little of the man's recent 
 loss, and followed his mother in respecting it. He 
 showed very active interest upon the farm, and revealed 
 an intimacy with those crafts that the wear-and-tear of 
 Hartland put into constant requirement. He displayed 
 some skill as a carpenter, and prepared a surprise or two 
 for the farmer which gave Philip immense pleasure. 
 
 Together they went on a serious pilgrimage round and 
 about the property, and the perambulation was a success. 
 Very slowly the elder began to yield in certain particu- 
 lars. The process was so gradual that neither man nor 
 youth could be declared conscious of it; but another 
 marked the dawning influence of Martin, and was glad. 
 Will-power exercised without deliberate design must 
 prove more pregnant than any intentional invasion of 
 one mind by another ; and Martin, as he came to man 's 
 estate, developed a nature calculated to influence those 
 with whom he came in contact. As yet he was a boy, 
 and life had not strung his character to its ultimate 
 strenuous, cheerless, and austere attainment. A little of 
 the suavity, a little of the indecision, a little of the help- 
 lessness of youth still clung about him. But his didactic 
 instincts developed. He went to his mother, indeed, to 
 learn, and her judgment and certitude in all things he 
 accepted with no question. A bond of absolute sympathy 
 obtained between them — a link beyond life's power to 
 break; but none else stood in any such relation to him. 
 He had worked very hard at school, and was keenly 
 awake to the advantages of his education and the 
 position it enabled him to occupy. He loved teaching. 
 
 296
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 297 
 
 and while he went to his mother to learn, the ruling pas- 
 sion appeared in his dealings with all others. Experience 
 had taught him to restrain this impulse in the company 
 of Ouldsbroom ; but with nobody else would he submit to 
 conceal his own attainments. Nobody else, indeed, de- 
 sired him to do so. He was a welcome guest at Stannon, 
 and Gertrude Crymes drew satisfaction from his youth- 
 ful wisdom. To IMinnie he was life. Sammy, the only 
 spirit in that home who never could endure him, had now 
 gone to sea, and an atmosphere of simple piety brooded 
 unbroken at Stannon. This pleased Martin well; and 
 other friends always welcomed him at 'Warren House.' 
 Mr-. Twigg was now grown very corpulent, and his health 
 had become indifferent. He flourished unchanged in 
 all other respects, and accepted his somewhat harassing 
 private circumstances as put upon him for secret but 
 beneficent purposes by the God he served. To Martin 
 the publican appeared a very wise, religious, and improv- 
 ing person. He reaped satisfaction from their inter- 
 course, and, in his turn, led Gregory to prophesy for him 
 a future of wide usefulness on the side of the angels. 
 
 "It is borne in upon me," declared the elder, "that 
 you have been sent into our midst to do a good work 
 here, Martin. I have been the Lord's willing tool for 
 fifty years — indeed, you might say for much longer than 
 that. They catched me giving a halfpenny to a beggar 
 not more'n a year after I was short-coated. Not that I 
 would do so now, because too well I know that charity 
 breeds a multitude of sins as well as covers 'em. But 
 there was the Spirit already stretching out of me to help 
 my fellow-man, and you can 't blame an infant, only just 
 able to walk, for not being up in the truth about pro- 
 miscuous alms. But, as I was saying, my active useful- 
 ness must soon be a thing of the past. My great intellects 
 will still be at the service of my Maker, so long as He is 
 pleased to want 'em ; but for His own ends He 's built up 
 the flesh on me in a way that much limits my powers of 
 running on His errands as I was used to do. And I'm 
 very much inclined to think that He may have His eye 
 on you, ISIartin, to continue the good work. ' '
 
 298 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 The boy flushed with pleasure. 
 
 ' ' I want to do His work, and no other, Mr. Twigg. ' ' 
 
 "You're young yet, and it isn't given us all to have 
 what I had. Elisha was never a patch on Elijah, in my 
 opinion ; but, nevertheless, he had the mantle. And a 
 very good, earnest man too, though we may say that he 
 never had himself quite so well in hand as the other 
 prophet. ' ' 
 
 "The bears and the children," suggested Martin. 
 
 ' ' Just so ; they bears was a very harsh answer to a lot 
 of naughty little creatures — just let out of school and 
 full of spirits, no doubt. I've often put the case to my- 
 self, and I'm bound to say that if I was going through 
 Postbridge and the childer mocked my bald head — and 
 balder than me Elisha could not have been— why, to call 
 forth bears? No, no. I should go among 'era and talk 
 to 'em and reason with their unfledged minds and make 
 'em say they was sorry." 
 
 They debated this nice point, and decided, with the 
 deepest deference, against Elisha. 
 
 "As I grow older," continued Gregory, "the light 
 from the Throne of Grace, that has always beat so fierce 
 upon me and showed me the narrow path, gets mellower, 
 you must know. 'Tis often to be marked with the great 
 minds that, as age creeps over 'em, they get just a thought 
 more trustful of their fellow-men and a thought more 
 hopeful that the mercy of the watching Lord can reach 
 the publicans and sinners." 
 
 "For certain, Mr. Twigg." 
 
 "Yes. Just you listen to me; don't you talk. Now, 
 like Paul afore me, there comed a very great light upon 
 my mind not a month ago. I was awake by night puz- 
 zling how to bring in they people at Dury Farm. To 
 bring 'em into the Little Baptists, of course, I mean. 
 They're newcomers, and they are hovering in two minds 
 between us and the Establishment. And firstly my 
 thoughts ran into a channel of great dislike against the 
 Church. Then flashed upon me the saying of the Lord : 
 'Other sheep I have which are not of this fold.' What 
 could be clearer? He meant the Establishment! He's
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 299 
 
 there too, Martin! He's there too! In fact, the puzzle 
 is, not so much to say where He is, as where He isn 't. ' ' 
 
 "Mother and I are Church of England," said Martin. 
 
 ' ' I know, I know — at present. But remember that she 
 was a Little Baptist once, and she may be again. And 
 if I lived to get her and you back to us, I should feel very 
 much inclined to say to myself ' Well done, thou good and 
 faithful servant. Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.' 
 Especially if you go on as you are going at present. But 
 the point I'm talking about for the moment is my mel- 
 lowing opinions. Of course in some men there might be 
 a danger of going too far ; but not in me. Commonsense 
 comes into it, and I've always carried my commonsense 
 into the House of God, and always shall do — very dif- 
 ferent from so many among us, who take it off and put 
 it aside with their hats till they come out again." 
 
 ' ' You can 't let in everybody to Grace ? ' ' doubted Mar- 
 tin. 
 
 ' ' Certainly not. Too well I know those that must bide 
 for ever outside; and they call themselves Christians, 
 too, and fondly think they are so, and will go on thinking 
 it till the dread day of awakening. But 'tis a painful 
 subject, and I can honestly say I was thankful to find 
 how many of my poor neighbours have a right to hope. ' ' 
 
 "I'm often in a mind whether I wouldn't sooner be 
 with you than where I am," ventured Martin. "There's 
 more freedom ; and if the Lord puts it in a man 's heart 
 to get up and say the healing word to his fellow-man, 'tis 
 hard he can't do it." 
 
 " 'Tis wrong he can't do it," declared Gregory; "and 
 the longer you bide at church, the more you'll feel it, if 
 it happens that it is with you as it was with me. Look 
 at the scores and scores of messages I had for other peo- 
 ple! In my early middle age, never a day dawned but 
 it come to my pillow with a light to lighten the Gentiles. 
 And was I to be dumb just because I wasn't a paid min- 
 ister? Never! You'll come back to us, Martin — if ever 
 I knew anything, I know that. Yes, and your mother 
 too. She've taken our teaching into her life, and see 
 what it's made of her. In common gratitude she ought
 
 300 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 to come back, as I've alwaj^s told her, and always shall 
 do." 
 
 ' ' I don 't think she 'd much mind if I was wishful to. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Well, come — the sooner the better. And in the mean- 
 time your work is to your hand. I mean your father. 
 That's the first call of the Spirit on you; and if you 
 can save that stubborn soul, then we've a right to hope 
 for a great deal from you." 
 
 Martin nodded. 
 
 " 'Tis what I want to do more than anything else in 
 the world," he declared. 
 
 His last school holiday drew to a close, and only one 
 more term remained. The weeks passed swiftly by, and 
 Martin's ripening judgment was able to evade much of 
 the friction of the past. Then there happened a mis- 
 fortune which clouded many subsequent days. 
 
 Philip had been overreached by a stranger at ewe mar- 
 ket, and he went to his wife smarting with the tale. For 
 once her patience failed, and she protested and asked 
 him why he had not taken Tiger. Thereupon he turned 
 suddenly to a grievance tacitly buried since the death 
 of Barbara Hext, and asked her why she suggested trust 
 in Tiger, when she wished him away altogether. This 
 provoked her; she said some bitter things, and quickly 
 reduced him to silence. Wounded and indignant, he 
 went his way and came upon Martin working in the tool- 
 shed. 
 
 The lad handled a cold chisel and Ouldsbroom warned 
 him against it. 
 
 ' ' Have a care, ' ' he said. ' ' I ground it but three days 
 agone. 'Tis as sharp as your mother's tongue." 
 
 Martin flinched, but said nothing. Then Philip, in a 
 troubled and cloudy mood, called him away from his 
 work and bade him walk again about the confines of the 
 farm. 
 
 "You'll be off soon, and I'd have you look round, so 
 that you may know what 's doing and to do, ' ' he said. 
 
 Martin put down his tools and followed the farmer. 
 He was hurt at the allusion to Unity, and said little. 
 Ouldsbroom asked him many questions, but received very
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 301 
 
 short answers to them. Then Martin criticised unfavour- 
 ably a piece of work. This much angered the other, and 
 he spoke in wrath. 
 
 "That's because Tiger done it! If another had, you 
 wouldn't have thought of the thing again. 'Tis just your 
 mean spirit to say that. A dirty trick learned from your 
 mother. I see through it; and if you knew how I see 
 through everything, you'd not be pleased. Look at 
 t'other side — if you know how to. Look at what Tiger's 
 taught you. You think you 've got nothing from him ; 
 but I tell you that you've got everything that's worth 
 having from him. And the more you get from him, the 
 better for your nature and for your future. ' ' 
 
 ''I didn't know this was his work, father." 
 
 * ' Liar ! You kneW' it well enough. And I '11 tell you 
 this ; and you can tell your mother if you please to : 
 the pair of you won 't get him out of this place — plot and 
 scheme as you like. He's my man — bred up by me on 
 my own pattern; and he's all I've got — all I've got; 
 d'you understand that?" 
 
 He strode on, and Martin followed. 
 
 "Please, father " he began; but the other silenced 
 
 him. 
 
 ' ' Get back ! Go to heel ! I 've done with you for the 
 present. You've seen enough. All's ^vrong here in your 
 eyes. I'm old and behind the times. I'm letting Hart- 
 land go to the dogs. I know nought. I 'm such a damned 
 fool that I can even pay to teach my son to despise his 
 father; stint myself and live hard, so that my son shall 
 grow clever enough to despise me! Yes, I'm a fool all 
 right. But you — there, begone ! I forgive you — I for- 
 give you — d'you hear that? I forgive you. 'Tis all my 
 fault. Everything's my fault." 
 
 He moved rapidly onward and Martin stood still. This 
 terrific storm out a clear sky staggered him and left him 
 battered and helpless. He walked away upon the Moor 
 by himself ; and when he was far off and alone, he prayed 
 about the matter. Then he returned home comforted 
 and ready to allay Philip's rage when the opportunity 
 arose.
 
 302 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Unfortunately the day had worse things in store for 
 Ouldsbroom. Upon this unhappy hour, by most mal- 
 evolent chance, came Tiger with his warning. He had 
 debated long, but felt that further delay was treason to 
 Unity and her son. He could not appreciate her argu- 
 ment, yet had wit to see sense in it. The very storm into 
 which Philip had fallen when the matter came to him 
 was proof, so Tiger thought, that some ill to Martin must 
 happen from his continued stay. Therefore he nerved 
 himself to depart, and in this hour declared his pur- 
 pose. 
 
 Philip came to him somewhat calmer, and told him of 
 the thing that had happened ; whereupon Tiger laughed. 
 
 "The job wasn't done," he said. "I've got a way of 
 breaking the heart of a bit of work, then going all over 
 it again. That ground was set aside for to-morrow morn. 
 If you'd looked upon it after noon o' Thursday, you'd 
 have seen a very different sight. ' ' 
 
 "And didn't I know it?" 
 
 * ' But here 's a good time and chance to go back to what 
 fell out when Miss Hext went. I must go ; yes, I must 
 go, master. There's more reasons than one that I 
 should." 
 
 "Didn't I shut your mouth last time you said that?" 
 
 Tiger laughed. 
 
 "Ay; and you threatened to do so again wi' your fist. 
 But I know you'll not be rough. You'm the wisest man 
 in these parts and have got the biggest heart; and I've 
 heard you say that the greatest good to the greatest 
 number be your rule of life. Well, so I must go — for 
 the greatest good to the greatest number. 'Tis so, and 
 if you'll consider, you'll know 'tis so. I can't say what 
 I owe you. I can 't even think upon it. 'Tis beyond words 
 to measure or deeds to pay again. And I ban't going 
 to return evil for good. I see my duty and I'm 
 going." 
 
 "I've heard you patient — amazing patient," answered 
 the elder. "And if you knew what was tormenting me 
 at this moment, you'd wonder at my patience; but now 
 vou'll hear me. I'll not let vou go. You've come to be
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 303 
 
 to me more than a hind — far more than a pair of hands 
 working for wages. I've seen you grow from child to 
 man. I 've put into you all the Avisdom and all the friend- 
 ship for folk in general that I 've got myself. I 've made 
 you see life the right way — same as I see it. All that 
 I've done. And so it comes about that you're well 
 thought upon by everybody, as you deserve to be. But 
 you shan't leave me — you can't, Tiger. 'T wouldn't be 
 decent, boy ; 'twouldn 't be honourable. The chap I 've 
 
 taught to think as you think — the chap I've you 
 
 can 't turn your back on me — I say you can 't do it. ' ' 
 
 "No ; God knows that, ' ' said the youth warmly. ' ' Turn 
 my back on you ! I 'd sooner make a hole in the water. 
 Who be I to dare lift my eyes to your goodness ? You 're 
 as much above us all as — there, this be cruel. Don't I 
 know what you are? And shan't I always be proud to 
 black your boots to my dying day? And don't I know 
 right well there's not a man in Postbridge worthy to do 
 it? But that's all by the question. I must go. I must. 
 I won't live for myself in this matter. I'm outside your 
 life — much though you are to me. And there's others 
 inside it. And 'tis for them I 'm going ; but for you first 
 — for you first, master. 'Tis a seemly thing. But not 
 far off — always ready and thankful to do your bidding 
 if you call to me." 
 
 "My bidding is that you put this trash out of your 
 brain. There's no sense in it — nought but the folly of a 
 woman who ought to know better. Ban't I the soul of 
 justice? Should I do wrong or lift you up into the place 
 that belongs to my own ? 'Tis a gashly insult and a sin 
 against me to think I could do it; and I'll never be the 
 same to her again — never. But that's not for your ear. 
 I order you to stop — I order you. ' ' 
 
 "No, master, you mustn't do that." 
 
 "Then I beg it — I sink the mastership — I'd scorn to 
 remind you of what's gone. You know in your heart 
 where your duty lies ; but I don 't touch duty. I say as 
 a friend — man to man ; I say ' Stop, please. Tiger. Please, 
 Tiger, stop along with me. ' ' ' 
 
 "I can't; it wouldn't never do — never — not now."
 
 304 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Still the other was patient and pleaded. 
 
 "A good few have turned against me of lat&-*God 
 knows why. 'Tis a terrible sober generation, and a merry 
 
 chap like me, as sometimes takes a drop too much 
 
 There's sour looks here and there. Perhaps I haven't 
 got any real friend now — none but you — you and my own 
 folk. But even they — at times, you know. Of course 
 you know — what don't you know? And now she's gone 
 — Barbara ' ' 
 
 There was a silence; then Tiger shook his head and 
 picked up his spade. 
 
 " 'Twill be better I should go — ^you'll say so pres- 
 ently." 
 
 "You can go after my kneeling to you — ^kneeling to 
 you to stop ? " 
 
 ' * I must. 'Tis awful hard for me too. ' ' 
 
 "Go then! Go — and may hell clap close on you, and 
 every devil in it hunt you to your dying day so soon 
 as you be past them gates! Go — pack your fardel and 
 begone — and never — never see my face no more, you 
 canker, you blight ! Go — and get better money — go and 
 get a kinder friend — go and win your reward — like Judas 
 afore you. Sell yourself — and then hang yourself and 
 sink out of the sight of honest men. And keep my name 
 off your blasted lips for ever! Not one man left — not 
 one — that's fired by common gratitude in all this world! 
 'Tis left to the dogs to feel it. And if they'd said to me 
 that Tiger's like the rest, I'd have struck 'em to the 
 earth with this hand. ' ' 
 
 "I teU you " 
 
 "Don't you answer. Shut your mouth. You've said 
 enough. I never want to hear your voice again. In- 
 gratitude made alive — ingTatitude on a man's legs walk- 
 ing the streets for childer to spit at! 'Benefits forgot' 
 shall be your name — a thankless thing — a thankless 
 thing — worse than hate — worse than murder — worse, 
 worse to me than the darkest evil in the darkest heart of 
 living man." 
 
 Ouldsbroom seemed to sweep the other away, with a 
 great gesture of his arm flung out from the shoulder.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 305 
 
 Tiger did not reply. He went on digging, and his 
 master passed out of sight. 
 
 That evening, according to the custom of the house, 
 Unity, her husband, and the two youths, sat together 
 in the kitchen after supper. The time was nine o'clock; 
 the cloud hung heavy and storm-f reighted ; silence held 
 them all. Then Philip broke it. 
 
 "Get the Bible," he said to Tiger. "You'm my ser- 
 vant still ; and for your month you shall work and obey. 
 I '11 not mar you — don 't fear that — a very good character 
 you shall have from me. But orders be orders. Read 
 out the sixth of Job at my command. ' ' 
 
 Tiger obeyed, and all listened. Unity was working, 
 but her husband told her to set down her needle. 
 
 The poet's despairing grief throbbed upon their ears, 
 and none spoke when Tiger had finished. 
 
 "Now read the tenth," said Philip. "Time was when 
 I laughed at Barbara Hext for making me cleave to Job. 
 I little thought that him and me would one day be birds 
 of a feather. Read the tenth. 
 
 Tiger obeyed. 
 
 " 'A land of darkness, as darkness itself; and of the 
 shadow of death, without any order, and where the light 
 is as darkness.' " 
 
 He finished, and turned his eyes to his master ques- 
 tioning. 
 
 "Now go — the pair of you," said Philip. "Get you 
 to your beds and chew on it — and if it don't stab, it ought 
 to. 'Where the light is as darkness' — remember that's 
 in an old man's heart." 
 
 They went away silently, and Unity marshalled her 
 wits to soothe him. But he was in no mood to hear her 
 then. 
 
 "You'm of the other side," he said. "You'm the 
 captain of the enemy. Us '11 be all above board and 
 fair. I don't blame you. Unity. You think you are 
 right. Where you're consarned I'm terrible easy and 
 always shall be. But you're wrong — wrong — and, be it 
 as 'twill, you can't work with me and against me. Go 
 straight. Crookedness is the only thing I can't forgive. 
 
 20
 
 306 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Myself be my only company henceforth; you can't 
 neighbour with me in this matter, for the trouble is your 
 breeding. ' ' 
 
 She tried to stay him ; but he wandered afield and did 
 not return home until after midnight. He came back 
 happier. Out of the turmoil of his spirit had risen a 
 great hope. It was agony to him to think of losing Tiger ; 
 yet he saw now that only one being looked strong enough 
 to change Tiger's determination. And that one was 
 most involved by it. From Philip's mind vanished the 
 heart-tearing scenes of that day. He forgot alike what 
 he had suffered and what he had inflicted. His new 
 inspiration thrust all else into the oblivion of the past. 
 
 ''I'll go to Martin — I'll ask Martin — I'll call upon 
 Martin to stand up for his father ! ' ' 
 
 He said this over and over to himself as he turned 
 sleepless by his sleeping wife ; and he longed for another 
 day to come that his appeal might be advanced.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 Soon after light had dawned, Philip was up, and before 
 six he tramped his farmyard and awaited the appearance 
 of Martin. The boy rose early always, but the time 
 seemed long to Ouldsbroom, and presently he went round 
 the house and called up through Martin's open window. 
 
 "Come you down," he said. "I want to speak with 
 you." 
 
 Five minutes later they walked together on the Moor. 
 The morning was dark and still. The heath seemed as 
 yet unawakened and mist hung over the high lands. 
 
 " 'Tis this. Tiger be set upon leaving us. I'm very 
 much troubled along of it, and I dressed him down 
 properly yesterday for daring to think of such a hateful 
 thing. But sense came in the dark of night under the 
 stars, as it often does to fiery men like me. There's a 
 reason for what he's done, and the reason have brought 
 me to you. Your careful mother — I don't blame her 
 neither — she's jealous for you. And ban't I? She's in 
 fear of the future. A verj^ bitter blow to a man like me 
 to be mistrusted in anything. But this — this is worse 
 than gall, because you're the matter. Ban't you as much 
 to me as to her ? Haven 't I done so much for you as her ? 
 I know she understands you best, because in understand- 
 ing of the human heart her equal 's not left in Postbridge 
 now Barbara be gone. But ban 't you my son too ? Ban 't 
 I loyal and true to you as well as her? Answer that, 
 Martin." 
 
 "Always, father." 
 
 "Very well then. And ban't I to be trusted to do 
 what's honest and right by you? Is it within the mind 
 
 307
 
 308 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 of any that know me, to think I'd pass you by for 
 another, or let another come between you and what's 
 lawfully yours?" 
 
 " I 'm sure not. ' ' 
 
 "Thank you, Martin. I thank you for that. You're 
 my son, and dearer far to me than any living creature 
 after your mother. I'm a very reasonable, steadfast 
 man, Martin. Staunch to you — staunch to you; and if 
 I've my impatience and hard words — what is it? No 
 more than the wind in the trees. And now this here 
 Tiger. I can't move him. But you — don't you let him 
 go, Martin. Don't you let him go away from me. I 
 care a lot about him. I've made him. I'm proud of 
 him, because he's a rare good un, and he understands 
 me and my ways. And I couldn't part with him. You'm 
 growing so strong and trustworthy now — such a man — 
 
 that perhaps you Will you be my side, Martin? 
 
 There 'tis in a word. And to be honest, it have cost me 
 something to ax it." 
 
 "He shall stop if I can make him," said the boy 
 thoughtfully. "If you was to tell mother what you've 
 told me " 
 
 "I'll tell her nothing! I'm proud — damned proud; 
 and if I wasn't, I'd wish to be. For her, who knows me 
 better than anybody in the world — for her to doubt me ! 
 . . . There — leave that. You're my side. And when 
 ever was heard that a good son wasn't his father's side? 
 Don't I know best?" 
 
 "Tiger shall stop if I can make him," repeated the 
 boy. "He shan't go, father. 'Tis natural that you 
 should set store by him. There's a lot of usefulness in 
 him." 
 
 "And good in him — a lot of good in him. 'Twas a 
 sort of silly goodness that made him want to go. I swear 
 that, Martin." 
 
 "I believe it was. Still, he could get higher wages 
 somewhere else. He'd think of that naturally. I 
 wouldn't blame him either." 
 
 "Wouldn't you? But I would. Curse wages! 'Tis 
 an unclean thought betv/een me and him ; and he knows
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 300 
 
 it; and if I believed 'twas wages was drawing him, I'd 
 let him go and help him to go with my boot. Wages 
 — wages — the minds of the people reek of wages and 
 nought else; and that's why I hate a good few of 'em. 
 But Tiger — no ; 'tisn 't his good but yours that was going 
 to take him away. And so I've had the terrible witty 
 thought to come to you. ' ' 
 
 "I'm your side about it, father. I like Tiger very 
 much. But if I try to make him stop, I must talk to 
 him. I'll be set over him when I come home for good 
 at Christmas. I'll be master then, under you." 
 
 "Of course you will. And them that pleasure you 
 will pleasure me. Have I made you what you are for 
 smaller men to flout you? You'll be my right hand, 
 and well I know it." 
 
 "Then, look here, father, I'm your side, and all I do 
 and all I say is for the good of Hartland, and for your 
 good. I'll be the best son I know how to be, and I want 
 you to believe in me." 
 
 ' ' Why not ? I shall believe in you — I do. ' ' 
 
 "Then I'll talk to Tiger, and I'll make it a subject of 
 prayer first." 
 
 "I want you to talk now. I can't wait while you go 
 praying. I must have this off my mind to-day — afore 
 breakfast — this instant moment." 
 
 "I'll see him then. I'll say straight what I think; 
 and I '11 remember what he is to you — I '11 remember that, 
 father." 
 
 "Don't forget you've growed up together. Don't 
 forget what a great man he thinks you are. He'd go to 
 the moon for you. Poor devil — don't he want to do even 
 what's harder for him, and go away from Hartland? I 
 saw it all in his face; even while I was white-hot and 
 cussing him to hell, I saw it. Not a word he answered. 
 He 's good, Martin. He 's a rare piece ! Deal gentle with 
 him. Remember — remember ! 'Twas him that went for 
 the doctor when the snake bit you ; 'twas him that " 
 
 "You needn't tell me these things, father. I never 
 forget a kindness that's done to me. And I'll speak to 
 mother too — if you'll let me."
 
 310 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 " I '11 let you do what you please. I 'm proud of your 
 sense. Thank you, Martin ; shake hands, Martin. You've 
 took a weight off my shoulders — a weight heavier than 
 I'd care to own to. I'm getting old, I suppose — not 
 real old yet, thank God — but getting on. And 'tis right, 
 with white hairs, that a father should trust to his son's 
 shoulder sometimes. This is a very good day — to be 
 marked with a white stone, as they say. Thank you, 
 my son. I'm terrible beholden to you. Make him stay; 
 and for God's sake get it done afore breakfast. Then I 
 can eat again. You'll find him milking." 
 
 " 'Tis breakfast time now." 
 
 ' ' Damn breakfast ! Get to him — quick ! I 'm on thorns 
 till you've handled him. Tell him how 'tis with me — 
 though well he knows it. He'll be down on his own luck, 
 poor toad. You won't need to ax twice, I reckon." 
 
 They parted, and Martin went where Tiger might be 
 found, while Ouldsbroom looked at his watch and calcu- 
 lated, like a child, on the length of time that must elapse 
 before the desired thing was done. He sat on a stone 
 and watched the minute hand crawl. 
 
 "Now they'm together," he thought; "now Martin's 
 begun on him ; now Tiger 's answering. I '11 give 'em ten 
 good minutes, if I can stick it so long; then I'll go down." 
 
 He rose, and strode this way and that. Then he heard, 
 thin and far away below, his wife's voice at the farm- 
 house door. 
 
 ' ' Breaksis ! Breaksis ! Breaksis ! ' ' she cried. 
 
 Meantime Martin spoke with Tiger where the latter 
 sat on a milking-stool at work. 
 
 The shallow vein of sentiment that belonged to Unity's 
 son still persisted, and as yet life had not dried up the 
 trickle of it. He felt for his father in this matter, and 
 if slight, his emotion was genuine. The inevitable battle 
 of wills between Ouldsbroom and this boy had yet to 
 come. For the present Martin was flattered by his fan- 
 cied father's praise and by the great commission upon 
 which he now found himself. His mother also came into 
 his mind, and for the future he feared nothing. She and
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 311 
 
 he, between them, were strong enough to control the 
 master of Hartland. He felt sanguine even of Oulds- 
 broom in that hour. He trusted that Philip would rely- 
 more and more upon him. He remembered the voice of 
 Mr. Twigg, and believed that it might yet be his proud 
 privilege to save an erring parent's soul. 
 
 In an exalted frame of mind he came upon his errand ; 
 but the fervour waned and he quickly grew businesslike 
 and practical. 
 
 ' ' Good morning, Tiger. Go on milking. I can talk. I 
 want you, please, to listen to a rather serious thing. I 've 
 just been hearing my father about you. He 's very much 
 troubled as to what fell out between you and him yes- 
 terday. ' ' 
 
 "Can't be more than what I am," answered the other. 
 " I '11 swear I woke up twice in the night. ' ' 
 
 "You oughtn't to go from here, and you mustn't go." 
 
 "You say that!" 
 
 ' ' Yes, Tiger. This is rather beyond me altogether and 
 I 'm a bit helpless over it. But I think I understand how 
 it is. You see there's mother on one side and my father 
 on the other, and I'm between. Mother thinks that my 
 father is too fond of you and might shut me out come 
 presently; but I don't think so. He's a very wild sort 
 of man, because he 's got no religion ; but I 've never 
 heard that he did anything not honourable. Have you ? ' ' 
 
 "He couldn't — no more than I could jump over Hart- 
 land Tor." 
 
 "So I've told him I'll ask you to stop. I trust you, 
 Tiger. I know what you are to him. I'm pretty quick 
 at seeing. He comes to you for a lot of things that I 
 can't give him; because if I know he's wrong, I won't 
 say I think he's right. And he comes to you for sport- 
 ing; and old as he is, sporting is a lot to him, because his 
 mind is rather simple. I 'm not saying anything unkind. 
 There's many like him. I suppose you'll be the same. 
 He comes to you. Tiger, for what I can't give him; and 
 therefore you 'd better stay. ' ' 
 
 "What about missis?" 
 
 ' ' Mother will see it when I put it to her. ' '
 
 312 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "I'll stay if she says 'Stay,' but not else. I'd rather 
 face his rage than her," 
 
 "Then you'll stay," said Martin. "Mother and I 
 always agree. I'm very glad. And now, hear me, Tiger. 
 I don't want to set myself up over you, or anything like 
 that. We've all got our faults — me as many as another; 
 but Providence has a way of letting us see the truth 
 about one another, though it hides the truth from us 
 about ourselves. And we ought to tell one another and 
 bear one another's burdens and point out one another's 
 faults. And we oughtn 't to take it in bad part. ' ' 
 
 ' ' That 's all right, ' ' answered the elder. 
 
 "When I come home for good at Christmas," con- 
 tinued Martin, "I'm going to speak to father straight. 
 I shall be in my right to do it then ; because I shall take 
 up my duty in the world and do what I was called to do. 
 And my father must tell me about the will he's made 
 and have no secrets from me. I've done my duty at 
 school, Tiger, and worked hard to profit by all my 
 parents have done for me; and when I come home, 'tis 
 my pride to think they'll see their trouble wasn't wasted. 
 I 'm going to take a lot of work off my father 's shoulders ; 
 and I must hear about the money, and how it is to be left 
 for mother, and where I stand and so on. That's right 
 and justice — especially with a man like my father. He 
 owes it to me and mother, because his way of life is un- 
 even, and he may come to grief some day in his cups." 
 
 ' ' You '11 have to be terrible clever to win round him. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I know where to look for the cleverness, Tiger. We 'II 
 leave that, because that's my business and not yours. 
 Now about you; I put it to you whether you mightn't 
 work a bit harder for your money. What d'you think?" 
 
 Tiger laughed. 
 
 "Who mightn't come to that?" he said. "But no 
 doubt 'tis so. He'd spoil the devil — master would." 
 
 " I '11 say this. Don 't go off sporting with him so often. 
 Now 'tis shooting, now 'tis fishing, now 'tis to draw a 
 badger, now to see hounds meet. Let him go alone. He 's 
 old, and there 's no harm in him slacking off. I want him 
 to slack off when I come back — the more the better. He
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 313 
 
 was never called upon to work very hard in his life, or 
 want for money, and he'll never know what real hard 
 work or poverty is, I suppose, now. But vou — eh, 
 Tiger?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, I see. I've struggled against him, but never 
 was a man who less liked 'No' for an answer. I've got 
 into an easy way, I'm af eared. But I'll tighten up 
 against him if I can. I've felt troubled afore to-day, I 
 promise you. He lets t 'others work, but — well — 'tis al- 
 Avays 'Knock off and come along of me. Tiger.' And 
 then, again, there's my girl. 'Tis always, 'You pack away 
 over the hill to Mary — don't want you no more to-day.' 
 And where a sweetheart's in the wind, a chap be weak. 
 He do so dearly love to see everybody having a good 
 time. " * 
 
 "Not everybody," corrected Martin. "I've watched 
 his way, of course, and I mark he's a terrible hand at 
 making favourites. He never tells Will Rogers to knock 
 off — more likely he'll use coarse words to him for being 
 idle. He's not all of a piece, my father. But you're 
 different, and you know very well what a day's work 
 ought to be. ' ' 
 
 Tiger did not immediately reply, A flutter of indig- 
 nation lifted his breast, but he stilled it. He wondered 
 how long he would stop at Hartland after Philip passed 
 therefrom; and he knew that the days would be few. 
 For the present, however, he was very thankful to re- 
 main. 
 
 "You've spoken and I've heard," he answered at 
 length; "you'll not have to speak again. 'Tis all sound 
 sense and reason that you say. And I thank you for 
 showing me what I knew already for that matter. I've 
 been wrong here and there. But I'll right the wrong so 
 far as I see how." 
 
 "Thank you very much indeed. Tiger. I know well 
 what a good chap you are — and clever too. There's only 
 one more thing. I do wish you'd try to go with my 
 father when he buys. That 's the dangerous time. ' ' 
 
 "It is," admitted the other, "and that's just when he 
 never will have me. Always finds two men's work for
 
 314 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 me when he 's off to market. Tender ground there. But 
 I'll do what I may." 
 
 It was then that Unity cried aloud and bade them to 
 breakfast. Tiger had been milking while he talked, and 
 now, with two pails, he returned beside Martin. 
 
 "I'll go forward and tell them," said the younger; 
 and when Tiger had washed his hands and come to table, 
 he found Philip in great spirits and full of noisy re- 
 joicings. 
 
 "You young dog!" he shouted. "And so Martin's 
 cleverness brought you to reason — eh 1 Well I knew he 'd 
 soon get the length of your shoe, though I couldn 't. But 
 never you say such things to me again, or I '11 wring your 
 neck for you ! ' ' 
 
 He chattered, ate mightily, and planned a whole holi- 
 day for Tiger and himself. 
 
 ' ' Us '11 keep you company, Martin, ' ' he said. ' ' Us '11 go 
 up over after the snipe and have a proper bit of fun. 
 Fog's lifting very clever, and we'm like to have a grand 
 day. And mother — dammy if mother shan't come too! 
 You'll have the pony, mother. I'll take no denial — none 
 at all. 'Tis years since you was that way, and a breath 
 of air will do you a world of good. You look after the 
 meat and I '11 get the bottles, and you chaps can carry 'em, 
 for I shall have my gun. And Barbara would forgive 
 us— she'd be glad. Not a mourning band she allowed. 
 She ordered me not to put one on afore she died. ' ' 
 
 He insisted upon his plan, and departed soon with 
 Tiger to leave directions for the day's work after they 
 should be gone. To the youth he turned then, and put 
 out his hand. He did not speak, but shook and shook. 
 
 "Never you dare again!" said Philip at last; and 
 neither dwelt more upon the subject. 
 
 Unity, albeit her own purpose had thus failed, cared 
 little before the exposition of her son's dawning power. 
 It came as a revelation to her and caused her great com- 
 fort. Martin's tact and strength of mind impressed her 
 deeply. They pointed the way to future peace by a road 
 she had never considered. That her son would develop 
 resources great enough to cow and restrain her husband.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 315 
 
 was a possibility beyond her hopes. Yet now the thing 
 looked within reason and likelihood. True it was that 
 Martin had only done what his father begged him to do 
 — a course not difficult ; but the significant circumstance 
 was that Philip should have appealed to Martin ; that he 
 should have exalted Martin to this task; that he should 
 not hesitate to admit that Martin had succeeded where 
 himself had failed. She was gratified and even light- 
 hearted when she thought upon these things. 
 
 Then Martin himself approached his mother concern- 
 ing an ambition now grown great to him. Three days 
 before he returned to school, he asked her to come for a 
 walk and invited her to consider an idea. 
 
 "I was talking with Mr. Twigg on Monday. He's 
 infirm now, and I think it cheers him up to see me, be- 
 cause I 'm serious. So I visit him. And he was on at me 
 about the Little Baptists; and, somehow, to me they do 
 seem more real and alive in a sort of way than our people 
 at the church. There's more tire in them and I — well, 
 suppose I was to say I'd much like to join them and go 
 
 back to the people you ? You was a Little Baptist 
 
 yourself, mother. How would you like to go back to 
 them? I only ask to hear how the thought strikes you. 
 I wouldn't do it if you didn't like it." 
 
 She did not immediately answer. Memory's veil lifted 
 for her; more than twenty years rolled away while the 
 boy spoke; she saw herself again, a maiden standing be- 
 side Henry Birdwood and singing out of his hymn-book. 
 She remembered the shape and the colour of his thumb 
 upon the page. 
 
 " 'Tis all much the same to me, I think — now," she 
 answered presently. "I wouldn't say but 'tis a very 
 natural thing that you should feel this come over you — 
 yes, a very natural thing." 
 
 ' ' You don 't hold it wrong in me to hanker to change ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Nothing wrong surely. The Crymes folk was always 
 that way of thinking. Leave it till you come home, Mar- 
 tin. Then, if you'm still set on it, I'll go back with you. 
 'Twould be old ground to me. Yes, I'd go back." 
 
 Her easiness lightened his mind.
 
 316 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 *'IVe been a good bit troubled by it," he confessed; 
 "and I'm sorry now that I didn't speak to you quicker. 
 There's none so wise and large-minded as you, mother. 
 D'you think 'tis in the bounds of hope that we'll ever 
 get father to come ? ' ' 
 
 "I'd have said 'never' ten days agone," she answered; 
 "but noAV, knowing what I know, and seeing as the old 
 grow weak and the young get strong, I'll not say that 
 anything — not even such a thing — is outside the bounds 
 of hope."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Younger boys were sometimes wont to come to Martin 
 Ouldsbroom when in trouble ; but none ever approached 
 him with their joys. He moved through his school-life 
 soberly and with credit. His ability was not remarkable, 
 but he worked hard and stood high in the school when 
 the time came for leaving it. He played games and 
 played them well, yet not with all his heart. Success or 
 failure at cricket and football left him indifferent. En- 
 thusiasm he had, but it was spent on other things. His 
 patriotism belonged to matters of religion and was hid- 
 den from the eyes of his fellows ; his thrift he could not 
 hide, and it made him enemies. His masters thought 
 well of him, yet found him uninteresting, colourless, and 
 a prig. He gave them no trouble, and they slighted him 
 accordingly. He lacked humour and the power to cajole 
 or charm. 'The Sabbath of his mind required no levities,' 
 and he moved in a sort of twilight of reserve and self- 
 contentment. The passions and sensations that came to 
 other young men appeared to pass him by. He hid what 
 nature made him feel ; he asked for no light upon novel 
 emotions; but he was always glad to throw light for 
 others, and liked nothing better than to spend a half- 
 holiday with the smaller boys and improve their Imow- 
 ledge. His instruction was quite sound, and if he did 
 not know the answer to a question, he always confessed 
 his ignorance. At the end of his school-days he often 
 read prayers, and sometimes he took a junior class at his 
 own wish. He was arid and lacked sympathy. He in- 
 culcated habits of self-control in the matter of food and 
 pocket-money, and his advice left smaller boys cold. 
 
 317
 
 318 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 His career seemed pretty clearly defined in the eyes of 
 his masters. They feared nothing for him; neither did 
 they hope much. His agricultural life promised to be 
 uneventful and prosperous. His probity and justice 
 would be balanced against a lack of humanism and toler- 
 ance with the faulty human machine. They trusted that 
 life would soften him and make a fine man of him; but 
 his lack of imagination promised to come betw^een him 
 and any right understanding of mankind. They won- 
 dered what were his temptations, but could not guess. 
 One sanguine usher suspected that a woman might save 
 the situation ; but the idea was ridiculed. Martin 's 
 solitary revelation of himself was greed; and love of 
 woman is not potent to cleanse that impurity. 
 
 So he reached the close of his school-life, and chance 
 willed that it should be shortened by a fortnight. 
 
 There came a telegram from Postbridge at the earliest 
 possible moment on a Sunday three weeks before Christ- 
 mas, and Martin was shocked to learn that his mother 
 had fallen dangerously ill. 
 
 For once emotion did mark his action; he departed 
 as swiftly as possible and omitted all amenities before 
 setting out. The telegram found him coming from school 
 chapel, and he rushed away before breakfast and drove 
 home as fast as a horse could take him. 
 
 Philip was waiting for Martin half way down the cart- 
 road from Hartland. He carried his right hand in a 
 sling, and two heavy strips of sticking plaster crossed his 
 left cheek. He was haggard and stricken. His great 
 shoulders had bowed of late ; his voice was broken. 
 
 "List to me," he said, "and hear the w^orst from him 
 who did it. Your mother 's in no danger for the moment. 
 She may live, but she's very bad, and she may die. For 
 my part I know she'll live, because for her to die of this 
 would be the awfullest thing that ever happened on 
 earth. 'Tis too awful to happen — that's what I tell my- 
 self over and over." 
 
 ' ' Was it an accident ? ' ' 
 
 " 'Twas an accident brought about by me. I ban't 
 going to hide any of it, though no doubt she'll try to.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 319 
 
 Yesterday I drove her into Tavistock market. By evening 
 I got very drunk, along of meeting a man I thought was 
 dead. Such was my joy about it, that I took enough 
 for half a dozen, and then, when mother wanted to drive, 
 I wouldn't let her. I very near got back, but just afore 
 you come to Postbridge it happened. I ran into the wall 
 going down the hill and killed my boss. Us was thrown 
 out, and I thought she was gone. I shouted, and a man 
 or two came along. They carried her home, and she 
 comed to presently. Then they sent for doctor, and 
 he was here all night along with her. He can 't say much 
 yet, but he don't like it. As for me, I comed off very 
 near scot free, as drunken men will. My elbow was put 
 out and my leg torn and my face scratched. That was 
 all. I needn't tell you what I feel about this here. I 
 be going to take the pledge — God's my judge if I don't — 
 the day she's out of danger." 
 
 They went in together. Mrs. Dury was waiting on 
 the sufferer, and Martin could not see his mother im- 
 mediately, for she slumbered. He asked for food, be- 
 cause he was hungry. Then, since his mother was still 
 in peaceful sleep, he went out and spoke with Tiger. 
 
 "You needn't mind telling me everything," he said. 
 "My father has made a clean breast of it." 
 
 "He meant to tell you everything himself. 'Tis a 
 cruel bad job all round. None can throw a ray of light 
 for him if you can't. I hope 'twas in your power to 
 comfort him a thought ? ' ' 
 
 "I didn't try to," answered Martin. "You must re- 
 member how I felt myself. I've got my religion, and 
 at times like this we know the meaning of it. But how 
 can I comfort my father?" 
 
 "I hope and pray missis will live. Mr. Ouldsbroom 
 be sure she will." 
 
 "That's his way always. And I hope — for his sake 
 before even my own — that mother will live. I knew 
 some terrible thing would happen sooner or later; but 
 
 I little thought 'Tis the curse of wickedness. Tiger,. 
 
 that the punishment often falls on the innocent." 
 
 "He's punished enough. The very dogs see it. They
 
 320 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 go wagging their tails to him to try and cheer him up 
 as he passes by. If your mother is took off, you'll have 
 to watch him close. ' ' 
 
 "But he swears she is going to live." 
 
 '' 'Tis all bluster to hide himself. Only doctor knows, 
 and he 's not over hopeful. He told me. ' ' 
 
 "I can't think of this place without mother. Such a 
 life — such a life to be thrown away — at least not that — 
 to be called away. Prayers must be offered up at church 
 and chapel to-night, Tiger. ' ' 
 
 ' ' They prayed for her in church to-day, for that matter 
 — so Eogers told me. ' ' 
 
 "Not my father's work?" 
 
 "No; her own. She explained to Betty Dury last 
 night that she was very wishful to live if it pleased God ; 
 and she axed Betty to have the prayers of the people 
 called for. I went down this morning to parson with the 
 message. ' ' 
 
 The arrival of a medical man cut short their confer- 
 ence. Tiger took his horse and Martin entered the house 
 with him. 
 
 Mrs. Ouldsbroom was seen, and her husband and son 
 waited for the report. Guarded hope marked it, but they 
 learned that time must elapse before any definite pro- 
 nouncement for good or evil could be made. 
 
 Martin spent half an hour with his mother, and found 
 her very calm, very weak, and free from pain. Herself 
 she was not sanguine. Her mind continued clear, and 
 she spoke not of the past, but the future. Unity indicated 
 to her son the way his course must lie. 
 
 "Be patient with him," she said. "All I can say in 
 that matter is 'Be patient.' You've larned the art of 
 that from me, Martin, and when you'm sore driven and 
 galled by the poor man, remember me and my word." 
 
 She broke off and presently spoke again. 
 
 "And be in no haste to wed. Plenty of time for that. 
 Go slow and get well into the saddle here. Let your 
 father see that you know what you are talking about; 
 show him gradual that the new is better than the old. 
 Don't press him too far home, but ease off when he begins
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 321 
 
 to get restive. Remember that he's never quite grown 
 up, so to say, and he never will now. You'm clever at 
 humouring children. So you must be clever with him." 
 
 He said nothing, but listened to her. 
 
 "And let money be a servant, not a master, Martin, 
 Don't you let it rule over you. You must rule over it. 
 You'll marry presently. But I say again, be in no haste 
 to do that. Choose one that feels as you do yourself 
 and ban't too worldly nor yet too fond of herself. Choose 
 one who's seen the rough edge a bit and don't come 
 straight out of a warm nest. Choose a girl that knows 
 work and the worth of it. Let her be one you feel can 
 help you where you want help. Don 't shut her out from 
 helping. The happy wife's most always the helpful one. " 
 
 An expression of pain crossed her face. Martin's 
 brow furrowed and he reflected the suffering. 
 
 "Don't you talk if it hurts you. mother." 
 
 "Hold my hand," she said. "And be so gentle with 
 people as you've always been with me, Martin. Don't 
 be stiff-necked. Try to find out what's good in the 
 neighbours, and if you can't, blame yourself, not 
 them. There's good in all; and the true Christian is 
 him that has the wit to find it, no matter what dross 
 overlays it. Be gentle to your father. This is worse for 
 him than us." 
 
 Unity's talk became incoherent, and she suddenly 
 realised that she was wandering. Therefore she spoke no 
 more. 
 
 ' ' Go now, ' ' she said, ' ' and tell Betty to come in. ' ' 
 
 "I'm seeking Mr. Twigg to ask for them to pray for 
 you at the Little Baptists to-night." 
 
 She smiled on him and he went away. 
 
 Philip, Martin, and Tiger ate together presently, and 
 the meal was taken in silence. 
 
 Martin indeed began to talk, but Ouldsbroom bade 
 him desist. 
 
 ' ' 'Tis no good pretending, ' ' he said. ' ' You mean well ; 
 but there's only one subject in our minds, and 'tis 
 treason to try and get away from it." 
 
 He was unshaved, and Martin noticed that his chin 
 
 21
 
 322 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 had upon it silvery bristles. His right arm was useless 
 at present, and Tiger cut his meat small for him, so that 
 he might eat with his fork. Philip drank nothing but 
 water. 
 
 "I wish to God the old doctor had lived to carry- 
 through this job," he said suddenly. "This man be too 
 young for such a life-and-death matter. I'd have felt a 
 deal more hopeful in Dickinson's hands." 
 
 "Mr. Forde is very clever for certain," declared Martin. 
 "And, remember, he said just before he went, that he 
 would have another opinion to-morrow. He's written to 
 Plymouth." 
 
 "The world's in the hands of the young now, seem- 
 ingly. God knows it ban't for me to grumble neither — 
 not after my work yesterday." 
 
 He rose abruptly and left them. 
 
 "Keep him in sight, Tiger," advised Martin. "I'm 
 going to walk up and see Mr. Twigg. And to-night I'm 
 going to help watch over mother. ' ' 
 
 Unity Ouldsbroom had leisure for thought before her 
 case was determined, and she brooded with herself over 
 many things. The past homed upon her and she lived in 
 it. Again and again she turned from them, but the 
 vanished j^ears fastened upon her spirit; the secret of 
 her life came out of memory and huddled its wings close 
 round about her. It was insistent, imperious, almost 
 visible and articulate. It cried to be answered and pro- 
 claimed. It clamoured to be voiced by her and she had 
 to begin to fight it. An instinct to speak and tell her 
 husband the truth wakened in her and set her shudder- 
 ing physically. The nurse feared a rigor, and guessed 
 that she was worse. Unity put this temptation from her, 
 but it returned. She began to doubt her strength; she 
 dreaded sleep. A suspicion settled upon her that at the 
 last she might speak, ere death hid up all for ever. Re- 
 gret the truth she did not. It was incarnate in the form 
 of her son — the most precious experience that life had 
 brought to her. 
 
 Birdwood rose from his grave and came to Unity then. 
 She saw him as a motionless, watchful creature amid
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 323 
 
 the other watchers. She was indifferent, and neither 
 welcomed nor repelled the shadow of him. 
 
 A second physician presently visited her and gave 
 some hope ; but two days later serious symptoms appeared 
 and an operation became necessary. It was performed, 
 and the patient sank under it. She continued conscious 
 to the end; Martin never left her; Philip came and 
 went. Like a shadow he stalked the farmyard and the 
 wild places round about. He saw darkness roll over the 
 eastern hills and light fade above the west. They called 
 him at last, when the evening star glittered above Broad 
 Down from out a dim green sky. Then sable-footed, 
 gentle, swift came the December night that saw the end 
 of Unity Ouldsbroom. 
 
 She could speak, and her mind was clear and collected. 
 Her breath grew fainter, and sometimes she smiled. 
 Martin was close to her and talked to her. He repeated 
 texts from Scripture. He did not look at Philip, but 
 kept his eyes on his mother. 
 
 In her mind was still a strife, still an uncertainty. Her 
 problem centred round Martin's future, and she won- 
 dered whether revelation would mar it, or make it a finer 
 thing. She had never anticipated this great problem, 
 and came upon it now too sick to see all that a decision 
 involved. That confession must for ever ruin her own 
 repute did not trouble her. She cared nothing for that. 
 Nor did she suffer Philip to influence her now. Once 
 she thought of whispering the truth to Martin. But 
 she guessed that he would not keep it a secret after she 
 was gone. Then she remembered his instincts and be- 
 lieved that possibly he might hide it. To put such an 
 ordeal upon him was not just or necessary ; yet to know 
 the secret might influence his w^hole life for good. 
 She battled with the problem, and no conclusion 
 came. Twenty-four hours before her death she still 
 doubted. 
 
 Time swept onward, and the last minutes of her life 
 ran out. The hour was near six o'clock in the evening, 
 and her son sat beside Unity and held her hand. He 
 pressed it, but she could not press back.
 
 324 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Elsewhere Tiger walked and strove with his master 
 and sought to abate his raving. 
 
 "What have I done for this to happen against me? 
 Tell me that. Let anybody tell me that. What devil 
 of a God would turn a man's hand against her he loved 
 best on the whole earth? If she's to die, I'll do such 
 things — I'll lay all waste — I'll fire the farm— I'll strike 
 
 back But there's no God — none — and this job proves 
 
 it." 
 
 He raged about, and then they called him, and he 
 came to his wife and grew silent in the shadow of death. 
 Unity passed away peacefully, with her husband's left 
 arm round her and her hand in Martin's. 
 
 She died dumb.
 
 BOOK IV 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 The petrific hands of frost were laid on Dartmoor in 
 the winter that saw Unity Ouldsbroom die. The waste 
 was frozen to its heart, and days of low, weak sunshine 
 and nights of starry cold followed monotonously upon 
 each other. By iU chance, little work called for Philip's 
 hand to do, and he had the more leisure to feed on misery. 
 
 The man suffered as he had not suffered until now. 
 His nature was such that remorse ate him alive. He 
 could not bear the sight of his fellows, and spent most of 
 his time roaming the hibernal wilderness alone. He 
 flouted the harsh cold, and would have been well content 
 to perish. The thought of self-destruction, indeed, 
 haunted him, and he came near it more than once. He 
 lost all touch with life. There seemed a barrier lifted 
 between him and reality. He moved in a dream; he 
 could not hear voices ; his son and the folk of Hartland 
 were called upon to thrust his knife and fork into his 
 hands at meal-times and to tell him the hour was come 
 for going to bed. A woman, one Martha White, his 
 wife's right hand at Hartland for many years, had most 
 power over him. He associated her with Unity. He 
 skulked far from all human habitations and exhibited 
 shame. 
 
 "When he met tramps upon the roads — strange men — 
 he fell into speech with them, poured scorn and loathing 
 upon himself, told them that he was a murderer, and 
 explained how the crime had been committed. Then he 
 
 325
 
 326 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 would give them money and stride awa.y and leave them 
 staring. In time he sought these wanderers and won a 
 strange satisfaction from revealing to them all that he 
 had done and suffered. Sometimes another mood swept 
 over him; then he shook his fists at the sky and cursed 
 the unconscious universe and the gods supposed to con- 
 trol it. 
 
 On a day when the world was white with frost, all 
 roseal under the risen sun, Philip went out into the Moor. 
 The very spirit of light glittered from the facets of the 
 ice crystals and flashed for miles upon the rolling earth 
 around him. Cast out of the east, a horizontal radiance 
 lit the Moor and touched each candid hill with crimson. 
 This splendour faded into pale gold as the sun climbed 
 a cloudless sky. But deep blue shadows brooded in the 
 valleys, and Philip's own shade, cast forth before him, 
 struck darkness along his shining way. He went up 
 over Broad Down, then turned towards the west and 
 tramped heedless along, for the earth was hard as iron, 
 and might be traversed with safety anywhere save upon 
 the quaking hearts of moss-clad bogs that never froze. 
 
 Mapped with dry-built walls, ancient broker reaves, 
 tracklines, dykes and boundaries of old-time miners, the 
 white hills exhibited a network of man's industry 
 stretched over their bosoms. Some of these demarcations 
 spoke a doubtful history; some dated back no further 
 than Norman mining grants; and some were of yester- 
 day. 
 
 Near the upper waters of West Dart, upon the breast 
 of a lonely hill, Ouldsbroom passed by a ruin, known as 
 'Brown's House.' Local tradition declared that the 
 builder of this dwelling (sequestered here from the sight 
 of any other roof-tree) was a jealous husband who, for 
 the green-eyed passion, mewed up a lovely wife and suf- 
 fered her existence to pass unseen in sadness away. Not 
 guessing the significance of this heap of stones or its re- 
 lation to his own future, Philip went on. He roamed 
 without special object, for his mind was buried in a 
 project. Then, crossing Dart and holding forward by 
 the hither hill, he came upon Crow Tor, and stopped
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 327 
 
 there. The great mass stood sharply up, and at its feet 
 was a frozen pool. He climbed the tor, and found upon 
 its head other jewels of ice, hard as the granite that held 
 them. 
 
 It has been noted that a perpendicular plane exhibits 
 more of sublime force in its contours than any inclined 
 one; and the survey of rock forms will furnish further 
 proof that a beetling crag, a projecting shelf, a cornice, 
 inspire still more active emotions of awe. Because in 
 presence of an overhanging precipice the law of gravity 
 is threatened; and though a spectator may not consider 
 the fact, unconsciously he feels it. Hence, above the 
 solemnity of the spectacle, deeper than the grandeur, 
 awakes a sense of possible peril; and nature's threaten- 
 ing frown upon some cliff-face imparts an added instinct 
 of jeopardy to the first homage at its wonder. We know 
 that there is an endowment of these giants to fall un- 
 timely; that their occasional destiny is to slay man. 
 
 Crow Tor, in its wild and lonely glen, served well to 
 illustrate this fact. On a bog-foundered slope above the 
 gorges of Dart in mid-Moor it stands, and seen afar from 
 beneath Wistman's Wood, ascends as a prominent land- 
 mark among the hills. In form, at this remote range, 
 it suggests some mighty saurian or hump-backed snail, 
 creeping aloft from its lair in the marshes; while ob- 
 served at hand, the tor presents an irregular, huge mass 
 of granite piled forty feet above the earth, cleft, torn, 
 and weathered from base to crown. Upon one side the 
 ledges overhang heavily and shut the sky from any who 
 walk beneath them ; the summit mounts northerly of this 
 pent-house; and in the midst of the mass is a little 
 plateau of vegetation, dwarfed almost to a carpet by its 
 elevation and the ceaseless pressure of great winds. Like a 
 green cushion on a great grey throne, here spread the 
 close, springy textures of whortleberry and moss, grasses 
 and heather. The place is starred with golden potentilla 
 in summer-time, and chance flowers, little to be expected, 
 lift their nodding chimes in the late spring ; for a colony 
 of bluebells flourishes aloft upon this vantage ground 
 above the world, and makes a scented company, unseen,
 
 328 THE THIEF OP VIRTUE 
 
 unknown, where they nod and dance to the buffet of 
 vernal winds. 
 
 This spot, though uplifted in the midst of the tor, 
 might easily be approached, and Philip Ouldsbroom 
 climbed it now, sat down there, clasped his hands be- 
 tween his knees and stared before him. His Dionysian 
 neck, ripe lips, and plump hands, were changed from 
 their old, rich fulness. His chops had thinned, and the 
 white hair on them was also thinned; his nape had 
 grown wrinkled under reticulations of countless fine 
 lines, that ran into each other and branched and ram- 
 ified every way over its red surface. His mouth was 
 little altered, save that a vanished tooth or two had 
 broken its firm lines by withdrawing the internal sup- 
 port; but his hands told of withering age; their fleshi- 
 ness had shrunk; their moisture was lessened; the veins 
 stood out corded on the atrophied muscles beneath; the 
 skin grew drier and tighter. 
 
 He stared at the world ; but he saw neither the plastic 
 work of Nature, in the great hog-backed hills before his 
 eyes, nor her glyphic art, where through the centuries, 
 with chisels of frost and lightning, she had sculptured 
 this granite colossus that now supported him. 
 
 He thought to destroy himself, for life seemed no 
 longer tolerable. He argued fantastically with his soul, 
 as he had often argued with wayside wanderers since his 
 wife's death. He was a murderer, and the State should 
 pay him a murderer's fee. 'Here be I that have earned 
 hanging — why for don't they hang me?' Some had 
 laughter at the question; some had shrunk from him in 
 fear that they walked beside a madman. For a time his 
 wits were on the razor-edge; then he grew sane, and to- 
 day he was affirmed to act and make an end of living. 
 
 While he cast about for the means, Philip's name was 
 on the lips of other men. At the 'Warren House' Mr. 
 Twigg sat behind his bar and talked to Peter Culme and 
 Jonathan French from Teign Head. As they spoke to- 
 gether, Martin Ouldsbroom rode to the door, alighted, 
 made fast his horse and entered. 
 
 He was dressed in black, save for his cap, which bore
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 329 
 
 the colours of his school and made him look youthful 
 still. He was wearing it out. 
 
 "We're heartening Mr. Twigg here," explained Peter. 
 ' ' The rheumatism have got into him something shocking, 
 and I, that know it to the marrow in my bones, be telling 
 him of a very good physic what one of they fishermen 
 sent me back-along. And he's going to buy a bottle. 
 And I 'm wishful to say that we was terrible sorry to hear 
 of your trouble, Martin Ouldsbroom, though never a 
 woman was called away in a hurry that left the world 
 readier to leave it than your mother, I 'm sure. ' ' 
 ' ' She was ready enough, Peter. ' ' 
 
 "I'm afraid now your poor father ?" 
 
 "Yes; he's feeling it very cruel. He was bound to 
 feel it, seeing how it happened. He's got a kind heart 
 but no religion. There's nothing to be done for him, 
 because he refuses to listen. We must leave him to his 
 Maker." 
 
 "Job's his book," declared Twigg. "He feeds on it 
 and will say pages. 'Twas Barbara Hext led him to that. 
 I wish it had pleased the watching Lord to put the Gospel 
 into him instead. Job's well enough in its place and 
 time; but 'tis cold comfort for the bruised heart. I've 
 steadied a hopeful, puffed-up spirit with it before to-day ; 
 but a man in your father's case wants the cheerful 
 whisper of angel voices, and his face lifted up to the 
 place where there shall be no sun and no moon. ' ' 
 "I can do nothing to make him any more at peace." 
 "He's in the Lord's hand; and 'twill take even the 
 Almighty power all its. time to hold him now. Nothing 
 would surprise me. In fact, I've run over the things he 
 might do. If 'twould bring him to his knees, then your 
 mother- wouldn 't have given her life in vain ; for greater 
 love hath no man than this : to lay down his life for his 
 friend; how much more a wife for her spouse! But 
 there 's no sign that the Spirit is working in him yet. ' ' 
 
 "There isn't, Mr. Twigg," answered Martin. "Or if 
 it is so, the work 's going on out of sight. ' ' 
 
 "I was exalted in heart to see you at worship on Sun- 
 day, however, along with the people from Stannon," de-
 
 330 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 clared Gregory. "And they new folk — ^the Coplestons 
 from Dury farm — was also there, so 'twas a glad day for 
 the chosen. Have you had a tell with Pastor Bewes yet ''. 
 You'll find him a very eager and hopeful man. He 
 might help you with your father. ' ' 
 
 "He's got his reverend eye on Mr. Copleston's daugh- 
 ter," asserted Jonathan French; "and that's why they 
 Coplestons have turned Little Baptists. Farmer's very 
 anxious to get his maiden oft', as she's getting a bit too 
 far past thirty for safety. And I dare say 'twill happen 
 now. ' ' 
 
 They talked; Martin discussed the use of the Little 
 Baptists, and learned from Gregory their tenets on cer- 
 tain matters of dogma and the sacraments. He was glad 
 to join them, and he considered other organisations also 
 that appealed to him. The Order of Rechabites espe- 
 cially attracted Martin. He thought that by joining it he 
 might help his father toward more sobriety. Philip had 
 taken no strong drink at home since his wife died, but 
 he had once returned to Hartland intoxicated since her 
 funeral. 
 
 Now the boy went back, and, having stabled his horse, 
 came suddenly round the corner of a barn upon Philip. 
 The farmer carried a rope. His hat was off; his bald 
 brows shone, and he was clearly labouring under some 
 fierce excitation. He hastened past, and Martin called 
 to him. 
 
 "Can I do anything for you, father?" 
 
 Philip turned. It seemed that he heard the voice, but 
 not the words. 
 
 "What d'you want prying after me?" he asked. He 
 was perspiring freely, and a gentle steam rose from his 
 head. 
 
 Martin repeated his question, and the other stared and 
 laughed. 
 
 "Not you — no, you can't. Perhaps you might though 
 — if you thought 'twas your duty. Duty-— eh? 'Tis a 
 word that always sounds like a rat-trap going off to my 
 ear. No, I '11 not ax you ; but since they as ought to do 
 it wont, then I'll do it out of hand."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 331 
 
 ''Do what, father?" 
 
 " ' Do what, father ? ' Why, hang a dog, father — hang 
 a useless, worthless dog that's lived too long and done 
 evil too long. ' ' 
 
 He shook the rope and went on. Once he looked back, 
 but Martin made no movement and did not see the other 
 turn to regard him. When he was gone the younger, not 
 a little puzzled, stood still and wondered at this thing. 
 His father had been drinking. His feet moved unsteadily 
 and his face was red. It happened there was actually a 
 troublesome dog on the farm. The creature had been 
 badly broken in, and Tiger vowed that he ran sheep. 
 There was talk of shooting him, and Philip's voice alone 
 had saved the brute thus long. Yet now Martin sup- 
 posed that his father must be bent on destroying this dog. 
 He reflected for some minutes, and then, in a flash, the 
 truth of Ouldsbroom 's saying burst upon him. He stag- 
 gered and gasped. For a moment his soul turned to ice 
 and his feet to lead. He felt torpified and fettered in 
 heart and limb before this horror. Then his conscience 
 stabbed him for an instant's delay. He rushed round 
 the corner of the byre beside which he stood; he ran for- 
 ward, shouting with all his might ; he hastened and cried 
 out, looked into a barn and then proceeded to other 
 shippons. But Philip was not visible, neither did any- 
 body else answer his clamour. 
 
 A few moments later, however, he saw Tiger talking 
 to his master a hundred yards away beside the Moor- 
 gate, on the north of the farm. Neither of them marked 
 or heard him; but from the angle of a toolhouse he 
 watched them now, and did not lose sight of them. For 
 twenty minutes they stood and spoke together, and 
 Tiger was earnest and minatory in his manner, while 
 Ouldsbroom displayed wild gestures and a fierce de- 
 meanour. Then the elder seemed suddenly to crumple 
 up and shrink and grow old. Tiger took his rope away 
 from him, and they returned side by side to the farm- 
 yard. Toward the end of their argument, Philip had 
 pointed wdth scorn where he and Martin met, and the 
 watcher guessed that he himself was the matter between
 
 332 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 them. But later on, when he met Tiger alone and strove 
 to learn what had passed, the elder was evasive, and 
 answered merely that he had met Mr. Ouldsbroom in a 
 state of great excitement and fury, and that he had pre- 
 vailed with him to return home and not go into the Moor 
 at that time. 
 
 "He was out over this morning," explained Tiger, 
 ' ' and he came home terrible cold, and got drinking rather 
 too deep on an empty stomach. I doubt he'll be all right 
 presently. He 's gone in the house to sleep it off. ' ' 
 
 But Tiger erred in both his statements. His master 
 had often spoken of self-destruction before this occasion, 
 and he had gaiessed, on seeing Philip hurrying off, exactly 
 what the frantic and drunken man was about. He had 
 taxed him, then stopped him, and then listened to 
 Philip's account of his meeting with Martin. 
 
 Concerning the second assertion, Ouldsbroom had, in- 
 deed, withdrawn to his chamber, but not to sleep. As his 
 mind grew clearer and the first strange sense of having 
 returned to life by a short cut passed from him, he fell 
 back upon his speech with his son; and the more he 
 thought upon it, the more terrific it appeared. Swiftly 
 it bulked into the most awful experience of his life. Its 
 significance appalled him for some hours. He glared with 
 great agony of spirit at the wall before his eyes, and re- 
 hearsed to himself the thing that he believed had hap- 
 pened to him. 
 
 "My son — my first and only son — and I tell him that 
 I am going to hang myself, and he lets me go. Lets me 
 go to do it. Doesn't seek — doesn't care — waits and wishes 
 me dead. To let me go was murder. I 'd have murdered 
 him belike if he 'd tried to stop me ; but why for didn 't 
 he try? Didn't the blood in his veins shout to him to 
 save his father? Nay — 'twas dumb and cold. He stood 
 and let me pass by. He wouldn't have cut the rope if 
 he'd found me twisting on it. A man can endure no 
 more than that. 'Tis the end, and I wish to God I hadn 't 
 met t'other, for I'd be out of it this minute if I hadn't." 
 
 He sat upon the side of his bed, sank his head upon his 
 knees and wept the first tears of his senility.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 OuLDSBEOOM coiilcl iiot couceal this new grievance, though 
 his was a sort of heart only to be wounded mortally from 
 inside. Hope healed most hurts, even while the scars 
 might remain. As a child Martin tortured him ; but the 
 torture was tuned by time into a thing bearable. Under 
 the last torment, however, he would not rest. For some 
 days he fumed in silence, then an accident of passing 
 difference with Martin unsealed his lips and he burst out 
 upon his wrongs. 
 
 ' ' You saw me going to my death, and lifted no hand to 
 save me ! You knew the thing I meant to do in a dark 
 hour, and you let me do it ; and doubtless you was cruel 
 sorry when you found that another had come between. 
 And now you are my son no more — mark that! Never 
 again will I so much as call you son, or think of you as 
 son!" 
 
 Then the younger explained patiently, fully, thank- 
 fully. 
 
 ' ' Did I ever tell you a lie, father ? " he asked. * ' Right 
 well you know I never did. And before you judge me, 
 hear the truth. I can't force you to believe it; but if a 
 solemn oath will make it truer to you, then I'll swear 
 before my God it's true. I'm thankful you spoke upon 
 this matter and let out the dreadful thing you've had in 
 your heart against me. I thought you meant what you 
 said — I thought you were going to kill a dog — ^that you 
 were going to hang that useless cur we've got here now. 
 And I stood, after you had gone, and wondered why you 
 meant to do it in such a clumsy way. Not till I'd done 
 some thinking did the real meaning of what you had said 
 come home to me. Then for a moment I was frozen, body 
 
 333
 
 334 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 and soul, with terror, and then I ran after you — I ran 
 after you, and searched right and left, and shouted as 
 loud as I knew how. A minute later I saw you with 
 Tiger, and, well knowing that Tiger would do what he 
 might, I hid and watched. And if you'd gone on and 
 left him, I should have followed after you; but I saw 
 you coming back, so I went away. That's the truth, and 
 I 've hungered to speak to you since about it, but I didn 't 
 dare. But now I'm very thankful you have spoke about 
 it, for if I had known this awful thought was in your 
 mind, it would have drove me mad." 
 
 He stopped, and the farmer looked at him in doubt. 
 
 "Didn't Tiger say nothing then?" 
 
 "No; I gave him the chance, but he never told me 
 anything. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Of course not ! You '11 hear no word of my mistakes 
 from him. You swear and swear double that you've told 
 me truth?" 
 
 "Yes, I will; and 'tis a cruel and awful thing to me, 
 father, if you doubt it. You can't do that?" 
 
 "Then I'll believe you. Martin — and thankful to — 
 thankful to believe you. I can almost find it in me to be 
 glad this have happened for the sake of finding I'm 
 wrong. To let your own father put a rope — no, no ; never 
 could my Unity's son have done it. I forgot you was 
 her son. I forget many things. But there 'tis, we'm 
 reconciled. We've come together close — eh? You care 
 about me, Martin? You don't wdsh me away, or any- 
 thing like that ? " 
 
 The youth assured Philip that he eared much for him 
 and Avas concerned very deeply for his welfare. 
 
 " 'Twas almost the last thing mother said to me, to 
 care for you and seek to please you, ' ' he declared. 
 
 A riotous amity sprang up in the elder. He shook 
 Martin's hand thrice ; he spoke hopefully of their future, 
 then he shook hands again." 
 
 "Shoulder to shoulder we'll work," he said. "I'm 
 ten year younger since I 've heard you speak ! I 'm sorry 
 to God I ever thought of doing any such thing. 'Twas 
 a base doubt I harboured against you, and 'tis one more
 
 THE TPIIEF OF VIRTUE 335 
 
 grief to me, along with all my other griefs, that I could 
 have sunk to do it. But I'll make it up to you. I'll 
 trust you with my money ; I know what a wise chap you 
 are."* 
 
 So he talked, and from that day there ensued a period 
 of peace and cheerfulness at Hartland. Philip, to Mar- 
 tin 's secret discomfort, often dragged him away for long 
 rides over the Moor. For a while he exhibited a desire 
 for Martin's company at unseasonable times; but the 
 gratification of this whim soon killed it. Nothing could 
 break down the radical disparity of their natures, am- 
 bitions, and opinions. Philip, therefore, summoned the 
 lad less often, went upon his business or pleasure alone 
 again, left Martin to control and direct. He rarely 
 criticised now, and if he grumbled occasionally to Tiger, 
 the latter was usually able to justify Martin and prove 
 him in the right. 
 
 Indeed, the hands of the farm were well content. If 
 they toiled harder, there was so much the more to show 
 for it. And Martin himself set the example, for he 
 proved a very steady and keen worker. He took the 
 opportunity of his father's prolonged absences and in- 
 difference to get a firm grip of affairs ; and when Philip, 
 by gradual stages, recovered in a measure from his loss 
 and began to show renewed interest in life, he found 
 much in Martin's hands that could not again be taken 
 out of them. 
 
 He accepted the situation with tranquillity, and only 
 differed at minor points. These Martin readily con- 
 ceded, and a sort of lifeless understanding subsisted be- 
 tween them. Philip rarely praised the innovations; he 
 felt it enough that he should suffer them without pro- 
 test; while Martin had long ceased to hope for Oulds- 
 broom's commendation on the farm, but, none the less, 
 went his way with resolution. He was haunted by the 
 fear that Philip might at any moment assert authority 
 and overturn his cherished schemes and improvements; 
 this, however, did not happen, and as time went on he 
 gained confidence and felt his way to further changes. 
 
 Upon some subjects they were at one ; and these agree-
 
 336 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ments lessened the strain on other occasions, when it 
 threatened to reach a breaking point. 
 
 After her death, Unity was elevated and extolled by 
 Philip at all times. When a year had passed, and he 
 could again endure to speak about her to the people, he 
 did so without ceasing, and wearied his hearers in long- 
 drawn praises of her wisdom and kindness, her patience 
 and perspicacity. But one alone tired not of this sub- 
 ject; one alone rejoiced when the topic was Unity, and 
 never found Philip tedious upon that theme. Martin 
 dearly loved to talk about his mother and listen concern- 
 ing her. Of the things that she had done at Hartland and 
 the ordinances that she had laid down, he sought to alter 
 none. Her name stood for all that was wisest and best 
 in his knowledge, and he revered it. He had suffered 
 when his mother died; and it might have been expected 
 that his grief would have drawn him somewhat closer to 
 his fancied father ; but this it did not do. He could not 
 forget how Unity came to her end ; he lacked imagination 
 to judge fully that by so much the more terrible must 
 be her husband's agony and grief; he held Philip's 
 suffering to be stained with remorse and of a colour less 
 pure, a depth less profound, than his own. 
 
 Philip rode much at this season, and found himself the 
 better for it. During the year that followed his wife's 
 death, he was more temperate ; then the habit of drinking 
 gained upon him again, and brought evidences of a 
 weakening will. He came home one day with a new 
 horse, and Martin was summoned to see it. 
 
 " Five-and-f orty pound he've cost," said Philip — "a 
 stiff figure, but not dear. I 've long had my eye on him. 
 The very hoss for me — well up to my weight, and can 
 carry a drop of beer too, if need be. And I wish you'd 
 get yourself a new hoss, Martin. 'Tis time you had one. 
 Christmas be at hand, and I've got a present for you as 
 you may hear about now so well as later. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I don 't want a present, father. ' ' 
 
 "Nonsense and stuff! Of course, in a manner of 
 speaking, all mine is yours, and I'm sure all yours be 
 mine; but a present's a present. We've had a very tidy
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 337 
 
 year, thanks a bit to you, and I'm going to give you a 
 hundred pound for yourself. 
 
 Martin was moved at the size of the sum. He did not 
 decline it, for he felt that it would be safer with him than 
 in his father's hands. Moreover, he knew of an excellent 
 purpose to which it might be put. There was a cottage 
 of four rooms with half an acre of neglected garden at 
 Postbridge, and he had long desired to buy it. The 
 instinct of his mind hungered for possessions, and now, 
 together with his own savings, this great gift made the 
 purchase possible. The farmer asked him what he should 
 do with the money, and was pleased when he replied. 
 
 "Can't begin too early. Go ahead, and you'll buy up 
 all that's to be bought of the village afore you're my 
 age. House property — eh ? Well, why not ? The people 
 must have houses. I've been leading man here these 
 good few years now; but you'll take my place soon, I 
 warrant you ! ' ' 
 
 ''I shall spend twenty pounds on repairs," explained 
 Martin; "and then I shall put up the rent by thirty 
 shillings a year." 
 
 "Well done you ! A landlord afore you'm twenty-one ! 
 'Tis your mother in you — not me. 'Tis her care and 
 cleverness and rare trick of looking ahead and never 
 putting all the eggs in one basket. She'd be terrible 
 proud to hear tell of this." 
 
 "What credit belongs to it is yours as well as mine," 
 answered the other. " 'Tis true that I've saved up and 
 hoarded very close since I was a little chap; but with- 
 out this splendid gift, father, I should have lost the 
 chance. ' ' 
 
 Philip, however, refused any praise in the matter. 
 
 ' ' Not so, ' ' he said. ' ' Why, I didn 't so much as know 
 the house was going begging; and lucky for you I did 
 not — else I might have swooped down and bought it 
 myself. And as for more rent, you'll have to wait your 
 time for that. They old people, Mercy Maine and her 
 mother — sixty and eighty-three are their ages. You 
 can't shift them while the gammer lives, and you can't 
 ax 'em a higher rent. 'Twouldn't be proper." 
 
 22
 
 338 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "But their lease expires next Lady Day." 
 
 ''Damn their lease! They must stop, I tell you. But 
 leave it for the moment. We'm all cheerful and gay 
 to-night. I know as you'd never do anything improper 
 —else I'd " 
 
 The subject was dropped; but in a week Martin had 
 bought the house, and a secret throb of satisfaction 
 warmed his heart and lighted his eye henceforth when he 
 passed it. From that day he Avould often speak gently 
 of 'my house' to Minnie Crymes and other sympathetic 
 listeners. 
 
 Martin frequently visited Stannon, and between him 
 and Gertrude Crymes obtained the closest friendship. 
 He brought to her not a few problems, and she was able 
 often to help him in the conduct of domestic affairs at 
 home. These had long remained in the hands of his 
 mother's old servant, Martha White, but now Martin, 
 true to himself, looked into household matters, and found 
 no little waste and loss. He mentioned the situation to 
 his father and suggested a change, but Philip would not 
 hear of it. 
 
 "If she was good enough for your mother, she's good 
 enough for us," he declared. "A better, honester thing 
 don't go on two legs, and I won't have her away. You 
 mind your own business and let her mind hers. I've no 
 patience with men- folk as poke and pry into women's 
 work. You be the sort as would waste half an hour 
 cheapening a bunch of carrots. Take life larger. 
 Martha's very well, or my wife would never have stood 
 her for fifteen years. ' ' 
 
 Martin brought this difficulty to Stannon, but Ger- 
 trude could not help him. 
 
 ' ' Come a few years she '11 be too old to go to market ; 
 then you'll have to get another," she explained. 
 
 Her eyes rested on Minnie as she spoke. There was a 
 ready and an easy way out of the difficulty, but as yet 
 the young man failed to perceive it. He and Minnie 
 were close friends, and she loved him in secret. Others 
 had courted her, but they were shadows to the substance 
 of Martin in her eyes. She waited patiently, and hope
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 339 
 
 hid in the core of her heart; but she let no gleam of 
 it appear, and would never discuss the young man even 
 with her mother. Yet both her parents knew well how 
 it Avas with her, and sometimes they permitted themselves 
 impatient speech upon the subject when secluded. 
 
 This happened on the night after Martin's complaint 
 concerning Martha, and Quiuton Crymes, fired by in- 
 spiration, advised a definite deed. 
 
 " 'Tis clear we can't bring him to the scratch, but 
 there's one who might; there's one who's only less fond 
 of our Minnie than w^e are ourselves, and that's Martin's 
 father. A week ago — no more — he was grumbling to me 
 that his boy didn't bring a wife to Hartland. 'Here's 
 Tiger fixed up, and to be wedded inside a year,' says 
 Phil; 'but my frosty chap goes on without a girl, as if 
 he 'd got no blood in his veins nor heart in his body. And 
 
 well I know all the time he's — he's ' something. I 
 
 forgot what 'twas he said; but he meant that Martin 
 thought the world of Minnie in his chilly fashion. I 
 changed the subject, and I 'm sorry now I did do. There 
 'tis, however, in a nutshell. Phil can speak, though we 
 can't; and he would be only too glad if it came about. 
 He 's wanted it to happen for years. ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis far too perilous a thing," answered his wife. 
 "To interfere in such a matter never could come to 
 good. Martin's slow but sure. If there was another girl 
 in the wind 'twould be different, but there is not. Let 
 him take his time. Would he sit beside her to chapel 
 every Sunday of his life, just like Henry Birdwood used 
 to sit beside his mother, if he hadn't got his ideas about 
 the future?" 
 
 But Quinton Crymes did not argue the subject. He 
 matured a plan, and the next time that he met with 
 Philip he spoke. He overtook Ouldsbroom on the way 
 home from Moreton, and told his tale to willing ears. 
 
 ' ' Nothing better could have fallen out, ' ' said the mas- 
 ter of Hartland. "In fact, the wonder is I didn't hit on 
 this a bit sooner. Not like me to be so dull. For three 
 year I've wanted for Martin to have your girl, and I'll 
 rub it into him this very night. What be young chaps
 
 340 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 made of nowadays? If I wasn't old enough to be her 
 grandfather, I'd offer for her myself! A sweeter maid 
 don't live, and well I know she likes him, for haven't I 
 seen it in her eyes many and many a time when I spoke 
 his name? The chap be one-and-twenty next February, 
 and it shall be done." 
 
 "Go crafty, however. 'Tis the matter of old Martha 
 White put me in mind of it. Martin says to my wife 
 that Martha ban't no use and lets a penny slip in every 
 shilling she handles. I don't know nothing about that, 
 but of course if you had a young woman so clever as our 
 Minnie to reign over Martha — why, 'twould all be very 
 different, and you 'd get modern ideas and such like. ' ' 
 
 "A very capital plan, Quinton, and if you hit on it 
 single-handed, you're a cleverer man than ever I thought 
 you," returned the other. "I'll keep quiet till Martin 
 Avhines about Martha's ways again, then I'll dash at him 
 and see how he takes it. His sort often want a bit of 
 shoving forward where a girl's concerned, and I'm his 
 father and the man to do it." 
 
 ' ' Don 't you saying nothing to my wife, however. She 'd 
 never forgive me. But this I '11 tell you — in secret, mind. 
 You're right about Minnie caring for him. She does — a 
 lot. So do we all for that matter. He's very different 
 from the rough-and-tumble sample of young fellows, and 
 of course there's all the education he's got behind. But 
 I'm a proud father also, Philip, and I'll stand up for 
 it that, good as he is, my Minnie's the equal of him and 
 worthy of him every way. ' ' 
 
 "Didn't I say so to your wife two year ago? If I 
 can't read a young thing, who can? Don't the childer 
 come to me across the road? Don't I understand 'em — 
 boy and cheel alike? She's a bowerly maid, and I've 
 sworn that she shall be my darter-in-law^ ; and what I 
 swear happens. Say no more. You'll hear further on 
 it inside a fortnight, or my tongue have lost its cunning. 
 Here's the 'Warren House.' Come in and have a nip 
 along with me. " 
 
 Philip was as good as his word, and when, some few 
 days later, Martin again grumbled at their housekeeper's
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 341 
 
 ignorance of the price of tea, Ouldsbroom startled him 
 by thrusting in upon the tenderest theme. 
 
 "Now, look here, young shaver, if you want a female 
 in this house to please you, why the devil don't you get 
 one? I can't help. You know very well that I've been 
 at you afore to-day to fetch home a wife ; and you know 
 very well that she'll be welcome as the flowers when you 
 find her. I say ' find her, ' but surely to God she 's found 
 long ago. And don't let me hear no more about Martha, 
 because the remedy be in your hands. Marry — that's 
 what you've got to do, and the quicker the better for 
 my peace, if not your own. ' ' 
 
 Tiger supported this attack heartily, and Martin, 
 somewhat flustered, soon retreated before them and made 
 an early start for bed. Tiger fired a final shot after him. 
 
 "And don't you waste no more time. You ain't the 
 only chap in the world, and come you wait a bit longer, 
 you'll find some more dashing blade swoop down and 
 take her from under your nose ! ' ' 
 
 When he was alone Martin turned the matter over in 
 his mind and reflected upon it into the small hours of the 
 morning. He cared for Minnie deeply, and in a sense 
 regarded her as his own property. He had done so for 
 ten years. They had passed from childhood into ado- 
 lescence together, and their love grew into reality so 
 gradually that it seemed to him it had become a recog- 
 nised state between them without any necessity for de- 
 claring it. Now, however, he perceived this was not so. 
 If he desired to marry Minnie, he must court her and 
 win her. He knew that he had won her without need 
 for any labour. He desired to marry her, and that cir- 
 cumstance entered as a factor into his plans for the 
 future; but he had not proposed to himself to do any 
 such thing immediately. Tiger's last warning did not 
 alarm him. He felt that Minnie would wait as long as 
 he pleased; but was there any particular need to wait? 
 Might not his father be right? He pictured Minnie at 
 Hartland. He had trained her in his own opinions, and 
 she knew the value of money. 
 
 A slight emotion of pleasure awoke at the thought of
 
 342 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Minnie married to him. He determined to see more of 
 her for the next few months. Then, if all went well with 
 the courting, he would formally ask her to wed. 
 
 Upon this decision he rose from his couch, knelt down 
 and asked the blessing of Heaven on the thing that he 
 was now to do. He returned then to bed and occupied 
 the remainder of his waking senses by planning the ar- 
 rangements of Hartland when Minnie should enter it. 
 'Father would have to give up the big bedroom,' he re- 
 flected. He also wondered whether Quinton Crymes 
 would give his daughter any money. He knew the finan- 
 cial position of most local people and guessed that Min- 
 nie's father could do but little for her in the matter of 
 dowry.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 On the next occasion of a walk with Martin Ouldsbroom, 
 Minnie Crymes found out that a change had come over 
 him. She was a gentle girl. Life had offered no room 
 for the fragrant little sprig of sentiment that belonged to 
 her nature; but though it could not flourish, it did not 
 fade. Flower of wonder and fruit of kindness were still 
 put forth by it. She had a heart for sorrow and her sym- 
 pathy was ever ready for the sad. Many women loved 
 her and she did what little good she might, suffered un- 
 happy people gladly and lessened their grief where she 
 could. Upon her tender nature and spirit of pity before 
 the grim truth of the world, Martin's strength and as- 
 surance were a precious influence. And now, as he spoke 
 with her and she found that his strength and assurance 
 for once were gone ; as she heard his level tones falter ; 
 as she saw his straight young glance tremble and fall, she 
 knew that at last the amazing thing, banished with 
 blushes from her maiden heart to reappear in dreams, 
 would soon be a dream no more. 
 
 The youth himself, having given rein to impulse, found 
 all changed. Deliberately he set to work to love Minnie, 
 and in a week Tie did love as a man loves. Entrance once 
 admitted to the virgin closes of his heart, passion grew 
 with healthy vigour and, for a season, its fine luxuriance 
 hid the permanent and indigenous products of that gar- 
 den. Martin was in love, and he came nearer to Philip 
 Ouldsbroom while the fever lasted than ever he had come 
 before or was likely to come again. A decent humility 
 marked him. Minnie had nothing to complain of. Until 
 the deed was done, until she had promised to marry him 
 
 343
 
 344 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 when he pleased, until she had felt his fresh, warm 
 kisses, nothing could have been more beautiful and per- 
 fect to her than her lover's way. He surprised her. He 
 revealed a tenderness, a quickness, a devotion that even 
 her worship and affection had never guessed at. The 
 sleight put upon him by his passion transformed him ; he 
 did things, said things, even thought things that belonged 
 to his condition, not his character. 
 
 The result was joy for several different people; but 
 they made the mistake of supposing that the change was 
 radical. 
 
 There came the day when Martin asked Minnie to 
 marry him. Fierce storms were breaking over the Moor, 
 and they stood together in a shed at Stannon, waiting for 
 a tempest to pass by. Martin had come to fetch Minnie, 
 that she might drink tea with his father at Hartland. 
 
 "He says that he hasn't seen you for a week and can't 
 go any longer without a sight of you. He's been in the 
 house now for ten days with a cough and a bad chest. 
 But he's nearly all right at last and means to be out 
 again to-morrow." 
 
 "I'll come, of course, Martin, I must fetch my hat 
 and jacket." 
 
 They waited for the weather, and suddenly Martin, 
 turning back from the door, brushed his cheek against 
 Minnie's. She had followed behind him and he did not 
 know that she was so close. 
 
 The accidental contact served to loosen a tongue that 
 had long trembled to speak, yet failed till now of utter- 
 ance. 
 
 "Minnie, Minnie, I can't hold it in no more. Look at 
 me, Minnie ! ' ' 
 
 He put his hands on her shoulders. She looked a mo- 
 ment, but her eyelashes quickly came down, and soon her 
 head sank till he could only see the crown of it. He 
 marked the thick hair; then he lowered his head to her 
 shoulder and put his lips to her ear and whispered into it. 
 
 ' ' I love you, I love you, Minnie. I 'm not good enough, 
 but there 'tis. Oh, Minnie dear, will you marry me? I 
 wish I knew what to say. But all I know is I can't do
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 345 
 
 without you. I want you for my own. I've always 
 cared a lot about you, ever since we wi^re just little things 
 and ran about together ; but I never knew the sweetness 
 of you and the loveliness till I grew up. And of late, 
 Minnie, I seem as if my eyes had been opened, and I've 
 been wondering how in the name of fortune I could go 
 on year after year so near to you and never " 
 
 He stopped and put his arms round her. 
 
 ''Look up, you beautiful thing!" he said. "And tell 
 me if I'm mad to hope for it, or if " 
 
 She looked up then, quite speechless and pale. But 
 her brown eyes held more than tears, and he knew, if he 
 had needed to know, that it was well with him. 
 
 For once Martin was a joyous, irresponsible young 
 man in love. He smothered her with kisses ; he babbled ; 
 he hugged ; he hurt her. They panted together in a wild 
 embrace, and he thanked God — not piously — but riot- 
 ously, triumphantly. It was a grand flash of frenzy that 
 left them breathless, dizzy, faint with longing and with 
 love. But it never came again — not even in the hour 
 when first he possessed her. 
 
 Minnie walked beside her betrothed to Hartland. He 
 had grown perfectly calm before they reached his home, 
 but she could not so quickly recover. Her legs shook 
 and she had to take his arm. To feel it made her still 
 more unsteady. To touch him at this time brought a 
 sort of delicious vertigo upon her. His return to sobriety 
 strengthened her and helped self-control. His voice was 
 measured again, his face was cool, the swollen vein on his 
 temple had vanished before they turned into Hartland. 
 He even seemed a little ashamed of himself, and asked 
 her to excuse him for being so rough. 
 
 Then it was Philip 's turn, and Minnie saw the old man 
 turned into a happy child before this news. Her heart 
 responded, and she listened to him while Martin smiled — 
 a little self-conscious and uneasy. 
 
 Philip chattered. 
 
 "When this fine thing happened to me — which it did 
 do at Stannon, and I blessed Stannon evermore because 
 of it — I got on my boss and rode like hell-fire to Tavistock
 
 316 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 for the ring. No — no, I didn't neither. I got the ring 
 first — afore your blessed mother said 'yes'! Ha, ha, 
 ha! That was the sort I was. But there ban't many 
 would have the cheek to do that nowadays. We ban't 
 less cocksure in youth now than we was then; but we 
 ban't so brave. However, you shall have it to-morrow, 
 Minnie, if I've got to drive him off with a hosswhip to 
 get it!" 
 
 "No need for that, father," laughed Martin. "Next 
 market-day, when I'm in Tavistock " 
 
 "Next market-day! Get along with you! You com- 
 mand him to fetch it to-morrow, Minnie ; don 't you stand 
 none of his cold-blooded nonsense no more. You order 
 him about and make him run the soles off his boots, my 
 pretty darling — that's what you've got to do now. Let 
 him larn all it means to win the beautifullest maiden 
 in Dartymoor." 
 
 He promised mighty gifts and foretold all manner of 
 delights. Presently he got up to leave them. Then he 
 stopped at the door and turned, his eyes twinkling. 
 
 "Kiss her!" he commanded Martin. "Let me see you 
 kiss her — just once. 'Twill be meat and drink to me — 
 you can 't refuse your father that. I command you ! Go 
 on, Minnie ! ' ' 
 
 Such a fleeting caress as might be imagined at this 
 order passed between them. Minnie indeed minded not 
 the audience, for her future father-in-law had long won 
 her heart ; but Martin was uncomfortable and even vexed. 
 Such an incident savoured of indecency, to his mind. He 
 complied quickly; then the farmer with a snort of con- 
 tempt departed. He had not wit to perceive the per- 
 formance must be vain. 
 
 ' ' Practise ! Practise ! " he cried. ' ' You 've got a lot to 
 larn yet. But Minnie will teach you, if I know her!" 
 
 The lovers talked for half an hour, and Martin re- 
 turned to himself in discussion of Philip Ouldsbroom. 
 But he was gentle still and no cloud shadowed Minnie's 
 halcyon hour. 
 
 "Poor father," he said. "He does make me feel so 
 old, Minnie. I feel as if he was my son, instead of me
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 347 
 
 being his son, and I catch myself feeling pretty much as 
 real fathers feel, I should think. But he'll never grow 
 up to sense now. If only we could get him to chapel — 
 just to give it a try, Minnie. How I've thought and 
 thought and planned to do it. But I can't shake him. 
 He hates the whole business and won't listen. 'Tis very 
 puzzling, because you'd think, with all his good parts, 
 the Lord would make Himself heard. He's too kind- 
 hearted, you'd think, to turn the still small voice away 
 from his heart. It must sound there often and often, as 
 it does on every heart, but he won 't listen to it. ' ' 
 
 "I've loved him dearly this longful time. And 
 my father does too. Father says that he's his own 
 enemy. ' ' 
 
 "More than that now. He's making other men his 
 enemies too. He's uncertain, and you can't rely on his 
 word like you used to. That's the fatal thing that drink 
 does. It makes a truthful man a liar. When you come 
 to Hartland, Minnie, you must see what you can do to 
 help him." 
 
 "Be very sure of that, Martin." 
 
 "You never know the Lord's chosen tool, Minnie. 
 Mr. Twigg foretold that I should be the one to get father 
 to see the Light. But I don't think that ever I shall by 
 
 the look of it. But perhaps you . He's terribly fond 
 
 of you, and always has been. He'll go pouring out money 
 for you now, I 'm afraid. But you must be firm and not 
 let him do silh^ things. ' ' 
 
 ' ' He 's wonderful to me. So simple and childlike. ' ' 
 
 "But you must be firm and not childlike — firm from 
 the first. You must begin as you are going on. You 
 may save a soul by it, Minnie." 
 
 "His soul is saved, if ever a soul was, Martin. His 
 eyes are so blue. Oh, how blue they are! He'll come 
 with his troubles to my father sometimes and call me to 
 listen, and hold my hand while he tells; and I've looked 
 into his eyes under his sad, old forehead often and often, 
 and thought they was like little peeps of clear sky 
 through a storm of clouds." 
 
 Martin stared at her. He had his arms round her
 
 348 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 while he was speaking; but for the moment he let go. 
 Surprise and admiration shared his voice. 
 
 "That's poetry! Well, I never, you clever girl! It 
 is, Minnie, for I know what poetry is, because I had to 
 learn bits of it at school. ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis true — ^poetry or no," she said. 
 , He put his arms round her again. 
 
 ' ' You '11 save my father if 'tis in mortal power to do it. 
 And I'll be very quick to help. There's a lot to think 
 upon now. There must be changes all round. When 
 we're married will be the time to make them. And 
 there's a great deal to be done first, too. Hartland must 
 be turned inside out for you, Minnie. ' ' 
 
 ' ' No, no, Martin. I dearly love it as it is. I wouldn 't 
 change a stick." 
 
 "That's for me to say. You shall come into a home 
 worthy of you. But we must go gradual and clever. 
 Father will do anything for you — so that's to the good." 
 
 "And I'll do anything for him — anything in the 
 world," declared Minnie. 
 
 They relapsed into love talk and the time flew. 
 
 Philip gave them two hours while he sat over a fire in 
 his bedroom, smoked, and built castles in the air. He 
 had ordered Martha White to leave them alone, and she 
 had gone off to the village with the news of the betrothal. 
 Then he returned to them. All was dark, but he heard 
 the murmur of their voices. At last he came to the door, 
 knocked very loud, heard a flutter and movement of 
 chairs, and laughed. Then Minnie opened the door and 
 he found the kitchen chilly, for the fire had gone out. 
 
 "A damned good sign, that," he said. "You didn't 
 feel the lack — eh? Catched enough heat and to spare 
 from each other, you rascals ! ' ' 
 
 Then Minnie lighted the fire and presently Martin saw 
 her home. He was radiantly happy and full of ideas. 
 He desired to speak to Quinton Crymes. Upon the sub- 
 ject of the date of the marriage he did not speak, and he 
 neither pressed Minnie to name a day nor thought of 
 doing so. 
 
 When her father presently asked him his views on the
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 349 
 
 subject, he declared that much must be thought of before 
 the wedding; but he hoped that Minnie would see her 
 way to wed within the year. 
 
 His father asked him the same question when he re- 
 turned home and received the same answer. 
 
 "Within the year, you frosty toad!" he shouted. 
 ' ' Good Lord, what 's come to the human race ? And you 
 just one-and-twenty and can wait a year ! Well, well — 
 think better of that — think better of it, Martin. 'Tis a 
 poor compliment to her, I assure you. Force her into it 
 afore Lady Day. A year — Dammy! I want to be a 
 gran 'father in a year — don't I, Tiger?" ^ 
 
 Tiger laughed and the lover withdrew. 
 
 But the reason for the delay appeared soon enough. 
 Martin was methodical. He left nothing to chance in the 
 great event of his life. He had long conversations with 
 Minnie, and if he was loverlike he was businesslike as 
 well. He taught her to keep accounts on his own system ; 
 he indicated branches of learning calculated to be useful ; 
 he enlarged her mind and declared his own theories of 
 what married life should be. She seldom found herself 
 at any difference from him, and such friction as existed 
 at Hartland he concealed from her. She heard of it, 
 however, from Philip ; but she never mentioned trouble 
 again to Martin after the first time. Then he distinctly 
 told her that she must support his view in everything, at 
 all costs, and that if his father was to be happy in the 
 future at Hartland, a course of unyielding firmness 
 would be necessary. 
 
 "You mustn't spoil him. 'Tis bad for all created 
 things to be spoiled," he told Minnie. 
 
 She promised, but always found herself weak in the 
 presence of the old man, and Martin quickly discovered 
 it. New problems rose from this circumstance, and he 
 saw that with IMinnie at Hartland, Philip might become 
 increasingly difficult. He argued with Minnie and she 
 promised amendment. 
 
 Philip, for his part, rejoiced over the approaching 
 changes and himself made many suggestions and pro- 
 posed a hundred alterations at Hartland. But his ideas
 
 350 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 did not commend themselves to the better judgment of 
 Minnie's future husband. Martin often left Ouldsbroom 
 chilled and disappointed. The farmer's surprises fell 
 flat, and objections to them seldom failed on Martin's 
 lips; while, conversely, the things that he proposed to 
 do and invited Philip to sanction were usually of a char- 
 acter that annoyed or openly angered the elder man. 
 
 Philip talked with Tiger on a summer day when Martin 
 made holiday and took Minnie to a revel. 
 
 " 'Twas all I could do to make him go. He hates a 
 bit of fun like a drop of drink. 'Good Lord,' I said, 'you 
 don't know what a girl likes. I knov/ better than you 
 do. Be off with you and spend a bit of money on her 
 and put her in the round-about and play kiss in the ring, 
 and all the rest of it. You won 't be young much longer, ' 
 I told him. 'For God's sake keep young while you 
 may.' " 
 
 "He never was what you might call young," declared 
 Tiger ; but Philip denied this. 
 
 "Once he Avas — long afore your time. Comed to me 
 with his baby sins in them days and axed me to make 
 his mother forgive him. Young then — that was afore 
 he'd got into double figures. We understood each other 
 then. And, like the fool I was, I always longed for him 
 to get older quicker, so as he should be more and more 
 to me. He said to me a bit agone — puzzled like — 'How 
 is it, father, the little things in life seem so big to you, 
 and the big things seem so little ? ' There 'twas in a nut- 
 shell." 
 
 ' ' And what did you say ? ' ' asked Tiger. 
 
 "Why, I asked him who was most like to know what 
 was big and what was little. I said, 'Can you, with 
 your score of years, judge better than me, who have got 
 more'n threescore behind me?' Still, there it stands, 
 and my plans for him miscarrj^ and my thoughts miss 
 fire. Of course, he'll live to see what matters and what 
 don't; but that's no gert use to me, for I shall be under 
 the daisies afore he finds out the truth of things. ' ' 
 
 "His wife will larn him." 
 
 "I'm very hopeful of it. She knows a bit about the
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 351 
 
 joy of life, and the proper worth of money and the right 
 uses for it. But he's that terrible strong, Tiger, that 
 'twould take a very wilful pattern of female to " 
 
 He broke off. 
 
 "Here — here — this be treason I'm talking!" he cried. 
 "We'll back Minnie — you and me — and we'll help her; 
 and if three to one can't knock a bit of nonsense into 
 my boy, 'tis pity. 'Tis they Little Baptists, in my judg- 
 ment. Tiger. T'other religious people don't scowl on all 
 that's best in life — not to the same tune any way; but 
 that slim atomy of a Bewes — why, I do think 'tis a sin 
 and a shame for the sun to shine in his opinion. Plis 
 hatchet face and icicle nose always make me cry out for 
 a pint whenever I run on 'em. A barrow pig knows 
 more happiness than him — and has a larger heart." 
 
 "You're quite wrong there," declared Tiger. "His 
 outside 's the worst of the man. He's all right, and he's 
 going to be married hisself, and that's a sure sign of 
 grace, as I 've oft heard you say. ' '
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 The work of getting his life and its environment fitted 
 to marriage was done very carefully and very thoroughly 
 by Martin Ouldsbroom; and the approaching respon- 
 sibilities did not decrease his sobriety. No intelligent 
 man of thirty ever made ready to leave the single state 
 with more deliberation than this youth of twenty-one. 
 The only difficulties centered in his home, and they were 
 serious; because Philip thrust himself into the prepara- 
 tions with immense ardour. Often when Martin differed 
 from him, the farmer went to Minnie ; and when she 
 clove to her lover and ventured to think his way was the 
 better one, Philip would be hurt. 
 
 "I won't be left out," he said once to Martin. "Any- 
 body would think I was expected only to look on and 
 see everything done without lifting a hand to help. But 
 I'm not that sort. Haven't I been through it all? 'Tis 
 but yesterday that I was setting this place straight 
 against the day your dear mother came into it. I must be 
 heard, I tell you. I've given up the big bedroom; I've 
 given up — there, what haven 't I given up ? But I won 't 
 give up all, and you oughtn 't to want for me to. Martha 
 White have got to stay. She's used to me and I'm used 
 to her ; and Tiger have got to stay for the present. When 
 he's married, then he must find a house, and not till 
 then." 
 
 This sort of thing was spoken by the master of Hart- 
 land daily. Sometimes he put it in mild language and 
 sometimes in coarse. For the most part Martin answered 
 with policy and conceded what he felt to be right; but 
 
 352
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 353 
 
 once it happened that, harassed by some private problems 
 and weighted with thoughts and small cares of which 
 Ouldsbroom knew nothing, he was surprised into rare 
 petulance and made a sharp retort. 
 
 "Time doesn't stand still, surely!" he cried. "Don't 
 your own hair tell you that, father? — and sense doesn't 
 either? You beat me — you beat me. Can't you ever 
 see how it is with life and what life means? We grow 
 wiser as we grow older — up to a point. And then we go 
 down hill again and, if we last long enough, end off 
 where we started from and are twice children. But you 
 — you're not old enough to be so foolish." 
 
 "And are you old enough to be so wise?" asked the 
 elder. ' ' Well, I suppose you think so ; but I 'd have you 
 to know that you're little more than a child still, what- 
 ever I may be, and 'tis the childishness in you thinks that 
 I'm childish, not the wisdom in you. You've sucked a 
 lot of damned nonsense from books, and 'tis my hope 
 that life will knock it out of you — life and trouble too. 
 'Tis trouble you want; and when you've seen half so 
 much as I have, and larned the truth about man's days, 
 then you '11 look back and own up that I was right. ' ' 
 
 At times a season of amity obtained between Martin 
 and the farmer, and as the date of the wedding drew 
 near, many differences were permitted to pass un- 
 challenged. Philip was proud of the match and took 
 great personal credit for it. The situation enlarged and 
 became more cheerful towards the end ; but then, just as 
 those concerned were thankful to believe all must take 
 place happily, there fell two incidents that threatened 
 disaster to the actual ceremony and promised for a time 
 to cloud the future. 
 
 Martin was a fanatical teetotaler and had made Minnie 
 one. He especially desired that his principles should be 
 respected at their wedding feast, and when Quinton 
 Crymes objected that such a frosty welcome would be 
 felt by the guests in general and by the bridegroom's 
 father in particular, Martin explained his position. 
 
 " 'Tis for him — for my poor father most of all that I 
 do it. You know his weakness and how hard it is to fight 
 
 23
 
 354 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 against it. If I could but take over his temptations for 
 him, I gladly would. But we 've got to conquer the devil 
 ourselves. Nobody can do it for us, Uncle Quinton. Even 
 our Saviour can only help us to fight. And knowing 
 what I know, and seeing what I have seen, I hate liquor 
 like I hate sin ; and if I can bring it about never to have 
 one drop inside Hartland, that I shall do. It's death 
 and damnation both. So I want father to see that I'm 
 firm from the first. He's giving me authority now, and 
 I shall exercise it for his good, when and where I can. 
 'Tis no kindness to him to put temptation in his way, 
 and I won't do it willingly. You can explain to the 
 others — they '11 be very quick to understand. ' ' 
 
 "Us must drink the health of the bride and groom," 
 declared Quinton. 
 
 "Then do it in water. I'm going to be above silly 
 things like that, and so is Minnie. 'Tis the dutj' of every 
 serious man to set a good example in the world, and if 
 I know from bitter experience that drink is poison to 
 body and soul — as well I do know — then it shall never be 
 said that I helped the cause of it." 
 
 ' ' Your father won 't come if he hears tell of this. ' ' 
 
 "Do right and leave the working out in Higher 
 Hands." 
 
 But Quinton Crymes enjoyed liquor and had a great 
 sense of self-respect. He apprehended trouble, and he 
 took steps to avert it. The threatened danger passed, 
 for Quinton went privately to Hartland, and with a 
 guilty heart avoided Martin and sought the master. 
 
 ' ' Your young wonder was all for a wedding breakfast 
 with water," he explained in the privacy of a byre. 
 "Don't you say nothing, Phil, or I shall have him down 
 on me like a ton of bricks; but rest sure that I ban't 
 going to do any such ondacent thing." 
 
 Philip was in a mild mood and said little save in kind- 
 ness. 
 
 "You are right, Quinton. There's a proper and an 
 improper way. To give 'em water! No, no! 'twould 
 be remembered against the party for years — never 
 forgot. I tell you a marriage begun in water would end
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 355 
 
 iu ice, so like as not. Give 'em generous drinking, and 
 them as don't want to drink can pass it. I ban't the 
 sort to dictate to any man. And if the boy and girl 
 won't touch it, we'll touch it for 'em and wish 'em well 
 in the prettiest liquor we can run to. I'm glad this has 
 come up, for I Avant the drinks and baccy to be my share. 
 You remember when I took your sister away from Hart- 
 land — my dear wife that was — that I forked out for the 
 drinks and baccy. And, by your leave, I'll do the like 
 again — just for old sake's sake. 'Twill soften the sadness 
 of it to my heart, Quinton. Because 'tis going to be a 
 queer, creepy thing for me, however well it goes. I shall 
 see myself there — five-and-twenty years, is it? Some- 
 where about that now. Young, gay blids were we ! And 
 Unity — what a woman ! What a bosom she had for 
 a maiden! Bv God, how cruel I miss her to this 
 day." 
 
 He stopped, and Mr. Crymes, who was not emotional, 
 returned to the subject. 
 
 "If you must pay, you must. And Twigg will do it 
 all in reason. We shall be Little Baptists to a man, I 
 believe — save for you and Tiger. And for my part I 
 hold with a drop of fiery drinking at times like this. It 
 lifts the heart as high as the matter in, hand, and gives a 
 bit of a dash to things that they often stand in sore need 
 of. And Gertrude for one— she'll want a thimbleful and 
 a bit over, if she's to see our Minnie drive off without 
 weeping a river." 
 
 ' ' Of course she '11 want it, and she shall have it ; and if 
 she's got a tap that she's special addicted to, I hope she'll 
 say what 'tis. ' ' 
 
 "But keep dark as the grave on the subject, Phil," 
 cautioned Mr. Crymes. "You know your boy — boy no 
 more, for a stronger man for his years I never met with. 
 You know him. He thinks 'twill be a water feast — well, 
 better let him think so till he sees the bottles^. Then 
 'twill be too late to make a row. Besides, he'll be mar-' 
 ried and " 
 
 Philip rejoiced in a conspiracy of this kind. 
 
 "Not a another word!" he said. "Leave it all to me
 
 356 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 and Twigg. And he must be cautioned too, for he's 
 hand-in-glove with the pair of 'em. But he's bound to 
 be our side in this matter. After dark, the evening afore 
 the wedding, the liquor shall arrive to Stannon. ' ' 
 
 Quinton nodded. 
 
 "Like a thief in the night let it come," he said. 
 "Minnie mustn't know neither — not if it can be hid 
 away from her." 
 
 Over this trifle, of which he made much, Philip had 
 his way and was glad. With glee he related his plans 
 to Tiger ; and then the younger told him of an event that 
 presently led to more important things. Not the least 
 of Martin's minor anxieties centred on his house. The 
 time was come when the tenants thereof must be asked 
 to depart, that he might improve his property. They 
 were unable to pay a larger rent, but the place was worth 
 more as it stood and would be worth considerably more 
 when the landlord had done all that he proposed. But 
 Martin knew his father's opinion, and was aware that 
 if he turned out old Jane Maine and her daughter Philip 
 would be very angry. Already Ouldsbroom had offered 
 to pay the increased rent ; but the futility of this course 
 was not hidden from Martin. To take money out of his 
 father's pocket was to take it out of his own. Chance 
 had now cut this knot. 
 
 "Have you heard that ancient creature, Jane Maine, 
 be gone?" asked Tiger. "Went off in her sleep. Mister 
 Martin will be glad, for there'll be no bother now." 
 
 And presently Martin himself arrived with the news. 
 He was much relieved and could not conceal his satis- 
 faction. 
 
 "I've had a few words with Mercy Maine already," 
 he said. "She's glad that it happened so, for it has 
 saved a long illness and a lot of expense. And she's 
 going at the quarter, so it has fallen out well — as it had 
 to be." 
 
 Thus far the passing of Jane Maine fell fairly enough ; 
 but on the night before the wedding much evil arose out 
 of it. 
 
 Talk ranged over varied subjects, and Philip and Mar-
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 357 
 
 tin were both excited. The latter, despite his press of 
 business, had found leisure for some strenuous private 
 thinking, and his ideas now led him into danger. The 
 present paramount ambition of his mind sprang full- 
 fledged from the death of his tenant. While debating on 
 a host of problems, which would clamour for solution 
 when Minnie arrived to begin her married life at Hart- 
 land, there had flashed upon him the possibility of a 
 grand arrangement by which, at one stroke, the whole 
 situation might be eased and accommodated. 
 
 At another time, with a mind more free to ponder the 
 project in all its bearings, Martin must have seen the 
 folly of his new inspiration. But for the moment, much 
 let and hindered as he was on every hand, with his bride 
 waiting and a honeymoon to be taken, he did a thing 
 that might have been guessed impossible and acted ab- 
 surdly. The absurdity, however, was only apparent to 
 an onlooker. In effect his proposition, now broken upon 
 his father's ear, was tragical, and, too late, he perceived 
 it. In a dozen words, spoken out of self-absorbed ego- 
 tism and loosed from a mind too much preoccupied to 
 do itself justice, Martin committed the grand mistake of 
 his life. His own stable and established existence sur- 
 vived the recoil of this blow ; but it descended with shat- 
 tering force in another quarter on shoulders less strong 
 to sustain it. 
 
 On the night before the marriage Philip was drinking 
 and smoking. At the kitchen fire hung some clothes and 
 a linen shirt. They represented his wedding garments, 
 and Martha had fetched them out of their long repose to 
 air. Tiger sat at hand with his pipe alight, and Martin, 
 deep in thought, was eating at the table. He had just 
 returned from Tavistock. Full of his idea and anxious 
 to break it to Philip before the business of to-morrow, 
 the young man finished his meal and presently asked 
 Tiger to leave them. 
 
 "I've got some private affairs with my father," he 
 said; and then, when Tiger had gone, he spoke: 
 
 "Everything is at a climax now, father; and I think 
 the future is all pretty clear. ' '
 
 358 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ' ' Why, who doubts it ? Among us we 've planned every 
 mortal thing. 'Tis only left for us at home to have all 
 suent afore you come back, and you may trust Martha 
 for that. What soap and water can do — and I've got 
 a surprise or two up my sleeve for Minnie yet, mind ! 
 She'll see a few things that will be new to her at old 
 Hartland when she comes to it. And vou will too, Mar- 
 tin." 
 
 "Don't be too busy, father. And that reminds me. 
 You know how much I want all to go in harmony when 
 we come back ; and I 've been thinking a lot about it, and 
 my house falling in just at the nick of time gave me the 
 idea. You see — I don't mean that it should happen now 
 — not for six months or more — not, of course, till 'twas 
 all made ready according to your own fancy ; but I can 't 
 help thinking — and I've prayed on it too, for that mat- 
 ter — I can't help thinking that, presently, you might be 
 a deal more snug and comfortable in my house than you 
 would be here. I can see you there along with Martha. 
 Minnie would be in every clay and so should I, and Tiger 
 too. And there you are — free of all the bustle and bother 
 and turmoil up here. What d'you think of it, father? 
 Not just vet, of course, but presently, when I'd made it 
 fit for yoii?" 
 
 A great silence fell ; then the speaker looked at Philip 
 and saw the awful extent of his error. 
 
 Martin had been walking up and down the kitchen as 
 he spoke; but now he stood still. The other raised his 
 great head like a hound off a trail, and like a hound he 
 gave tongue. Literally he roared. For some moments 
 no syllable was to be distinguished in the wild tympany 
 of sounds that he uttered. Then some order came among 
 them and the first words that Martin could distinguish 
 was a command to be gone. 
 
 "Get out of my sight, you unnatural devil! Take 
 
 yourself away, or I'll ordered off — turned off — flung 
 
 out! Not yet, by God! I'm not weak enough to be 
 hustled over my own threshold yet. You've tried it on 
 too soon! Get out of my sight — go — live in your own 
 blasted house on your own blasted money! Clear out,
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 359 
 
 I say, or I'll do you an injury and send you afore your 
 woman to-morrow with broken bones ! ' ' 
 
 "Father " 
 
 ' * Begone ! Don 't never take that great name on your 
 lips no more, you wretch ! Fatherless you shall be and 
 fatherless deserve to be. And God send this — God lift 
 up for you what you sow presently and let your son cut 
 you to the heart's quick and send you crying frantic to 
 the dogs to be kind to you — as I go now. May you feel 
 what you've made me feel this night; may you sink to 
 be friendless as I am friendless; may your children plot 
 to turn you out of your father's home, as you have 
 plotted to turn me out of mine. But I'll not go — d'you 
 hear that ? Never, never will I go. While this arm can 
 bend and these here fingers grip, I '11 lay fast hold of my 
 own, and 'tis only when I'm dead you shall thrust me 
 away ; and, if I could, I 'd come back again after that and 
 curse your pillow till you yourself fled afore me ! Ruin 
 seize you, you graceless, stone-hearted image of a son! 
 And me — to think what I've been — me, with my fool's 
 heart this moment brimming over — brimming over with 
 good things to glad your eyes when you came back ! Go, 
 I tell you — if you don't want me to fly at you like a 
 raging beast. Go, and don't you think I'll come to-mor- 
 row now. Not a step will I come. Married !— I 'd sooner 
 see you hanged than married ! ' ' He stopped stricken by 
 his own word. Then he repented of it. 
 
 "No, not that — not that — for your mother's sake I 
 call that back. Eat and drink and marry and " 
 
 He had been standing. Suddenly he dropped down 
 into his chair and flung his head on his arms upon the 
 table. 
 
 Martin went out and hastened to seek Tiger. 
 
 "Get to my father, will you?" he said. "I've hurt 
 him. God, He knows I meant no such thing. I made a 
 proposal and he took it in a wrong spirit." 
 
 The other was sorry but did not ask for particulars. 
 
 ' ' Bad luck, sure enough ! Coming to-night of all 
 nights too. I hope it won't shake him for to-morrow. 
 And you — have he cut you up very bad?"
 
 360 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Martin nodded. 
 
 * ' It 's my own fault, in a way. I was full of an idea to 
 work well all round. And my mind was — well, it looked 
 all right to me — I didn't know — I didn't guess how 
 father would take it." 
 
 The young man was much moved.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Tiger could obtain no hearing from Philip Ouldsbroom. 
 A horror beyond analysis plunged his soul into stupor. 
 He sat like a log for some time wliile the younger man 
 talked; then, disregarding him, he rose and went to his 
 bed. For hours his trouble festered in him, and very 
 early in the morning he came downstairs. He had 
 planned terrific counter-strokes through the night. But 
 two hours after the silent breakfast he was drunk. Mar- 
 tin had approached him, contrite, and expressed the 
 deepest regret for his error. 
 
 ''I don't know what I was dreaming about," he said 
 frankly. "I can't excuse myself, father. I didn't see 
 the monstrous side of it. My mind was so full. But 
 there's nothing to be spoken more. I'm bitterly sorry 
 for my mistake, and I ask you humbly to forgive me. 
 And I 've asked my God to forgive me for saying that. I 
 beg you, who are so quick to forgive all men, to forgive 
 me, father, and not cloud the day. ' ' 
 
 But Philip would not yield. 
 
 '^Say no more," he answered. "The truth of the 
 heart will often slip when the mind ban't on guard. 
 Words won't alter it. You've told me what you want. 
 Perhaps I '11 oblige you after all. What 's the odds now ? 
 Your young, beautiful girl don't want old bones cumber- 
 ing her threshold. Go to her and enjoy her. I wish the 
 pair of you nought but well." 
 
 ' ' I implore you to come to the feast, father. ' ' 
 
 * ' No — not now ; I can 't now. I can 't face the folk now. 
 Put on your wedding garments and be off. ' ' 
 
 Martin strove in vain and, when he was gone to dress, 
 Tiger endeavoured to change his master's mind. The 
 
 361
 
 362 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 farmer had drawn himself a quart of beer and was sit- 
 ting smoking in front of the fire. 
 
 "Best you go, master; 'twill mar all and send 'em 
 away awful down in the mouth, if you ban 't there. ' ' 
 
 "No — no. I've had my pleasure of it. Planning 
 things be the pleasure — not the things themselves. 'Tis 
 the same with all our little secrets — yours and mine. How 
 we thought to see 'em laugh when they came back — 
 didn 't w^e ? How we fooled ourselves. They '11 not laugh 
 from the heart. And if I'd wanted for to plan a real 
 throb of joy for 'em, the way was to creep off and let 'em 
 find my place empty." 
 
 He started up and flung his mug on the hearth. The 
 beer hissed and spurted and the peat sparks flew. 
 
 ' ' Death and damnation ! When I think of it, I could 
 fire the place — burn it to the ground and myself along 
 with it. And he'd come and not turn colour, but just 
 say — 'Lucky I made father insure.' Tiger, 'tis too much 
 — I can 't bear it. He 've torn the heart out of me at last. 
 I'm cast out, I tell you. Job's self was never called to 
 suffer this. ' ' 
 
 He made Tiger go presently to meet Mary French and 
 attend the wedding. Then he hustled off Martha White 
 and the labourers. It had been decided that Martha 
 should stop at Hartland; but the master's whim was 
 now to bide there alone, while his son was being married. 
 The old woman, protesting, went. Tiger also, in no small 
 fear, did as he was ordered. 
 
 A dozen times during the next few hours his anxious 
 eyes turned back to Hartland. 
 
 "A column of smoke w'ould not surprise me at any 
 moment," he confessed to Mary. 
 
 But no such thing happened. Philip muddled himself 
 with beer. Then he dozed over the fire for some hours. 
 He moved presently, and by accident kicked a sheep-dog 
 that reposed beside him. She howled and woke him. He 
 rose then, rubbed his eyes and returned to himself. 
 
 "I wish I was you," he said to the brute. "You be 
 better thought on by my son than me. He'll be gladder 
 to see you again than me."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 363 
 
 But his resurgent spirit winged back to itself presently. 
 
 "I'll get across," he thought. " 'Twill be a good 
 thing to do. They '11 go off the happier. ' ' 
 
 He put on the black coat still hanging near the kitchen 
 fire. Then he hurried away ; but he was too late. When 
 still half a mile from Stannon, he saw a little crowd at 
 the door. As he watched, a carriage jolted away through 
 the valley over a rough farm road. He put his hands 
 to his mouth and shouted out : 
 
 ' ' Hold on, Martin ! I be coming ! ' ' 
 
 But they could not hear. He watched the vehicle 
 disappear and saw the flutter of handkerchiefs from the 
 crowd at the door. A faint sound reached him as the 
 company shouted farewell. 
 
 Then he turned sadly, and as he went, some substance 
 in his coat-tail attracted his attention. It was an old 
 shoe he had slipped in there on the morning before, that 
 he might fling it after the wedded pair when they de- 
 parted. 
 
 Before he reached home there came Tiger, hastening 
 back to him from Stannon. 
 
 Philip welcomed the young man. 
 
 "Bear me out," he said, "bear testimony to my son 
 that I meant to be there. I set forth, but 'twas too late. ' ' 
 
 The other strove to cheer up Ouldsbroom with an 
 account of all that happened, but Philip was sunk in 
 gloom. 
 
 "It can never come over again." he said. "All the 
 joy that I'd planned be lost for ever now." 
 
 "They sent you very kind messages the last thing. 
 You was in both their minds," declared Tiger. 
 
 "It can never come over again," repeated the other. 
 " It 's lost to me for all time now. ' '
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 The inevitable circumstance overtook Philip Ouldsbroom, 
 and with Martin again removed from him, his spirit 
 grew calm again and he began to forget reality and build 
 once more on the relations he desired rather than those 
 that subsisted. The dream of his heart was always ban- 
 ished by the actual ; yet his mental irresolution was such 
 that as yet nothing had killed that dream. It glimmered 
 into being again and again, like a rainbow upon the dark 
 sky of his soul; it persisted there, beautiful and bright, 
 till Martin returned to him and the sun of his hopes once 
 more sank storm-foundered. 
 
 He dwelt now largely on the mighty differences 
 wrought by marriage and supposed that character was 
 affected thereby. He related his own experiences in this 
 sort to Tiger, and not only declared, but also believed, 
 that wedlock had made a very different man of him. 
 
 ''You'll know, you'll know when Mary's handled you 
 for a bit, my bold hero ! We ban 't half men till we are 
 husbands. A bachelor's a selfish, narrow-minded car- 
 mudgeon — good for nought — and that ignorant that we, 
 who know, look at 'em and pity 'em. But, given the 
 right woman, she's like springtime breaking over the 
 earth. In fact, life's all winter to a bachelor, and it 
 ban't till he's larned to love that he knows any other 
 season. But wait till a true woman's breast be pressed 
 up against yours. Tiger — then you'll feel the warmth of 
 it get into your Islood; and you'll bud and blossom and 
 bear fruit belike." 
 
 Tiger smiled at his poetry. 
 
 "You'm a hopeful old wonder, you are," he said. 
 
 "And why for not? Don't I know what wedlock did 
 
 364
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 365 
 
 for me? I tell you I was a man as never thought of 
 anybody but himself afore I took a wife. And after — 
 she found the scant good in me, and tended it, and 
 worked at it and made me a different creature. Not 
 many wives like her, I grant; but the pattern of good 
 women ban't lost and never will be. Minnie's just per- 
 fect in my opinion; and I will say I've done my little 
 best to help make her so. She understands my nature 
 something marvellous for a green girl. My wife's blood 
 be in her veins, you must remember, because she was 
 Unity's niece on her father's side. And you'll find that 
 she'll do for Martin what her aunt did for me. I've 
 figured it out in my mind, and I 've very little doubt that 
 'twill happen so. She'll be the south wind to Martin 
 and temper his fierce justice with her mercy. She '11 larn 
 him what pity means and show him how 'tis only the 
 strongest know the meaning of pity, and only the justest 
 know what it is to forgive. I ban't very strong. Tiger. 
 I thought I was once, but 'tis borne in upon me since 
 I've come to be a widow-man that I ban't very strong; 
 but I 've got a good power of forgiveness in me, and I 've 
 come to know this : that to forgive them that ill-use you 
 is the very best thing for your own heart that you can 
 practise. That's where poor Jesus was the greatest man 
 that ever came among men. He larned the world for all 
 time that forgiveness don't stop at the forgiven. It's 
 food and drink and life to them that use it. You'm a 
 better man every time you pardon a wrongdoer. 'Twas 
 Barbara pointed out that to me once, when I went smart- 
 ing to her under some outrageous wrong as had been 
 thrust upon me ; and I thought upon it and proved the 
 truth of it." 
 
 "No doubt all you say is true," answered the other, 
 "and I'm sure none ever talked better sense. 'Tis easy 
 to say these wise things, no doubt, if you've lived in the 
 world so long with your eyes open as what you have, 
 master. But 'tis terrible hard to do 'em at the right 
 moment. ' ' 
 
 Before the time was come for Martin to return, Oulds- 
 broom had entered upon a tranquil phase of life. One
 
 366 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 heavy drinking bout he had and only one. The day 
 before Minnie and her husband would arrive at Hartland 
 found the master up betimes. He purposed to catch a 
 dish of trout for his daughter-in-law, and set off to the 
 upper reaches of East Dart at dawn. 
 
 Sport here proved bad, and presently Philip climbed 
 the Moor, and, tramping the tumulous lands behind 
 Broad Down, entered the valley of the river's western 
 branch and sought certain familiar rivulets that ran 
 there. 
 
 Hard by these plains the fisherman struck Brown's 
 House, and presently, after a spell of more successful 
 angling, he returned to it awhile. 
 
 Above West Dart this ruin stands, at the top of a little 
 square fosse, once sharply marked, but now sinking back 
 into the heath again. A bank, flung up to make a barrier 
 between the dwelling and the Moor, was scarcely grave- 
 high now. It stretched grass-clad along to where, upon 
 the northern side, ran fragments of piled stones. The 
 fabric of Brown's House was already reduced to stumps 
 of shattered masonry. The entrance might yet be 
 marked, and two slant doorposts of granite still stood 
 there and bowed in upon each other. The space round 
 about showed no sign of ancient culture, and all that re- 
 mained of the building revealed fragments of one cham- 
 ber alone. Three broken walls encompassed it ; the fourth 
 was gone. Far beyond sight of human activity Brown's 
 House had stood. Absolute wilderness rolled and rose 
 and sank again to the high horizons on every side of it. 
 To the north ascended a green hill, and its crest was lost 
 in fog that crept stealthily along. Now it thinned, now 
 thickened suddenly, now broke again. Beneath were 
 great ranges of marsh stretching from the brink of the 
 river, and over them, set so closely that they whitened 
 the bog like a thin fleece of snow, spread the silvery 
 tassels of cotton-grass. Southerly, fronting the ruin, 
 there swept that great range of hills whose summits as- 
 cend above Wistman's "Wood and culminate at Crokern 
 nigh Two Bridges; while to the west ascended Rough 
 Tor, Devil's Tor, and the sweep of the Bear Down hills.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 367 
 
 Here came Philip from fishing, sat among the fallen 
 stones and ate his bread and meat. About him fed a 
 little herd of Scotch cattle, shaggy, black, and dun; 
 above him a curlew wheeled and uttered its short alarm 
 bark of three shrill notes. 
 
 The sportsman was well pleased. He knew some 
 humble tributaries of Dart where no rod went but his 
 own. They were too small to tempt a fisherman, but 
 the farmer understood them and had taken many a trout 
 from them. He used a natural fly and 'dapped' little 
 pools and backwaters, where none had guessed a fish 
 might harbour. Now a dozen fingerlings and one half- 
 pounder lay on the grass before him, and he had hopes 
 of another dozen at dusk. For the present he ate and 
 emptied his flask; then a great clump of white heather 
 came under his eyes and he thought upon Minnie and 
 gathered it for her. 
 
 Presently he returned to the ruin and speculated upon 
 the story told concerning it. Jealousy was an emotion 
 unknown to Philip. He marvelled that any man, for 
 love of his wife and fancied doubt of her faithfulness, 
 should drag her to this pathless place and immure her 
 beyond sight or sound of fellow-creatures; but that a 
 man himself might welcome such a spot — that a heart 
 tormented by life, or broken against some other heart 
 far harder than itself, might seek these solitudes and 
 suffer in them beyond the reach of any eyes — that 
 thought, while foreign enough to his nature, had become 
 possible to Philip's mind of late years. His days had 
 told him that peace in such a sequestered haunt was 
 precious enough under some states of tribulation. The 
 heart that once had found Job a weariness and solitude a 
 state insufferable, now not seldom welcomed both. 
 
 Thinking upon the past, his pipe dropped from his 
 mouth ; he rolled over and slept. For hours he lay thus, 
 while a mouse-coloured heifer from the herd, deceived 
 by his stillness, approached and smelt at him. Then he 
 flung out his arm and muttered in a dream, and she gal- 
 loped away to her companions. 
 
 Philip woke sad, for his vision had been of Unity, and
 
 368 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 again he had moved beside her. Seldom she visited his 
 sleep, and it was but to colour his Avaking with cruel 
 hunger for the past v\'hen she did so. His mood changed 
 now. He fished no more, but took down his rod, shoul- 
 dered his creel and went homeward. Half a mile from 
 Brown's House he remembered his bimch of heather and 
 went back and fetched it. 
 
 In the evening he descended from Hartland to Post- 
 bridge to make a final small purchase or two for Minnie. 
 Then he turned into the graveyard and looked at his 
 wife's green mound. He had set an ugly mass of stone 
 upon it and many words. A bird had smudged the 
 marble and he cleansed it, read the record of Unity's 
 virtues, and went home a little comforted by nearer ap- 
 proach to her dust. 
 
 In the evening he was sociable and happy about the 
 final preparations. He gave Tiger small peace and 
 heartened Martha White, who felt gloomy in that her 
 reign must end on the following day. 
 
 "Have no fear," he said. "She's not the sort to see 
 you hurt. She'll lessen your labours, not add to 'em. 
 A towser for work — and why not ? My son would never 
 have took up with a lazy girl. And her heart be so soft 
 as curds. Us shall all shake down very happy, without 
 a doubt." 
 
 Letters had reached Philip from the wedded pair, and 
 he made Tiger read them and utter his opinions upon 
 them. 
 
 ' ' Happy as pigeons, for certain, master, ' ' he said, ' ' yet 
 glad enough to come home — regular looking forward to 
 it, you might say." 
 
 On the morning of the return Philip surveyed his sur- 
 prises and was well pleased. He had spent nearly twenty 
 pounds, for the most part upon valueless ornaments. 
 Some large oil paintings, from a sale at Moretonhamp- 
 stead, now decorated the parlour,* and various ungainly 
 vases, hung with cut-glass prisms, were perched upon the 
 mantel-shelf. He had bought a case of stuffed king- 
 fishers, for which there was no room anywhere save in 
 the kitchen; he had also purchased some curtains for
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 369 
 
 Minnie's bedroom windows, a set of lacquer trays, and a 
 great deal of new cutlery and table glass. He knew that 
 she liked sweet cider and had laid in six dozen bottles of 
 it for her. He had bought a wonderful perambulator 
 that he saw exposed in a shop window at Tavistock. The 
 secret of this was imparted to Tiger alone. It came in a 
 wooden crate and was carried down to Hartland cellar 
 and hidden away there under a tarpaulin covered with 
 dried fern, 
 
 "I shall fetch it out with a gert flourish of trumpets 
 the day their first be born," said Philip. ''How they'll 
 laugh!" 
 
 The night closed with cheerful peace. Mary French 
 had come over from Teign Head at Philip's bidding, to 
 help with final preparations, and she and Martha joined 
 the men at supper. All w^as ready for the return of the 
 married pair, and Philip explained how that he should 
 ride out as far as the 'Warren House' to meet them and 
 bring them on their way. 
 
 "Tiger have got to come too, on Martin's own boss," 
 he said ; ' ' and us be going to trot along, one each side of 
 the carriage, and make a regular triumphant procession 
 of it!"
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Op Martin Onldsbroom, as life progressed with him and 
 his characteristics hardened under pressure of the years, 
 it might have been said that he 'scorned to trim his lion's 
 skin with lace.' His nature was resolute, steadfast, and 
 self-sufficient among men. He had a good intellect within 
 limitations, and a clear sight of his own aims. Imagina- 
 tion formed no part of his character, yet he possessed a 
 property of mind that could look ahead and see ahead 
 more clearly than can many men of twenty-one. He 
 knew himself unusually well, and he even had wit to 
 estimate the worth of his own ambitions. He lacked 
 power to display much amenity, yet was not indifferent 
 to his kind. He respected sense and strength of charac- 
 ter when combined with rectitude; he exhibited increas- 
 ing impatience against stupidity and sentiment as he 
 grew older. Tiger said of him that he was never uncivil 
 except to a fool, and that he never cringed save to his 
 God. 
 
 The home-life of Hartland opened prosperously, and 
 Minnie at first went full of happiness before her new 
 duties and new significance ; but her husband swiftly 
 began to impress himself upon her. He curbed here, and 
 there controlled. He Avas didactic and insistent. Easy 
 men gave way to him ; strong men counted him as a force 
 presently to be reckoned with in the affairs of Postbridge. 
 He appealed repeatedly to his father for the control of 
 the farm's finances, and at first Philip refused; but 
 presently, when convinced that Martin was right, he 
 gradually ceded this business to him. Everything, of 
 course, stood in his own name, and he was aware in six 
 months that the future began to promise more hopeful 
 things. Once possessed of this belief, the farmer set out 
 
 370
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 371 
 
 upon some extravagances in the nature of a surprise for 
 Martin, and he bought a bracelet for Minnie that cost five 
 pounds. That such a toy did not accord with her state, 
 and was useless to her, Martin explained with some 
 warmth. Whereupon Philip fell into anger, and rela- 
 tions grew strained for a while between them. 
 
 The young wife of Martin was called upon quickly to 
 determine her line of conduct at Hartland, and she suf- 
 fered in the process. But no middle course opened for 
 her, and she naturally adopted her husband's attitude to 
 life, though her heart went out to her father-in-law. In 
 the matter of the bracelet she estranged him for a while, 
 because he held that she ought to have kept it. 
 
 ' ' If 'tis too grand now, it won 't be presently, ' ' he de- 
 clared. ''Can't I see what's coming? Don't I know 
 that Martin be born to be rich ? By the looks of it, he '11 
 never be anything else. But cash is his guiding star, 
 and that he '11 come by, so sure as the south wind fetches 
 rain. ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis far, far too fine, father," Minnie answered; 
 ' ' and you oughtn 't to say that Martin will be nought but 
 rich. He's rich already in far more than money or 
 money's worth. He's rich in goodness and rich in the 
 respect of men that stand high. And I wish you'd be 
 patienter with him; and if his hard work and planning 
 and all the rest of it make for prosperity, don't we all 
 get the good of it too ? In your large moods you are the 
 first to grant that. ' ' 
 
 He argued against her, however, and presently reduced 
 Minnie to tears. Not at his anger did she weep, but at 
 the hard things he spoke against her husband. Then she 
 dried her tears and was angry with him, in so far as her 
 nature could achieve anger. 
 
 "I won't hear it, I won't hear it!" she cried. "You 
 don't know what you're saying, father. 'Tis horrible 
 that you can even think such terrible things against him ; 
 and him for ever wondering how best to further you and 
 better life for you. And never a day but he names you, 
 when him and me kneel morning and night together. 
 And I ask for you too. ' '
 
 372 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 The picture of their united petition softened Philip 
 instantly. It was not the prayer that moved him, but the 
 spectacle of the young things side by side, each actuated 
 by affection for him. 
 
 "You silly little fools!" he said. "Pray to Hartland 
 Tor, or the hawk perched atop of it — they'll hear you 
 sooner than your blessed God. Such things be as vain as 
 the noise of the cow that bellows for her dead calf ; but 
 the thought in your young minds that forced you to think 
 of this — that's not vain, and I'm the better and happier 
 for hearing tell about it. And for this trinket, I'll take 
 it back and get summat else instead as won't be too tear- 
 ing fine. All the same, it don't become Martin to think 
 that the queen's crown would be too fine for your little 
 head, and I 'm ashamed of him that he could do so. ' ' 
 
 Light succeeded darkness in the home ; then light was 
 swallowed up by darkness again. Martin knew, long be- 
 fore the end, that it could not last, but he desired one 
 sequel and waited in patient hope that the first step 
 might come from his father. Minnie begged that he 
 would leave Hartland and live in his own house hard by, 
 and Gertrude Crymes also favoured this idea ; but Mar- 
 tin did not want to go if such a step might be prevented. 
 He had other views for his house and, when the time for 
 Tiger's marriage came, chose Tiger for tenant and felt 
 pleased to get him. 
 
 Martin was very patient with Philip Ouldsbroom, but 
 he was also firmer as time passed. His tact increased, 
 and in most directions he did what seemed good to him. 
 Philip now generally agreed to his propositions and alter- 
 ations, so long as the younger man first consulted him. 
 But any work undertaken, any change effected without 
 his knowledge, served to make him stubborn and angry. 
 Twice he demolished Martin's plans thus set into opera- 
 tion without his sanction, and those particular improve- 
 ments he never would hear of again, though in each case 
 the thing intended must have proved of value. 
 
 There came an hour when Martin and Philip quarrelled 
 about Tiger. The difference was trivial but awoke some 
 fervour between them before Philip had his way. It
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE^ 373 
 
 related to Tiger's work, and Martin raised the question 
 because, on the occasion, Tiger and Mary were coming 
 back to Hartland. Martin's house was ready for them, 
 and their wedded life would begin in it. But young 
 Ouldsbroom held this a good opportunity to reorganise 
 the labour scheme of the farm, and his plans involved 
 certain redistribution of work that Philip refused to 
 sanction. He had indeed relegated this department to 
 Martin, and it was understood that Martin henceforth 
 controlled the men absolutely ; but Philip contended that 
 the proposed changes were not reasonable. The younger 
 man yielded now, for reasons that presently appeared, 
 and Ouldsbroom had his way; but the victory did not 
 hearten him. Much had fallen out of late that caused 
 him discomfort, and not the least of his discoveries was 
 this: that Tiger made a very great deal of practical 
 difference to his waning joy in life. Since first he came 
 there, Tiger had never been absent from Hartland for 
 more than a day or two until the occasion of his honey- 
 moon. And during these ten days Philip missed him 
 exceedingly. He went off now to meet him through a 
 still November evening. 
 
 The hour was three o 'clock when he started, and faint 
 sunlight brought out slant shadows of hedges stretched 
 over the dim and dewy fields. He climbed Merripit Hill 
 and gazed back a moment over the little theatre of his 
 days. Postbridge lay darkling under its grove, and here 
 and there about the vale ascended a feather of blue 
 smoke, bright against the gloom of earth and naked 
 boughs. Some of the newly ploughed fallow was dark 
 as a patch of night spread against the pallor of meadows, 
 whose herbage at this season appeared to have had all 
 green soaked out of it. A spatter of copper still clung 
 to the beeches, but the bulk of their sodden foliage was 
 heaped in the water-tables by the way, or flung out upon 
 the roads and heath. The fens were livid with dead 
 grasses and white with pools of rain; the furze brakes 
 shone bright green in the vigour of the year's growth. 
 Already rows of little agate buds began to round among 
 their thorns for the pageant of another spring. At one
 
 374 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 spot on the hill spread an exotic splash of wonderful 
 colour amidst the sobriety of local harmonies. Three 
 acres of purple cabbage adorned a sloping croft, and 
 their medley of amethyst and rose, their subtle, glaucous 
 passages of blue-green and grey, made a sheet of sheer 
 splendour seen from afar. Like a jewel the great square 
 of luscious, sprawling foliage shone upon the bosom of 
 the darkness, and caught amid its own opal harmonies 
 no little of the pale blue sky-colour spread above it. Set- 
 ting sunshine flushed it also, and the mass burnt into a 
 gracious warmth of genial splendour as the light went 
 westerly and developed an evening glow. Even Oulds- 
 broom marked this rare colour and pulled up a minute to 
 look at it while he filled his pipe. 
 
 "My word, how them cabbages do blaze!" he said to 
 a man who passed him driving bullocks. 
 
 Presently the farmer drank at 'Warren House,' and 
 waited there for Tiger to arrive. Jonathan French was 
 also present, with a message for his returning sister from 
 her family, and Mr. Twigg sat by the fireside in the bar. 
 His legs had now failed him, and he could wait upon his 
 customers no more. 
 
 " 'Tis hard, Greg, as you who have dealt in good liquor 
 all your life should be water-logged yourself at the end, ' ' 
 declared Ouldsbroom, alluding to the publican's in- 
 firmities. 
 
 ' ' It seems hard to you, neighbour, no doubt, ' ' answered 
 Gregory. "No doubt it seems hard that activity such 
 as mine should be cut short ; but you must remember Who 
 did it. One Who does nothing without His everlasting 
 reason, and only according to His everlasting plan. I 'm 
 being moulded for the next world now. The time is near. 
 One sees His work at every turn lately. He seems to be 
 giving a wonderful deal of attention to Dartmoor just at 
 present. Take that unruly member, Adam Truscott. The 
 Lord have struck him, and never did I know such a 
 broken and a contrite heart as he be showing since his 
 accident. ' ' 
 
 But Philip scoffed. 
 
 "A broken leg, you mean; and a heart only contrite
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 375 
 
 so long as the leg's no use. Wait till he's up on his pins 
 again, and you'll see all about his heart." 
 
 Twigg, however, held that Truscott was saved. He 
 revealed an uplifted mood, and appeared pleased with 
 himself in an unusual degree. 
 
 ' ' I know the signs, ' ' he said, ' ' and never did I strike a 
 better blow for the Lord than when — ill as I am — I got in 
 my pony trap and hurried off to Adam's bed of sickness. 
 I won him and talked and talked while I felt my legs 
 swelling to mountains under me. 'Twas a brave bit of 
 work and will go to my account, with others like it. ' ' 
 
 "So it will, so it will. Brother Twigg," said a Little 
 Baptist who was present. 
 
 "Ah!" declared Philip, "you'll have a grand time 
 reading over your pages in the Good Book, Gregory. ' ' 
 
 "So he will then, and very pretty reading 'twill be," 
 cried Mr. Twigg 's admirer. "I wish us common people 
 could be so hopeful." 
 
 "Don't say that," answered the publican. "Trust 
 me, neighbours, I'm just a man like yourselves." 
 
 But he spoke as though he did not expect them to 
 believe it. 
 
 "And as to you, Ouldsbroom," he continued, "why 
 for should you flout me because I tell truth? And why 
 for must I speak truth of other men and not of myself? 
 Would the Lord think any better of me if I said worse of 
 Mr. Gregory Twigg than I know of Mr. Gregory Twigg? 
 It may ask for a brave mind to tell the world that we 
 are good; but if you walk with your Maker, same as I 
 have done, you catch a bit of /our Maker's wisdom, and 
 I'd be doing a poor service to Him Who has made me 
 what I am, if I pretended His trouble had been wasted. ' ' 
 
 "Well, well," answered Philip, "no doubt you know 
 best. And when the fiery chariot calls to drive you up 
 into heaven, may I be here to help the send-off." 
 
 "You're hopeless," answered Mr. Twigg, not ill- 
 pleased at the picture Philip presented. "But don't 
 imagine that I 'm " 
 
 He was interrupted, for a trap drew up at the inn and 
 Tiger appeared with his wife.
 
 376 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 They were greeted with warmth, and Mr. Twigg in- 
 sisted on making them take some refreshment. He also 
 produced a bottle of ginger wine for Mary. 
 
 "My wedding present to you and Tiger here was an 
 appeal to the Throne," he said, "I hope you'll bring 
 him to Grace, Mary, and that afore many days have 
 passed. But take this bottle too. I wish you well, 
 though I don't hide it from you that more than once 
 your husband has said things that were not what they 
 ought to have been, coming from him to me. However, 
 we will let the dead bury their dead. ' ' 
 
 Tiger was preoccupied and spent but a few minutes 
 at the 'Warren House.' The young man desired to be 
 alone with Philip and hear how he was faring. He also 
 possessed an item of news for Ouldsbroom's ear. 
 
 They departed quickly, and Philip rode beside the trap 
 that was conveying the married couple home. "When 
 they were arrived and the vehicle had gone. Tiger left 
 Mary in her new home and walked awhile with the 
 farmer. Dusk had fallen. 
 
 "As for us, all's well by fits and starts — more cloud 
 than sunshine, no doubt. But now that you're back, I 
 shall be home more. IMartin have bought up they two 
 cottages by Lesser Merripit. You know the ones. He 
 axed me first, of course, and I didn't see no objection. 
 Busy as a bee he is. My darter-in-law's all right. So 
 be the people at Stannon. And Saul Hext, to the post- 
 office, have lost that ailing child. A very good thing the 
 poor scrap be gone, for she 'd never have growed straight. 
 I seed her and made her laugh the very day before she 
 died." 
 
 He related his news ; then Tiger spoke. 
 
 "You'm looking pretty well; and me and Mary be 
 happy as birds. But I heard from Mister Martin this 
 morning. He wrote very civil — kind, you might say. 
 But — well, you'd best to read it. My eternal welfare be 
 bothering him above a bit. He says that he thought solid 
 for the whole ten days I was honeymooning, and he's 
 come to the conclusion that he had to speak — 'twas his 
 duty."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 377 
 
 Philip looked anxious. 
 
 " 'Duty' — eh? When he names the word 'duty,' 'tis 
 generally along with some damned unpleasant talk or 
 act. What 's the matter now ? " 
 
 "Read," answered the other. 
 
 Then he handed Philip a letter and struck matches, by 
 which he was able swiftly to decipher Martin's clear 
 business hand. 
 
 ' ' He wants for me to go to church or chapel in future, 
 you see. He says that he holds himself responsible for 
 the souls of them he reigns over, and that he can't have 
 no ungodly man or M'oman at Hartland. He writes it 
 very nice, and he says that a time will come when I shall 
 know he is right and when I shall thank God for it. ' ' 
 
 "God — God!" cried Ouldsbroom. "Little enough 
 that frozen man knows of God ! Ungodly — you ? Well, 
 well — so he be going to — there. I can't do nothing. 
 Take your stinking letter and put it in the pigs' house — 
 to sweeten it. What does Mary say ? ' ' 
 
 Tiger laughed. 
 
 "Mary's above a little thing like this." 
 
 "A little thing!" 
 
 "So she calls it. I was a bit savage myself when I 
 read it first; and then she read it and made light of it. 
 ' The question be, shall us go, or shall us bide ? ' I said to 
 her; but she shook her head. 'That's not the question 
 at all, ' says Molly, ' the question don 't lie between going 
 or stopping; it lies between church and chapel — that's 
 all. You don't throw up Hartland for a thing like that 
 — not if I've got anything to say.' " 
 
 ' ' Never listen to her, ' ' answered the other man, ' ' This 
 touches deeper things than she knows about. 'Tis the 
 liberty of the subject. 'Tis tyranny. He might so soon 
 tell you how to vote as how to pray. 'Tis the spirit of 
 the old time come again, when a man couldn't call his 
 soul his own, or his body either. 'Tis the damned old 
 spirit, when parson and squire ran the parish and ex- 
 pected every man, woman, and child to bend the knee 
 to 'em. You get up to Hartland to-night and tell my son 
 that — better still — I'll do it. I'm master yet — ban't I?"
 
 378 . THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ' ' Of course, of course you be. But you must remember 
 that with the weight of years you, very properly, let him 
 take this and that off your shoulders. You gave him the 
 control, and you were right to do it. I 'm not angry with 
 Mister Martin, and I hope you won't be. From his point 
 of view he's in the right, and, after all — what is it? 
 Church and chapel be harmless places. 'Tis only a black 
 coat of a Sunday and a quiet hour or two along with 
 Mary." 
 
 But Ouldsbroom would not hear of it. He argued for 
 the principle, and such was his rooted hatred of any 
 recognised dogma or form of worship, that he uttered a 
 command and bade Tiger at peril of his friendship resist 
 this despotic order. 
 
 Finally Tiger promised that he would ask for a week 
 in which to decide. His wife had already argued him 
 into acquiescence; but, for Philip's sake, he undertook 
 to do nothing immediately. Storms darkened the air of 
 Hartland, and Philip demanded his rights in the matter. 
 Martin offered to yield his authority if his father wished 
 it; then Ouldsbroom, mollified, argued for liberty of 
 conscience and no more. 
 
 Finally, in secret, he decided to get new work for Tiger 
 and find him a position of improved importance else- 
 where. He believed this easy, and for his own part, since 
 he spent less and less of his days at home, he assured him- 
 self that- he might see more of Tiger if he was away. 
 Without revealing his purpose, he scoured the country, 
 explained to farmers that Tiger of Hartland was in the 
 market, cried his fame and stated the weekly wages that 
 he had a right to command. But his efforts to find a 
 place worthy of his friend were futile. None felt pre- 
 pared to pay the money that Tiger was supposed to de- 
 serve; indeed, Philip's own credit was quite gone now. 
 His contemporaries had nearly vanished from the fore- 
 most rank ; and the rising generation did not take him . 
 seriously. Some were civil and gave him drink and lis- 
 tened to his speeches; others were too busy to consider 
 him and sent him off with a short answer. He was grown 
 shabby and careless of his clothes now ; folk who did not
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 379 
 
 know him guessed that he could be little better than a 
 tramp. 
 
 The result of this general canvass on behalf of Tiger 
 did Philip harm, for he found less sympathy and kind- 
 ness in the world than he had expected, and the lack 
 angered him unreasonably against all men. He made no 
 mention of his failures to Tiger, and he submitted with 
 but a mild explosion of contempt when the young man 
 told him that Martin was to have his way. 
 
 One negative comfort arose from the decision : Mary 
 had determined to go to church and not chapel. 
 
 As for Tiger himself, his own private plans were long 
 since matured. He meant to stop at Hartland while 
 Philip lived; but knew that he would leave it a month 
 /9iterwards.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Martin Ouldsbroom's wife was with child before the 
 winter returned, and, upon that promise, the young 
 husband found himself faced with the weightiest 
 problems that life had yet proposed to him. Anxiety 
 tempered satisfaction. His sober mind looked forward, 
 and even had he been disposed to evade the difficulties 
 that threatened, or postpone solution until their in- 
 cidence, that was not possible, because already, and daily, 
 from the mouth of Philip he heard the gravity of the 
 danger. 
 
 Ouldsbroom was overjoyed. He exalted Minnie above 
 all people, and began his plans and projects for spoiling 
 the future child by spoiling its mother. His activity 
 was boundless, his energy unceasing. He wasted pounds 
 upon surprises for Minnie, and, hidden from him in the 
 exasperated company of her husband, not seldom she 
 wept at the futile follies he committed. 
 
 The farmer's altruism, now relieved, by his own im- 
 pairment, from rational control, ran into excesses; yet 
 such was the fervour of the old heart that planned, that 
 to chide or resent his unsleeping energies had taxed a 
 harder spirit than Martin's. Only he could attempt con- 
 trol, and the result seldom proved successful. 
 
 ' ' Master ought to have a keeper, and that 's the truth, ' ' 
 confessed Tiger. "My wife says that he's like a good 
 fairy gone weak in the head; and there it is in a nut- 
 shell." 
 
 But not even Tiger could stem the inevitable catas- 
 trophe. Martin debated slowly with himself and came 
 to no hasty conclusion. To bring up a child under the 
 same roof with Philip was to ruin a child. Ruin actually 
 waited for the unborn, and he could see nothing ahead 
 
 380
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 381 
 
 but eternal and unthinkable friction from the hour that 
 his offspring came into the world. His duty to the child 
 stood high above any other human obligation in the 
 young man's regard. He, too, had laid his plans and 
 weighed the responsibilities of fatherhood. 
 
 The question, reduced to simplest dimensions, soon 
 confronted him. Either his wife and he must leave 
 Hartland, or his father must do so. For the sake of his 
 future property he mourned the necessity of choosing; 
 but greater interests stood at stake, and, since it was im- 
 possible again to suggest that Philip depart, Martin, 
 after long thought and pain, determined to leave his 
 home. Minnie begged him to come to no decision until 
 her child was born, and Tiger, to whom he also declared 
 his purpose, foretold that such a step would mean final 
 ruin for Ouldsbroom. 
 
 "You're the only drag left on the wheel," he said. 
 "I do what I can, and that's a good bit; but you've 
 got the influence where it's a serious thing. Master 
 knows, when he stops to think, that you be in the right 
 most times. He'll never hear of your going off." 
 
 "I shouldn't go far — only to one of my two houses at 
 Lower Merripit. Of course the easy way out of the 
 difficulty — but that 's no use, and I won 't even mention it. 
 I might be nearer eveif. I might take your house, Tiger, 
 and you could get over to Merripit or " 
 
 He broke off, inspired by a promising thought. 
 
 ' ' How would it be if you and your wife came to Hart- 
 land and I and my wife went and lived in your house ? ' ' 
 
 Tiger offered one objection, but that was final. 
 
 "Mary wouldn't do such a thing for all the world," 
 he said. 
 
 The other, however, demanded that this point should 
 be left open. It struck him that only so might the 
 problem be solved, and it was not until Tiger pointed 
 out another objection that he abandoned the hope. 
 
 "Even if it happened," said the elder, "what good 
 would be served? My house ban't a quarter of a mile 
 from Hartland, and if the old boy can get at your babby 
 here, he can just as easy there. No matter where he is,
 
 382 THE THIEF OF VIRTUET 
 
 to a good mile or two, he'll be running after the child — • 
 unless you was to forbid it. And even you can't do that, 
 I reckon." 
 
 "I can do it and I shall do it if my child's welfare is 
 the question. A child is more than a parent." 
 
 "Why for worry? Lord knows what may fall out 
 betwixt now and June, and my wife tells me your little 
 one ban 't due till then. ' ' 
 
 "It's not my way to be unprepared. And, for my 
 father's sake, the sooner he knows my ideas the better. 
 Then he'll be ready to face changes." 
 
 * ' Don 't deny him the child altogether, ' ' pleaded Tiger. 
 "He's building on it something wonderful. It's done 
 him good a 'ready — the bare thought of it. Better us 
 hope the little thing will work good on him than that he 
 works harm on it. So busy is he that he's forgot to be 
 drunk for a week; and the nearer comes the time, the 
 busier he'll get for certain." 
 
 "I know that — only too well. I must have the position 
 defined. I'm not here for your advice, but to tell you 
 what I propose. But, of course, my father's own wish 
 must count in the matter — if it happens to be within 
 reason. ' ' 
 
 A few weeks later Martin had speech with Philip, and 
 explained that he desired changes at Hartland. 
 
 They rode together on an April day and passed above 
 Dart on the lofty ridge of Broad Down. 
 
 Martin then spoke plainly but patiently. He made 
 no disguise of his reasons for desiring the change, and 
 told his elder that the coming child must be brought up 
 absolutely in his own way, and according to his own 
 opinions of training and education. 
 
 The collision was severe and the result irretrievable. 
 Philip drew up his horse to listen while Martin spoke. 
 He did not interrupt him but gazed with dull and scowl- 
 ing eyes straight into the other's. 
 
 "In a word, your father ban't fitting company for 
 your child — is that it?" 
 
 "I'm only saying what I think to be right. You and 
 I have different ideas on every subject, and you know
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 383 
 
 the cruel strain that it is, better than I can tell you. My 
 child's immortal soul is in my keeping; you don't even 
 think he's got an immortal soul. I hate the name of 
 drink; j^ou are under the dominion of it. We cannot 
 agree, and I don't judge you, father. But I must judge 
 myself, and I must listen to my conscience, and my 
 conscience tells me that " 
 
 "Didn't I bring you up? Answer that question. 
 Didn't I do a thousand, thousand times more for you 
 than a father often does for his son? Didn't I scrimp 
 and starve for you to be fat and prosperous? Didn't I 
 send you to school — fool that I was ? Don 't you owe all 
 that you are to me ? ' ' 
 
 "No, father. I owe my education to you, and, in one 
 sense, I owe what I am to you. But not in the sense you 
 mean. I don't think as you think, and I don't seek and 
 shun what you seek and shun. I 'm not built to be what 
 you like. I'm different from you every way that I can 
 be. You make me a sorrowful man, because while it's 
 in my power to do good and be useful to everybody else 
 in my life, I'm powerless — powerless to do good or be 
 useful to you. ' ' 
 
 "And why? Because your heart's a stone and you 
 was born without any milk of human kindness in you. 
 I've forgiven and forgotten for twenty years. For 
 twenty years, I tell you. But I'll torment myself about 
 you no more. You're not a man — or if you are, I'd like 
 to see a devil! I hate you — I hate your shadow. Take 
 all I've got — everything — and my hate in the bargain. 
 I'll go, then. I'll go away from Hartland — God's my 
 judge I will. You 've fouled the air of my home for ever- 
 more. And may your blasted child be a canker and a 
 curse to your age, as you have been to mine. You've 
 worked and plotted for this for years. I 've known — I 've 
 known. I've seen it in your snake's eyes when you've 
 been looking at me. And now you 've won and I 've lost. 
 I'll go — so soon as I can find a corner for my bones I'll 
 be off. And if the memory of me, wandering friendless 
 and roofless in the world, don't blast your smug life and 
 poison your prayers, then "
 
 384 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 He broke off, listened for no reply, but galloped away 
 as hard as his horse would take him ; while Martin stood 
 still and did not attempt to follow. 
 
 The furious elder only stopped when a mile of wilder- 
 ness stretched between them. Then he drew up and 
 found that he had come upon the fragments of Brown's 
 House, where it stood in seclusion. He dismounted and 
 tramped hither and thither, deep-plunged in a phlegethon 
 that burned his soul alive. He cried aloud and raved 
 and stamped upon the earth. For a long time he moved 
 up and down; but presently he sat upon the ruin and 
 slowly grew calmer. His torture abated, his panting 
 bosom stilled. 
 
 Then into his mind there flashed a characteristic re- 
 solve, and an inspiration, of the extravagant sort peculiar 
 to him, leapt adult from his rocking brain. He would 
 thrust a roof on this wreck of a human home and let the 
 walls shelter yet another miserable man. He would make 
 his dwelling here, and live sequestered evermore as a pro- 
 test against evil fate. 
 
 Nettles and thistles clove to the rack of stone, and, 
 standing shoulder to shoulder, crowned it with their 
 stings and spines. They were seemly company for his 
 heart now. Here, in this immense ring of untrodden 
 hills, with thorns for friends and the foxes for company, 
 he would abide. The standing walls were clothed wifli 
 stonecrop, lichen, and ferns. Moss clung between their 
 fragments and held them together. They would serve 
 for the short span that he might need them. 
 
 Possessed with this sudden resolve, Philip set to work 
 there and then. He dragged out the debris from the 
 remaining chamber, pulled down stone after stone and 
 flung them ready for the builders. He trampled down 
 the nettles, cut away the grass and briars with his knife, 
 and cleared the circumference of the ruin, that its nature 
 might be the better judged. For three hours he toiled 
 here, and the longer he worked the clearer dawned his 
 thought. His labour calmed him; he returned home 
 in peace; a sort of ferocious good humour marked his 
 attitude to Tiger when he met him.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 385 
 
 For a week he kept his secret from Hartland, though 
 others already knew it. Meantime he refused to discuss 
 the future with Martin or Minnie. Both strove to pro- 
 pitiate him, but he cut them short. 
 
 "My plans be made," he said. "Come the fit time, 
 you shall know 'em. Have no fear that I be going to cast 
 you out. 'Tis the other way round. I know my place. 
 I 'm only a bad old man — not proper company for Little 
 Baptists and their babbies. I must be hidden from the 
 wise and prudent, as your Book says. And Martin here 
 don't think 'tis fitting I should be revealed to babes 
 neither. Of course 'twould never do for my grandchild 
 to know his own grandfather — the old man that made 
 Hartland what it is, and was accounted a fair, honest 
 pattern of creature once on a time. Of course such a 
 thing can 't be thought upon, ' ' 
 
 In this spirit Philip persisted for a week ; then he told 
 them what he had determined to do. 
 
 "And if you think to change me, you think wrong," 
 he said to Martin. "I can very well die there, like the 
 wild -beasts die when their time comes. They don 't have 
 none to smooth their pillows, no more won't I. Don't 
 pull no faces about it, for though cant be the staple of 
 your life and your thoughts, it be lost on me. You've 
 done what you set out to do ; you 've drove me from my 
 own door ; and may the lightning out of the cloud strike 
 me if, once gone, I ever come back again. ' ' 
 
 They strove with him, and both Martin and his wife 
 implored the old man to abandon his purpose. Every 
 objection was urged against his scheme; but the more 
 reasonable they sounded, the less he entertained them. 
 
 " 'Tis done, and you may spare your talk," he said. 
 " I 've planned all and thought upon all. I shan 't trouble 
 Hartland and I shan't trouble Postbridge. I shall take 
 my way by West Dart to the 'Ring o' Bells.' There'll 
 be food and friends for me there. For you '11 be surprised 
 to know that I 've still got one or two people in the world 
 that ban't weary of me." 
 
 In private Tiger exercised all his powers of persuasion ; 
 and Philip, who hid nothing from him, opened his heart, 
 
 25
 
 386 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 showed him the mortal wounds of it, and explained that 
 no power would keep him at Hartland longer. 
 
 "I ban't fit company for my own grandchild. 'Tis all 
 summed up in that," he said. ''And since my days are 
 short now, I '11 be gone, for I wouldn 't turn a dog out of 
 Hartland that loved the place, let alone him as will own 
 Hartland presently. He's robbed me of my own. Tiger. 
 He's snatched away what would have been his soon 
 enough. Well, let him have it. He shan't never say I 
 was hard or unfatherly. Let him have all — money, land 
 — everything. I'll build up Brown's House and take a 
 bit of cash — just enough to keep body and soul together 
 and leave a copper over for a pal. That's all I want. He 
 can have the rest. I don't envy him his fame, or his 
 strength, or Hartland, or any mortal thing. I only want to 
 get out of reach of his eyes and his voice for evermore. ' ' 
 
 They could not shake him. He had made arrange- 
 inents with a builder, and the work was quickly set in 
 hand. 
 
 "Westaway be going to run up a roof and a chimney 
 dog-cheap," explained Ouldsbroom. Method marked his 
 madness. All else faded from his mind. He ignored 
 his farm and devoted his energies to making the ruin 
 habitable. 
 
 ' ' Till the first day of October, ' ' he said, * ' I be in com- 
 mand here, and after that day you can set the dogs on 
 me if I come inside the gate. But, until then, I've a 
 right to bid you all do as I please ; and therefore, come 
 Monday next, I order Tiger and Will Rogers to get up 
 over and lend a hand. There's a lot to do, and I'm going 
 to break up a bit of ground and put in a few tons of lime 
 and plant potatoes. ' ' 
 
 He spoke as little to Martin as possible during these 
 dark hours ; but he was kind and solicitous for Minnie. 
 Only, after a time, the hard words that he poured out 
 against her husband fired the gentle woman into anger. 
 She knew what her husband was suffering; she knew 
 that Philip was unjust. To her eyes it seemed that the 
 cruelty and unreason lay entirely upon the side of her 
 father-in-law ; and this presently she told him.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 387 
 
 "Can't you allow for his nature, father? Can't you 
 see that he must do what his conscience tells him ? We 'IJ 
 go, and gladly go. We can bide near enough to be useful, 
 and he can be here every day to do your bidding. 'Tis 
 hard and very different to your common way to do what 
 you are doing and let the blame fall on my husband's 
 shoulders. He's fretting about it, and he's asked a score 
 of sensible people what to do for the best. ' ' 
 
 "No doubt. He'll go to anybody but his own father. 
 How be a proud man to live under a roof where he's 
 despised and hated ? You say that he frets. And haven 't 
 he got cause to fret? What's his religion worth if he 
 can't keep the Commandments? Ban't he told to honour 
 his father? 'Tis a fine way to honour me to kick me out 
 of my own house. And preaches at his prayer-shop now, 
 I'm told — tells 'em how to run with the hare and hunt 
 with the hounds, no doubt. He's larned that dirty trick, 
 if nothing else. That's w^liat I paid his schooling for. 
 A fond fool was I ; and now I be finding the price of my 
 folly. She was taken from the evil to come — his mother 
 was. I don't mourn for her no more. I did her a good 
 turn when I killed her. 'Tis most enough to make you 
 believe in a watching God to think that she was hurried 
 off out of sight of this. But she'd have stuck to me, 
 mark you. He needn't fox himself to think his mother 
 would have bided here when I was thrown out. Grand- 
 child or no grandchild, she would have put me first, as 
 she always did. He wouldn't have robbed me of her 
 love and worship, though no doubt he'd have tried his 
 hardest to do it. ' ' 
 
 Upon that Minnie wept and rebuked him. He answered 
 roughly, left her and henceforth counted her with her 
 husband as an enemy. 
 
 When Tiger and another came up to Brown's House 
 with their tools on the appointed day, they found that 
 much was already done. Ouldsbroom had arranged with 
 the bailiff of the Duchy to make this solitude his home. 
 He had proceeded in order, and now the walls were up 
 and the timbers had arrived for the roof. Two rooms 
 were to be built. The door opened from the east; two
 
 388 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 windows would look upon the south. But the labourers 
 from Hartland were concerned with Philip's garden. 
 Half an acre of ground, outlined by its former enclo- 
 sures, subtended Brown's House. Philip had already 
 mowed this patch and cleaned it as well as he was able. 
 Now Tiger and Rogers lowered down a plough, which 
 they had brought in a cart drawn by two horses. They 
 transferred one horse from cart to plough; then Tiger 
 began to break up the land, while Will returned to Hart- 
 land for some bags of brown lime. 
 
 The spectacle of the plough suggested something to 
 Philip. 
 
 "Be damned if I hadn't forgot my hoss!" he cried. 
 "And us must have a place for my tools and gear also. 
 So far there's nought planned but the kitchen and my 
 bedroom opening off of it; but, of course, us must have 
 a little lean-to shippon 'pon t 'other side. ' ' 
 
 He hurried off to the masons that he might explain 
 this necessary addition.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 The work of making his new home served to sweeten 
 Philip's mind in some directions. But while cheerful 
 with Tiger, and with friends at Two Bridges or Post- 
 bridge, he preserved steadfast animosity against Martin. 
 The latter strained the resources of his character and 
 strove with might and main to moderate this attitude; 
 but for many days he could not. He sought counsel from 
 men, and guidance from Heaven ; but no success re- 
 warded his labours. Philip Ouldsbroom would not hear 
 him and would not heed those who came as intercessors 
 for him. 
 
 His answer was always the same : 
 
 "He's cast me out. I've done with him for evermore. 
 Let them as can stomach such a man be his friends. 
 When I was young he'd have had no friends; but the 
 world's all changed now, and simple hearts and plain 
 dealing be things of the past." 
 
 He brought up his few possessions to the hut. He 
 took very little beyond his clothes, his gun, his fishing- 
 rod, and his horse. The place was ready for him by the 
 end of November, and he left Hartland without ceremony 
 and without taking any farewells. 
 
 Martin's hope at this period was that the old man 
 would soon weary of his own company. None more 
 sociable and social according to his lights existed, and 
 those best known to Philip foretold that a few weeks in 
 the mournful seclusion of Brown's House would tame the 
 farmer's temper, reduce his spirits, and send him back 
 to civilisation. 
 
 He had made no business plans with Martin and left 
 no directions of any sort concerning the conduct and 
 administration of Hartland. 
 
 389
 
 390 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Tiger approached the farmer twice upon the subject, 
 but he refused to discuss it. 
 
 "Plenty of time; plenty of time/' he said. "I ban't 
 dead yet, and I don 't mean to die for a good bit. I shall 
 get peace of mind up here, and that's all a man of my 
 age can hope for. Peace of body's a dream when you'm 
 getting up to seventy year old, or near it. Not but what 
 I'm stout enough. I can go and come by Wistman's 
 Wood to the ' Ring o ' Bells ' ; and there 's always a good 
 few of the old sort to give me a welcome there. And as 
 for the money — sink the money — 'tis the money have 
 made that snake I called my son what he's come to be. 
 Let him have it. Send lawyer along and I'll put my 
 name to anything and everything. I ax for a pound a 
 week and a fiver added off and on if I 'm hard up. And 
 I'll have that down in lawyer's language — else he'd very 
 soon let me starve. The rest be his. ' ' 
 
 Philip invited none to see him save Tiger, and his 
 visits to Postbridge, when once he had taken leave of it, 
 were few. Occasionally he called on Saul Hext, who now 
 controlled the post-office and Barbara's little shop; but 
 most people avoided him when they could do so without 
 rudeness, and the rising generation held him as a mad- 
 man. Children were told not to speak to him, and when 
 he came grinning to them with kind words and promises 
 of toys, they ran away and laughed. 
 
 For a month after Philip had taken up his new abode, 
 Tiger was sent daily by Martin to see him, and Minnie 
 sometimes wrote a letter begging him to come to Hartland 
 on Sundays and spend the day there. But he did not 
 come. Only once, when Martin was from home on busi- 
 ness at Exeter, Ouldsbroom returned and spent two days 
 with Minnie. She tried very hard to influence him, but 
 she failed. He declared that he was well, and more peace- 
 ful than he had been for many years. He talked of Two 
 Bridges and the cheerful company there ; he had found a 
 new friend in one Nicholas Edgecombe, a warrener, who 
 dwelt in a house as lonely as his own at Wistman's 
 Wood. 
 
 **A very proper red man," he said. ''He've be-
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 391 
 
 friended me more than once, and gone so far, out of 
 charity, as to see me home now and again when I was 
 bosky-eyed. ' ' 
 
 Philip made a very great grievance of his present case. 
 To those who would listen he was never tired of telling 
 the story of his wrongs. Much patience marked the 
 attitude of the elderly to Ouldsbroom, and not until he 
 had wearied the bar of the 'Ring o' Bells' would the kind- 
 hearted publican urge him to desist and go upon his way. 
 Many honestly believed him ill-used ; the greater number, 
 knowing both sides, could not see that Martin was to 
 blame. Heated arguments arose upon the question, but 
 none convinced another. 
 
 Philip remained unshaken. In the public bar at Two 
 Bridges a labourer declared one night that he had never 
 seen a thief. 
 
 *'Hast not?" asked Ouldsbroom. "Then cast a good 
 look at my son next time he passes by, and you won 't be 
 able to say that again." 
 
 Rumours increased that the master of Hartland had 
 been robbed, and the enemies of Martin gladly believed 
 it. Easy men disliked him much; it was said that he 
 always took and never gave in his dealings. Therefore 
 not a few were pleased to report that Philip had been 
 ill-used and that the stronger will of his son had tri- 
 umphed when he left his home. Reports became ex- 
 aggerated and many lies were told, but Philip contra- 
 dicted none of them. 
 
 ''The truth's uglier than anything that's said," he 
 declared. 
 
 The scandal grew, and Martin found that just men 
 were being influenced against him. It had been reported 
 that his father was starving; that he had cast him out 
 and now only granted him a pittance. In truth, no finan- 
 cial understanding was yet come to, and Martin felt much 
 impeded. Thrice he had endeavoured to see his father, 
 and twice Philip was not at Bro\\Ti's House when he 
 called there. On the third occasion he refused to ad- 
 mit Martin and bade him be gone. The lawyers had 
 written to Philip, but he had not replied to them.
 
 392 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 They had sent messengers to him and failed to find 
 him. 
 
 Once more Martin attempted the difficult task of speak- 
 ing with Ouldsbroom. He rode up to Brown's House in 
 the hour of evening light, when another winter was at 
 hand, and he took with him a china basin containing a 
 pudding of which Philip was very fond. He knocked at 
 the door. Then a voice shouted from a window, and he 
 went round to the front of the house, leading his horse 
 by the bridle. 
 
 The old man looked out at him. Philip now shaved no 
 .more. His thin hair hung white about his ears, his chin 
 and cheeks were bright with a snowy scrub that shone 
 in the sunshine ; his sanguine complexion faded not, but 
 lines and puckers and pouches had wrecked his face. His 
 head shook a little on his short neck; only the uncon- 
 querable blue of his eyes still sparkled from his coun- 
 tenance, and seemed out of place in that ruined frame. 
 
 ' ' You ! " he said. ' ' Ban 't you weary of coming hither 
 to torment me ? ' ' 
 
 "I've brought a pudding from Minnie." 
 
 "Get back then, and poison a dog with it. 'Twas 
 sweet when it left her hand — 'tis foul since it have been 
 in yours." 
 
 "Father, I implore you to be reasonable. We'll leave 
 Hartland to-morrow, and thankf ulh^ leave it. ' ' 
 
 "Too late now. Why didn't you go back-along, in- 
 stead of telling me to go ? " 
 
 "I never told you to go, or dreamed that you would 
 go. I meant to break it to you that I must go before 
 my child was born. D 'you think I arrived at that with- 
 out trouble and grief ? D 'you think that to stand by and 
 see you killing yourself by inches ? ' ' 
 
 "Don't ax me no questions, and don't pretend no 
 lies. I've done with you. I sicken at the sound of you; 
 I shut my eyes to get away from the sight of you. You 're 
 a monster and the snow's welcome afore you, and the 
 east wind and the thunder and lightning. I'd sooner 
 be tored limb from limb by savage beasts than home with 
 you again, and I '11 never set foot inside Hartland so long
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 393 
 
 as you're under the roof. And this I'll tell you too : I've 
 reached a pitch — goaded to it by you — I've reached a 
 pitch where I 'd give the farm away to the first tramp as 
 would ax me. I'd do anything — anything. I'd burn it 
 down about your blasted ears, and we 'd see then whether 
 your God would come and put it out. And I offered it 
 to Tiger — d'you hear that? I offered it to Tiger, but he 
 wouldn 't take it. More fool him ! ' ' 
 
 His ferocity wore itself out. Then Martin spoke again. 
 
 "I beg you to devote just a thought to business, 
 father." 
 
 ' ' Ah ! that 's all you think of. Money be the only sub- 
 ject in your mean soul. Money — what's money to me 
 now? What's anything if you haven't got a friend? I 
 don't want no money. Take it, keep it, breed it, choke 
 yourself with it. Share it with your God. Then you'll 
 be killing two birds with one stone and lining your nest 
 here and hereafter." 
 
 "The papers they sent you " 
 
 "I lost 'em. They'm out on the Moor somewheres.'* 
 
 "Could you meet a man if he came to the 'Ring o' 
 Bells'? They'll make any arrangement you please. I 
 only want working expenses and to keep up your farm 
 for you." 
 
 "It ban't my farm. I've forgot it. This here place 
 is my home, and I ax for enough to keep me and my 
 hoss, and no more. A pound a week I'll have, and if I'm 
 hard up and hungry afore the next pound 's due, I '11 ax 
 the foxes to lend me a bit, or the criss-hawks to catch me 
 a rabbit. Have no fear as I '11 want your money. ' ' 
 
 * ' Could you be down there on Wednesday next ? ' ' 
 
 "I'll be there, but see you ban't. Let me have an 
 honest man and not a rogue to deal with. I only want 
 a little of my own back — that's all. You can keep the 
 rest and devour widows' houses and bleat your prayers 
 
 and Begone, I can 't stand the sight of you no more. 
 
 Send Tiger if you want me to talk sense. I can't afore 
 you — you make me mad. Keep away, for I ban't my 
 own master always now, and I might shoot you in mis- 
 take for a wolf. And mark this, Martin Ouldsbroom —
 
 394 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Little Baptist and father-hater — you'll be in hell afore 
 me yet." 
 
 His bitterness was very terrible. He shut the window 
 of his room and drew down a blind over it to hide the 
 interior. Martin considered for a few minutes. Then 
 he left the pudding on a stone in sight of the window 
 and went away. 
 
 A sort of understanding was presently arrived at. 
 Philip signed documents giving control of Hartland into 
 the hands of his son; and it was arranged that Tiger 
 should wait upon the old man daily and convey him reg- 
 ular supplies of food and money. 
 
 For the time another hand was engaged at Hartland, 
 and Tiger's duties centred in Philip. Martin made these 
 plans and hoped that they might work with some measure 
 of completeness and success during such life as remained 
 to his father. 
 
 Many had begged him to have the old man back again ; 
 many assured him that a new-born infant could take no 
 hurt from the presence of his grandfather, drunk or 
 sober ; but upon this point Martin would not yield. He 
 hoped only respecting Philip now that Heaven might 
 busy itself on his behalf. Man was powerless to save 
 him; and personally young Ouldsbroom saw the outcast 
 no more. He feared not for his life ; but he held it folly 
 to endanger that life without hope of any benefit there- 
 from. 
 
 Tiger did his work well, and sometimes stopped for a 
 day or two at Brown's House. He reported that Philip 
 grew quieter and more reasonable. He had asked for his 
 Bible, and Tiger took it to him, and often read from Job 
 when the old man had been intoxicated over night and 
 spent a day in recovering. 
 
 Philip seldom came to Postbridge, but sometimes he 
 rode to the crown of the hills and looked upon his home. 
 The folk would see him perched motionless against the 
 sky upon Broad Down. For an hour at a time he might 
 gaze into the theatre of his life ; and then he would turn 
 away and disappear.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Martin Ouldsbroom did not permit trouble to ruin his 
 life or come between him and his purposes. Immense 
 native energy was combined in him with an earnest and 
 serious outlook upon affairs. The ruling passion to pros- 
 per did not clash with his religious enthusiasm. He was 
 scrupulous, but he was hard, and he lost no chances to 
 succeed and improve his worldly position, while preserv- 
 ing his standard of justice and morality. Unswerving 
 rectitude was natural to him; his sole human weakness 
 centred in the desire to be rich ; but it could not be said 
 to come between him and the letter of justice in all his 
 dealings. He had a little money of his father's to handle 
 now, and he effected considerable changes in the old 
 securities. He held that mortgages were the most de- 
 sirable form of investment, and effected several in the 
 immediate neighbourhood of Hartland. He perceived 
 possibilities as yet unguessed in the vicinage of his home, 
 and dreamed dreams of prosperous lodging-houses at 
 Postbridge. Dartmoor had of late been proved a valuable 
 sanatorium, and Martin, after some speech with a phy- 
 sician upon the subject, saw that money was certainly to 
 be made if good accommodation for lung-sick patients 
 could be established upon the waste. As a Little Bap- 
 tist, the yoimg man stood high, and bestowed more than 
 a tithe of his energies in advancing the cause of that sect. 
 He believed his persuasion to be absolutely right and lost 
 no opportunity of assisting it. The Order of the 
 Rechabites also numbered him its ardent friend. Tem- 
 perance was the only subject that had ever prompted this 
 level-minded young man to intemperance ; but upon that 
 
 395
 
 396 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 subject he could wax fiery. He cast many stones in many 
 directions, but not from any glass house. Many hated 
 him for his elevated aridities; but none could point to 
 errors of commission. 
 
 So he strove on the side of right and built up a solid 
 holding in matters temporal and eternal. Tiger, whose 
 vocabulary and outlook in general had been enlarged 
 since he went to church on Sundays, declared of young 
 Ouldsbroom that he had learned how to serve God and 
 Mammon both. 
 
 ' ' You don 't know where to have him, ' ' he confessed to 
 his wife. '' 'Tis a case of a chap who never does a wrong 
 thing, seemingly. And yet, if parson tells us true, there 
 never was but one man who didn't do wrong. I suppose 
 he've got some sins hid. For my part, I feel to him like 
 some dogs feel to some men : I can 't abide him, yet can 't 
 give no more than a dog's reason why I don't." 
 
 Mary understood. 
 
 "Ban't what he've got that hurts you. 'Tis what he 
 haven't got," she said. ''There's something left out of 
 the man. He 'm like a quince — never grows ripe. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Time may soften even him, however. ' ' 
 
 "No," she said. "It don't soften his sort. 'Tis the 
 rind of him that's so hard. The sun can't get through 
 him. If his old, doting father couldn't do it when he 
 was young, nothing could. Ban't Mister Martin's fault 
 that few run to him in trouble. I dare say he'd list to 
 them ready enough if they did. ' ' 
 
 "He'd list to them — yes. He's civil and patient to all. 
 But he never mixes no sweet with his medicine — to help 
 it down. It's like to make you sick — so you lose the 
 good of it." 
 
 When Dr. Forde had speech with Martin, their meet- 
 ing related to another topic than Dartmoor as a panacea. 
 Philip had been ill, and Tiger had stopped with him and 
 nursed him for ten days. Now he was recovering from 
 bronchitis, and Martin made inquiries concerning his 
 father when at Princetown. 
 
 "He oughtn't to be there," declared the doctor. "He's
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 397 
 
 a bit older than his age now — thanks to hard drinking. 
 He's strong enough still; but he wants watching." 
 
 With spring, however, Philip acquired new strength, 
 and the arrival of the child served greatly to interest and 
 delight him. 
 
 A son was born to Martin, and its advent rejoiced the 
 mother and turned her thoughts into happy channels. 
 
 For Minnie, marriage had proved different from the 
 vision of marriage. Her husband daily grew into a figure 
 more remarkable and worthy of admiration; but she 
 always crept back in thought, like a guilty thing, to the 
 day in the byre when he asked her to marry him, and 
 glowed and adored her with voice and eyes. She had 
 thought that moment was the first of many like it; she 
 had supposed that each caress would be closer than the 
 last, that each kiss would be warmer, each act of love 
 more glorious than the preceding. She had dreamed 
 that love was a deathless thing, lighted from clash of 
 two hearts, whose flames leapt together to burn, with 
 double brightness and double strength, for ever. She 
 had pictured their life ; she had seen herself his guiding 
 star, yet felt his strong hand in hers, to help at every 
 crooked turn and steep place in the work-a-day journey. 
 And now her head told her that truth was better far 
 than her hopes; that reality exceeded any girl's guess 
 of what reality might be. But her heart cried out loud 
 while Martin slept; it cried out loud when he rose and 
 dressed without putting his arm round her or pressing 
 his face to hers ; it cried out loud when he talked about 
 the coming child and not the coming mother; when he 
 was busy with preparations and counting the cost to 
 himself, never to her. 
 
 He was always right, always ahead of need, always 
 ready. He anticipated everything, and omitted nothing 
 that those who understood told him should be done. But 
 she yearned for the food he did not give her ; for the wor- 
 ship and wonder and encouragement ; for the pride at the 
 glorious thing she was going to do for him ; for the praise 
 before this return that she was bringing to his love. 
 
 And when the child was born, and Martin came to see
 
 398 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 her, he did not stop one fraction of one second after the 
 nurse told him to go again. They were alone together 
 for five minutes, and through four of them he knelt and 
 prayed, with a voice steady and controlled, that the boy 
 who had come into the world might prove a true and 
 faithful soldier in the armies of the Lord. She said 
 'Amen' when he had done. It was all he wanted her to 
 say. He kissed her then and told her the boy was very 
 beautiful. And that heartened her a great deal. 
 
 Philip won the liveliest satisfaction from this advent, 
 and it was clear that the event improved his physical 
 condition through the channels of the mind. He called 
 for an increase of money and spent it at Tavistock upon 
 the child and his mother. But he would not come to 
 see it until Minnie was well and business had taken her 
 husband from home. Then he received the child into 
 his arms and, with his eyes, fed hungrily. He traced 
 imaginary likenesses, and declared that the infant re- 
 sembled Unity. 
 
 Almost his first question was the boy 's name. 
 
 "I suppose you had no hand in that?" he asked of 
 Minnie. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "There was a lot of talk. My father wanted for him 
 to be called Quinton, after him; and I wanted him to 
 be called Martin, of course; and Tiger thought 'twould 
 please you if he was called after you, father. But Martin 
 had his own opinions. 'I'll give him the mighty name 
 of a mighty leader, ' he said, ' and I hope that he '11 never 
 live to be unworthy of it.' Baby's called Wesley — just 
 that and no more." 
 
 "I hope as he'll live it down, then," answered the old 
 man grimly. Then his face softened and he handed the 
 child back to his mother. He asked after her health and 
 rummaged in his pockets for gifts that he had brought 
 her. 
 
 He shared the midday meal with her, and Minnie made 
 him eat as Avell as drink. 
 
 In the evening Tiger walked back to Brown's House 
 with him and marked the deep magic of this experience.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 399 
 
 "There's nought like a babe to soften the heart," said 
 Philip. ' ' And when 'tis the fruit of your own loins, who 
 can resist it? I'm very hopeful about this, Tiger; and 
 out of my experience of life I must be. Have you marked 
 how my son bears himself to the child ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' He cares a lot about it already. ' ' 
 
 "And well he may do. 'Twill change my son! I 
 swore I'd never call him son again; but there 'tis — 'twill 
 out — blood's thicker than water. I've held his child in 
 these arms, and if it can make an old, savage man like 
 me more gentle to the world, surely to God 'twill soften 
 its own father's heart?" 
 
 ' ' He 's that gentle with it, you wouldn 't believe. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, yes, I would believe. Us have got to be gentle 
 with the little ones; and so us may larn through them 
 to be gentle with their elders. I have seen my grand- 
 child, and my hand be ready to meet my son's. I know — 
 I understand how 'twill be. The sight of that poor, 
 blinking little thing took me back, back nigh a quarter of 
 a century, to the day they brought Martin to me from his 
 
 mother. I know what I felt then, and shall my son ? 
 
 It must come. I've great faith in the power of nature. 
 Tiger. 'Tis stronger than religion — stronger than Little 
 Baptists, or Rechabites, or anything. It will be heard, 
 and where Martin stands now, mark me, 'tis hammering 
 at his heart. He'll do a deed presently — there will come 
 a great call to him and he'll not resist it. The child be 
 crying out and speaking to him a 'ready. ' ' 
 
 "He's a wonder in his way. All through this job he's 
 not let slip one minute from the time he gives to work. 
 The machine goes on just the same. Such a time-saver 
 I never heard tell upon. 'Tis because time's money, 
 no doubt." 
 
 "So much the worse. If a man's firstborn coming 
 can't jerk him out of the rut of life for a bit, 'tis no 
 credit or vartue to him. But wait — wait and see what 
 that babe does. Wesley or no Wesley, 'twill bring me 
 back to Hartland. Yes, Tiger, you doubt ; but I feel that 
 be coming. 'Twill ask for me afore it can speak. You 
 should have seen how it snuggled to me! It knowed
 
 400 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 who I was! I must get back. And Martin will come 
 to feel, afore he's a year older, that I must. He'll grow 
 wiser every hour he spends along with that child. I tell 
 you there's nothing like them for showing the proper 
 worth of things. Till he was four year old Martin would 
 fling a penny from him and cleave to an old brown pine- 
 cone, as he loved better 'n anything else in the world. 
 The child will take him back and teach him, with all the 
 cleverness that every baby's got in it, till the world kills 
 it out of 'em. And then he'll ask me — leastways " 
 
 Philip faltered and looked at his friend full of ques- 
 tioning. 
 
 "Won't he? Won't he, Tiger? You seem doubtful 
 about it. I was that positive a moment agone, but at 
 my age we grow shaky of our own opinions — except when 
 we'm drunk. Won't he offer for me to come back, 
 Tiger?" 
 
 "I can't tell you, master. I don't think so. You'd 
 best not to hope it. Of course you'd be dearly welcome 
 back to-morrow, and God knows none but would be the 
 better for it; but Mister Martin — I don't think he'd stop 
 if you did." 
 
 "Not now he knows what 'tis to be a father himself? 
 I'll not believe it. I'll stake my last hope on it. Tell 
 him how the child came to me. Order Minnie to tell 
 him that from me." 
 
 "You may lay your life she'll tell him and make much 
 of it." 
 
 "I'd love to mind the child for 'em. I understand 
 childer very well. I've spent a lot of my time along with 
 them. You can remember what I was to you when you 
 was a nipper — can't you?" 
 
 "Yes, I can, and never shall forget it." 
 
 "Very well then. I must be there. I must be there. 
 The child must have a little bit of my wisdom along with 
 the rest. 'Twill help his mind, Tiger. I'll warm his 
 young, opening bud of a heart just a bit — to temper the 
 east wind of his father. It must happen like that. And 
 he'll keep me out of mischief. Tiger — don't you see? 
 He'll do as much for me as ever I'll do for him. If you
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 401 
 
 was to put that to my son, it might carry a terrible lot 
 of weight with him. ' ' 
 
 But time passed and Martin made no such overture. 
 Once, indeed, a few months later, he desired to speak with 
 his father, and Ouldsbroom readily consented to a meet- 
 ing, because he supposed that the great question would 
 be asked and that Martin desired to bring him back to 
 Hartland. Such an idea, however, was far from the 
 younger man's mind. Tiger and Minnie had both 
 pleaded, and others represented the reasonableness of the 
 change. But nothing could modify Martin in that par- 
 ticular. He was determined that his child and his father 
 should never dwell under the same roof. The interview 
 he desired related to affairs of business, and when Philip 
 found that for this, and this alone, he had come to 
 Brown's House, he drove the young man from him with 
 reviling. 
 
 He continued to see the child as opportunity offered, 
 but only when Martin was from home.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Two years passed by and left Ouldsbroom but little 
 changed. Activity and life in the open air served to 
 counteract his intemperance. It might have been said 
 concerning him, as of the Homeric hero, that he dwelt 
 by the wayside and loved all the world. Like Achilles, 
 he craved only to walk under the golden sun, and had 
 rather lived as a man in a peasant's hut than reign — a 
 ghost among the shades. Yet a ghost he was. The shadow 
 of himself, he haunted the land of his birth, and had al- 
 ready passed from the knowledge of all but a few. Mar- 
 tin Ouldsbroom and the notorious evil endured at his 
 hands continued to be his topic. While the younger did 
 what he might for the old man, and spared no care in 
 reason to preserve him, Philip was set for ever against 
 Martin, and cried out in any ear that would listen con- 
 cerning the wrongs that he had suffered. 
 
 There came a day of summer when Philip proceeded 
 from Brown's House to his favourite haunt upon Crow 
 Tor. There, in the cushion amid the granite rocks, 
 nodded a dozen bluebells, and the time had come to 
 gather them. Martin was to be from home, and the wan- 
 derer's purpose might therefore be accomplished. He 
 intended to visit Hartland and take the flowers to his 
 grandson. 
 
 "With the little bunch in hand he went first to Two 
 Bridges, drank at ' The Ring o ' Bells, ' and then trudged 
 upon the high road to his old home. Upon the way he 
 observed Martin Ouldsbroom riding towards him. He 
 crept out of sight, therefore, and hid behind a store wall 
 until the other had passed. Martin saw the action, and 
 it was not the first time that he had seen it. No word 
 
 402
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 403 
 
 passed between them now, and no recognition, for the 
 younger Ivnew that it was useless to make an overture. 
 
 Another had also marked the incident. Nigh the spot 
 where Philip supposed himself hidden, there sat a 
 vagrant : a shabby, bearded man, unclean and uncombed. 
 He ate food from a piece of paper and basked in the sun. 
 His hat was off, and his long, reddish hair began to grow 
 thin upon his crown. With this sort of spirit the farmer 
 now claimed natural kinship. He saw one who, like 
 himself, had fallen out with the world. Therefore he 
 .approached on equal terms. 
 
 "Have 'e got a bite to spare, mate?" he asked, and 
 the other pointed to his parcel of broken meat. 
 
 "Help yourself," he said. 
 
 ' ' Don 't think I '11 rob you, ' ' answered the elder, sitting 
 down. "I've got a shilling in my pocket, and you're 
 welcome to it ; but for the moment I 'm a thought 
 hungry. ' ' 
 
 "Not a common complaint with you, I reckon?" said 
 the stranger, regarding his face. 
 
 "No — t'other thing be more in my line." 
 
 "Fine thirsty weather this. Why did you avoid that 
 dapper young chap on the brown horse ? ' ' 
 
 "Because he's my son, and the meanest dog that ever 
 went on two legs. Only one failing he has — and that's a 
 hatred of the man that got him. I go out of his way 
 like that, so as I shan't be driven to breathe the same 
 air with him." 
 
 "Tell me." 
 
 Philip needed no second bidding. His eyes flashed; 
 his head shook ; he stopped eating. 
 
 " I 'm a terrible ill-used old man. My only child hates 
 me and plots to end my days. 'Tis true as the light 
 above us. I starved to send him to school, and then he 
 came back and drove me out of my home; he drove me 
 out; and if I was to fall dead this minute he'd shout for 
 joy. I tried all that mortal could do. I met him in 
 everything, yielded up everything; but he was wolf to 
 my lamb; I couldn't do right with him. And even at 
 that I'd have forgiven him — yes, I would. I'd forgive
 
 404 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 everything in the world but meanness — that I won't for- 
 give. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Quite right. 'Tis a filthy vice, and leads to all that 's 
 bad." 
 
 "It has done so with that man. Yet so different he 
 was — so different — till larning and lust for money got 
 hold on him. ' ' 
 
 "Never mind. Eat and forget him." 
 
 The last speaker brought a little flask out of his pocket. 
 
 "You're like me," he said. "You take it neat. We 
 mostly reach that stage before the end. Here 's luck : — 
 
 "To our grand patron, call'd Good-fellowship j 
 Whose livery all our people hereabout 
 Are clad in. " 
 
 He drank and handed the vessel to Philip. 
 
 "Forget yesterday, old chap," he said, "and remem- 
 ber 'you can't buy to-morrow' ; so just live in the present 
 and feel the sun on your old nose and don 't worry. ' ' 
 
 Philip, however, was not to be driven from his theme. 
 He failed to perceive that here was one fallen from a 
 higher estate than his. 
 
 "Let be," he answered. "Don't make fun but listen. 
 I was a very jolly man once myself, and lived on laugh- 
 ter ; but life has long silenced that. ' ' 
 
 "Go on then. Yet I know all you 've got to tell. I 've 
 met the like of you, master. Heart to heart we are. I 
 understand. There's no place for us in this world now- 
 adays. We're born too late by the whole length of the 
 Christian era. The joyful, lazy old world was our oyster 
 — not this busy, money-grubbing, snivelling, canting one. ' ' 
 
 Philip took a pocket-book from his breast. It was of 
 battered leather, much worn at the edges. A frayed 
 piece of paper appeared in it. The book contained noth- 
 ing else. 
 
 "To show how time will rot a living man, who began 
 well — read that. When Martin was a young youth a 
 snake bit him — and the poison of the snake be in him 
 still. It never worked out. And I wish — I wish to God 
 as he had died then and left me a child's name to love —
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 405 
 
 not a man's to hate and curse for ever. He lived, and 
 that was the first letter ever my child wrote me; and 
 I 'd be a happier man to-day, and a better man, if it had 
 been the last. ' ' 
 
 The tramp read a child's letter — now grown yellow 
 and tattered and dirty from perusal under many hands. 
 Presently he returned it and his voice had changed. 
 
 "Can't you show this to him and ask him to go back 
 and start again ? ' ' 
 
 "He'd say that he never wrote it; and he'd be right. 
 His mother lived in them days — as good and grand a 
 woman as ever trod the earth. But there w^as nothing 
 of her in him. Or if there was, it worked out long ago. 
 I stand as a witness against him, and when I'm dead my 
 gravestone will." 
 
 "Perhaps he won't put one up. But come, come, 
 you're not tired of the joy of living — else you wouldn't 
 be carrying that bunch of bluebells with you. ' ' 
 
 "It ban't life," declared Ouldsbroom. "It ban't the 
 world, but the damned people in it that have wrecked 
 me. I 'm not wishful to go, though go I must afore very 
 long. My heart have got a bit of a crack in it, they tell 
 me. 'Small wonder!' said I when they did. But I'll 
 trample earth for a bit yet, afore it tramples me. I've 
 got two creatures to live for — you might say three. ' ' 
 
 "Then you're rich. A man with three friends is one 
 picked out of a thousand. I've got none." 
 
 "I'll be your friend!" answered Philip instantly. 
 "You've got sense and you ban't above breaking bread 
 with a poor old man. If you come to Brown's House, 
 where I live up over, you can have as good as I've got." 
 
 "No, master. But thank you for the offer. Four 
 friends would be too many for any man. And these 
 flowers ? ' ' 
 
 * ' For my grandchild I 've got 'em. I can tell you that 
 Phil knows a thing or two yet! 'Tisn't many men can 
 fetch you bluebells off middle of Dartymoor, I reckon! 
 But I can — out of the very midst of the place. And 
 more than that I know — more than that. A grandchild 
 I've got — the son of that mounted highwayman as rode
 
 400 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 past a bit ago — but no more like him, thank God, than 
 he be like me. 'Tis my child, you might say, and I'm 
 going to fetch him up on my own pattern, and make him 
 a credit to the family instead of a blight on it. He'm 
 in his third year — a very brave li '1 boy — and I '11 astonish 
 them in that quarter yet. ' ' 
 
 He nodded sententiously. 
 
 ' ' The child 's your friend, I '11 wager ? ' ' 
 
 "I should just think so. He'll come to me afore his 
 mother ! But I never go nigh him while that man 's home. 
 He likes me better than his father. His father whips 
 him — whips a child not three years old — the cowardly 
 dog! If I'd seen him doing it, I'd have torn his throat 
 out, old as I am. Sometimes I've thought in my cups 
 as I'd lay behind a hedge for him and rid the world of 
 him. But I wouldn't do that. I'm all open and above 
 board, I am — and always have been." 
 
 "Leave him. And your other two friends?" 
 
 "There's Tiger. He's a labouring man as I've brought 
 up and made, you might say. Rare stuff he's built of. 
 He understands. There's no call to fear for the world 
 if it was full of the likes of him. He looks after me up 
 to Brown's House. He keeps clothes on my back now. 
 I should have been a good friend to him and paid him a 
 thousandfold, if he'd let me. But that's all one now. 
 Three friends, you say? You'm but a frosty pattern 
 of man if that's good measure to you. Why, poor chap, 
 I had five hundred of 'em once ! Five hundred, I 'm 
 sure 'twas. Not a door but hid a friend once — and now 
 — But what do I care? Let me be hungry — let me be 
 forgot. I've given all — all I had to give — and if there's 
 none left who want the brave pleasure of giving to me, 
 I can go without. I ban 't very vexed about it when I 'm 
 sober. I'm a wise old man in my way. People must 
 die, and them I've helped be mostly gone. Us have got 
 to be thankful for very small mercies in sight of 
 seventy. ' ' 
 
 The other looked at his great round back and bibulous 
 face. 
 
 "Yes, you're wise yet. There's a good streak of
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 407 
 
 wisdom in taking flowers to a child. I never did 
 that." 
 
 Philip was elated. 
 
 ''There's sense in me, I tell you; and if they'd only 
 go the right way about it, the people would find it out. 
 But they'm all too busy about their own affairs. My 
 work's done — or nearly. There's nothing calling to do 
 but to save that child against its father. I've got my 
 ideas; but 'tis a secret yet. Don't you name it to no- 
 body." 
 
 He nodded at his thoughts, while the other took out 
 a pipe and loaded it. 
 
 "Here's your shilling; now I must get on my way," 
 declared Philip. 
 
 ' ' Have you got plenty of money ? I don 't want it un- 
 less you can spare it, though I confess it would be useful. 
 I must get to Plymouth to-night." 
 
 "Take it, man. I've got money. He can't rob me 
 of that. 'Twasn't his earning, mind you. 'Twas gathered 
 by me and father afore me, long before his shadow made 
 my world wintry." 
 
 "Well, well. Carry your bluebells to the child and 
 hear him thank you. Ovid says 'The best weapon's an 
 undaunted heart. ' You 've got that. Life is all a search, 
 master, and very few find anything in the rubbish heap 
 after they've picked it over. But sometimes, while you 
 are seeking one thing, you'll come across what's better, 
 like a man shooting snipe and flushing a cock. We'll 
 be hopeful still. Good-bye. I'm glad to have met you, 
 and I thank you heartily for your shilling. ' ' 
 
 Philip shook his hand. 
 
 "If you like to drop into Brown's House up over, 
 you '11 be welcome, ' ' he declared. 
 
 And then he went his way. 
 
 The educated wastrel looked after him. 
 
 "Turned on the wheel of the world, and not turned 
 true"; he thought; "and if that wheel can't turn us 
 true, it breaks us. ' '
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 At the time of hay harvest Philip broke his long silence 
 and accosted Martin. Indeed, he sought him. At first 
 the younger supposed this renewal of friendship but 
 an accident, prompted by Philip's momentary need; but 
 time seemed to show the elder was changing. Not until 
 long afterwards did the reason for his renewed amity 
 appear. 
 
 Martin, and the rest, were hard at work in a forenoon 
 of August upon the crofts of Hartland. The hay fell in 
 deep swathes where Tiger rode a machine and drove two 
 horses. He was perched on a shell of iron above the 
 wheels, and beneath him knives played and purred, glit- 
 tering in the sweet heart of the crop. Here the mixed 
 pasture of clover and sorrel and many grasses fell and 
 stretched withering to silver green upon the verdant, 
 close-shorn face of the meadow. Behind the grass-cutter 
 there came men with rakes ; and in the next field Martin 
 and some others, hired for the special work, were turning 
 and shaking out the drying hay with forks. The sun 
 smiled upon the proceedings; but before nightfall the 
 fallen grass would all be piled in little mounds upon the 
 bosoms of the fields, to protect it against any change of 
 weather. 
 
 A battered hat, a red face, and a short stubble of white 
 beard suddenly rose nigh Martin where he worked. He 
 had seen the familiar bent figure of Philip half a mile 
 off on the hill some time before, and now the old man 
 lifted himself from behind a wall on the side of the 
 field. 
 
 Martin was working fifty yards off and did not intend 
 to take any notice. But presently, to his surprise, he 
 found himself called. 
 
 408
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 409 
 
 "Come hither, my son!" shouted Ouldsbroom, as 
 though nothing but friendship dwelt between them. 
 
 Martin flung down his fork and ran to the wall. 
 
 "Good morning, father. I'm so very glad you called 
 to me. Won't you step through the gate and sit down 
 and rest for a bit out of the sun ? ' ' 
 
 "Rest? No. Why for should I rest? Have 'e got a 
 bit of work for me, Martin ? That's what I want. Plenty 
 of time for resting when the sun's down. To be plain 
 with you, along of this thirsty weather, I've used up my 
 money a bit too soon. I be here to earn five shillings 
 tossing hay. I can do it as well as them chaps. Then, 
 having come by the money honestly, I can be off and get 
 drunk in good company with an easy conscience." 
 
 The younger was very patient. He turned down his 
 sleeves, wiped his face and got over the wall. 
 
 "Let us talk," he said. "I'm thankful that you could 
 find it in you to come to me. Never stint yourself or 
 borrow money, father. Why should you borrow it? 
 Every penny is yours, and I'm making money for you 
 faster and faster. You mustn't think I touch it. I 
 keep mine and yours quite separate. Would you like 
 to talk about it — or something else ? ' ' 
 
 "Anything else — anything else on God's earth but 
 that. I want to be friends with you again. I'm getting 
 old at last — slowly but surely. I don't want to go back 
 an hour into what's gone. Let all that sleep. But I 
 want to be friends for the future. I want to be free of 
 Hartland." 
 
 ' ' Well you know the master is free of his own. ' ' 
 
 "Not when you're there. For two years I've hated 
 you worse than hunger or thirst or pain. And now I 've 
 forgiven you. Hate wears itself out. I '11 make a bargain 
 with you, and if you let me see my grandchild when I 
 please, I '11 be friends and say no more against you. Not 
 alone will I see him, if you can't trust me ; but when you 
 are by, or when his mother is by. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, father. I agree to that. I'm told that Wesley 
 is very fond of you and will always go to you. ' ' 
 
 "Why not? Don't he know I'm his grandfather?"
 
 410 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "I'm thankful for this — thankful above measure. I 
 must get back to work now. There's a lot to do. 'Tis 
 hard nowadays to find men who know how to work. 
 I've turned off two haymakers because thej only played 
 at work. Here's half a sovereign. Will you come and 
 have a bit of food with us under the hedge after noon 1 ' ' 
 
 He took a ten-shilling piece from a little purse and 
 handed it to Philip. 
 
 "No, I'll go in and have a bite with Minnie and the 
 boy presently. But I thank you for asking me. I'm 
 glad you did so. Here ! Let me have the fork a minute. 
 I'll show 'em!" 
 
 He came through a gate into the field, took off his coat 
 and began to turn hay. Tiger, from his perch not far off, 
 stared and laughed. Then he stopped his horses and 
 spoke to the man, Will Eogers, who was close by. 
 
 "A good day's work all round by the look of it," he 
 said. "If that old wonder ban't come down to pitch 
 hay ! And they've made it up, seemingly." 
 
 "Who would ever have thought of that happening?" 
 
 "Well, I can't say I'm so much surprised as some 
 might be. I see most of Mr. Ouldsbroom now, and I've 
 marked a weakening off of his anger for a good bit. He's 
 got something hid, though. He gets that sly and deep 
 sometimes. Nods and winks very wisely to himself and 
 be full of secret plans. He's past mischief now — dear 
 old blid. I ban't feared that he'll do any harm now. 
 'Tis for the sake of the child that he's made it up, with- 
 out a doubt. Strange to see 'em together again. 'Tis 
 the difference between sitting on the green grass and a 
 stone-heap between them two men. Leastways, it used so 
 to be when farmer was here." 
 
 But Rogers would not allow this. 
 
 "Things have changed. Mister Martin's frosty, but 
 you can depend upon him. He'll have the last ounce, 
 but he'll return you a pennyweight that's over. As we 
 get up in years, we find that peace of mind depends on 
 working with them that are trustworthy and won't fool 
 us at any point. I dare say 'tis small in me to feel so; 
 but us can't stand care so light-hearted as time goes by.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 411 
 
 He was never the same to me as to you, remember. Us 
 turn to a certainty in middle age, and don't welcome 
 adventure and ups and downs like the boys do." 
 
 Tiger admitted this. 
 
 "Phil have tried me a thought these last two years, 
 and I don 't mind confessing it. I care for him more than 
 ever I cared for him. I'd do anything that a mortal 
 could do for him; but for a humble married man like 
 me, who have found religion — for me to live with that 
 amazing old whirlwind so much as I do, and feel for 
 the most part powerless as the leaf in the river afore him 
 — it have its hard side, Will. ' ' 
 
 * ' It can 't last so very much longer. ' ' 
 
 "No, and that's the hardest side of all. The thing 
 must end, and when I think of it ended, I don't know 
 how to " 
 
 A shout stopped him. 
 
 * ' Is there anything the matter ? Why are you standing 
 still. Tiger?" 
 
 The machine went on again. 
 
 Philip had soon done with the hayfork. He returned 
 it to Martin and went off down to Postbridge. The action 
 seemed pregnant and indicative of the changed relations. 
 It was long since he had been at the hamlet, and not a 
 few of the old people there hailed him as one risen from 
 the dead. 
 
 * ' 'Tis Mr. Ouldsbroom, surely ! ' ' cried Peter Culme, 
 who now had ceased from his labours and, grown to be 
 a very ancient man, drowsed away his end of days beside 
 the river. 
 
 "So it is then, and I'm glad to see you're middling 
 clever, too. But you be — what? — a hundred year old, 
 Peter, by the look of you. ' ' 
 
 "Eighty-one, mister. You've heard tell that Charlie 
 Coombes have gone ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, yes. And Gregory Twigg be so full of water 
 that they can't save him, I'm told. I must try and get 
 up over to see him this afternoon. No doubt my son 
 will lend me a hoss. Can't ax you to drink, Peter, for 
 this place still be all behind the age and haven't no
 
 412 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 licensed house from one end to t 'other. But if you travel 
 over to ' Warren House ' a bit later, I shall be very pleased 
 to stand treat for the sake of the old days. ' ' 
 
 Peter thanked him and shook his head. Then Philip 
 went on to the shop of Saul Hext and sat down there 
 in the familiar place. 
 
 ''Let me have a drop out of your private bottle," he 
 said. "Don't grudge it. I've got ten bob in my pocket, 
 and I 'm going to spend every blessed penny of it in your 
 shop afore I go. " 
 
 This promise made Saul generous. He brought out a 
 bottle of whisky three parts full, and Philip began to 
 drink. 
 
 "Four fingers," he said; "then four more on top of 
 that, and I shall feel a bit better. I've been working 
 in the hay for my son. Did a day 's work in half an hour, 
 I assure you ! At least, what the young men call a day 's 
 work now. The way we worked is forgot by this 
 slack- twisted generation. Have a drink along of me, 
 Saul?" 
 
 Suddenly Philip felt in his pocket and drew out the 
 half-sovereign. 
 
 "Here, you'd best to lay hold of this afore I forget 
 it. I'll have the toys presently. They'm for my grand- 
 child. I 'm to go up over to have a bite with Minnie. I 'm 
 free of the house, you must know. I've forgived my 
 son. ' ' 
 
 He laughed to himself. 
 
 "Little they guess; little they guess. But I'm that 
 crafty!" 
 
 He broke off and looked at Hext suspiciously. 
 
 * ' Be you straight and above board ? Can I trust you ? ' ' 
 
 "I should hope so, Mr. Ouldsbroom," answered Saul. 
 
 But the other shook his head. 
 
 "Some day — some day. You'll hear it when the time 
 comes. You'll be the first to say 'Well done, Phil!' 
 But I'm a bit too artful to name it yet. I wouldn't even 
 tell Tiger." 
 
 He drank and began to grow bellicose. Mr. Hext be- 
 came anxious and wished the old man away.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 413 
 
 * ' Wouldn 't even tell Tiger — not even Tiger. So if you 
 think I'd tell you, you be very much mistaken. Tiger's 
 worth ten of you. I say he's worth ten of you, Saul 
 Hext ! And though he crept to church at my son 's com- 
 mand — 'tis humbug and nonsense, and if you think I 
 don't see through it — why, there's nothing I don't see — 
 nothing I don't see. I tell you there's nothing I don't 
 see, Saul Hext. I'm like the old hawk aloft. The crea- 
 tures crawling about below may not mark him, but he 
 sees them, and what they be good for — and then — swoop ! 
 ^ — he 's on 'em ! ' ' 
 
 "I think you'd best to come and buy what you want 
 now," suggested Saul. "I shouldn't drink no more just 
 at present, if I was you. ' ' 
 
 Philip laughed and thumped the table. 
 
 "You funny dog," he cried. "Never heard a better 
 joke. But all the same, if you was me — I say if you 
 was me, you white-faced fellow, you'd drain the bottle — 
 same as I be going to do now ! ' ' 
 
 He was as good as his word. 
 
 "Now I want some toys for my brave boy up the hill," 
 he said. He began to fumble for his money, and Hext 
 reminded him that he had already found it. 
 
 "Then why don't you give me my toys? Why for 
 don 't you give me my boy 's toys ? I want the toys. When 
 I used to come for toys for Martin, they wasn 't withheld 
 from me. I say they wasn't withheld. . . " 
 
 Hext presently tied up a bundle of the things that 
 Philip chose; but the old man had sense left to know 
 that he could not get to Hartland at present. 
 
 "You hang on to them things till afternoon," he said. 
 "I be going across the road to sit in thicky broken house 
 and have a pipe and think over one or two deep schemes 
 — one or two deep schemes as I be turning over, Saul 
 Hext. I'll come back presently." 
 
 He lurched across to where a ruin stood beside Dart, 
 and there, having sat blinking in the sun for a while, he 
 went into the shade. He took off his coat, folded it up 
 with meticulous care, and put it on a stone — one of the 
 ancient tin moulds of mediaeval miners, cut into this
 
 414 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 granite block when Elizabeth reigned. Then he laid his 
 head down upon it and soon slept. 
 
 It was evening before he woke and came back into 
 life again. His nebulous mind slowly cleared, and he 
 remembered where he was and what had brought him 
 hither. He rose, shook himself and went for the parcel 
 of toys. Then he tramped the familiar path to Hartland 
 and found Martin, Minnie, and the baby at tea. 
 
 Wesley, a sturdy brown boy in whom his parents met, 
 loved Philip well and was soon in his arms. Presently 
 they sat on the kitchen floor together with the toys. 
 
 A new era seemed to lave opened, and the mother's 
 heart was full of thankfulness. That the old man could 
 come again to Hartland while Martin was also there, 
 promised possibilities of peace. 
 
 Philip was cheerful now; he ate a little and drank a 
 great deal of tea. It was characteristic of him that he 
 never looked back. The past entered not at all into his 
 conversation, and he spoke as though he and Martin were 
 on the best of terms. 
 
 Young Ouldsbroom was content to take it so. He 
 avoided all subjects that could bring a shadow to the 
 other's mind, and strove to speak with hope and cheerful- 
 ness. • He had not seen Philip at these close quarters for 
 more than two years, and was startled to mark the 
 changes in him. But the old man seemed happy enough 
 and even spoke of business. They talked vaguely, and 
 presently a shout from the boy took Philip back to the 
 floor. Here he was at home ; here he was very thoroughly 
 understood. The brown eyes of the little child looked 
 into his blue ones and found another child there, ready 
 and willing to do his pleasure and share his joy. 
 
 Philip relapsed into gloom when Wesley went to bed. 
 He became silent and declared himself very weary. Mar- 
 tin offered to see him home ; Minnie hinted that she would 
 make up a bed for him if he desired it; but he declined 
 both suggestions. 
 
 He called for Tiger; and Tiger it was who presently 
 brought him to Brown's House through the dewy night.
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 415 
 
 The young man much rejoiced at such a turn of affairs ; 
 but Philip's mood had changed. His head ached, and he 
 grumbled at the length of the way. 
 
 "She offered to make up a bed for me; but he said 
 nought. If he'd but so much as looked the same offer, 
 without a word, I'd have agreed to bide. But he didn't 
 want it to be so. There's only one in Postbridge as will 
 ever make up a bed for me, Tiger — and that 's sexton. ' ' 
 
 He would not be cheered, and his friend presently got 
 him home and helped him to bed. He fell asleep in- 
 stantly, and Tiger, before he shut the door and departed, 
 set a loaf and some butter on the table, laid a fire, filled a 
 kettle with water, put some tea in the teapot and made 
 the kitchen as tidy as he Imew how.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Now Philip Ouldsbroom entered upon the twilight of 
 his age, and only a last ambition held him much to life. 
 
 There came to him a sort of longing to be self-conscious 
 no more, to escape the curse of memory, to awake daily, 
 as the beast, and go his way unlinked by one torturing 
 thought to yesterday, by one cruel fear with to-morrow. 
 In a clear hour he calculated the gains and losses, and 
 believed that to be a fox or a coney would advance his 
 welfare. There was not much he wanted to remember. 
 Unity and Barbara and what they meant; Tiger and his 
 lifelong devotion — that was all. He approached the 
 coveted annihilation often enough through drink, and re- 
 turned to consciousness with less and less of gratitude. 
 
 The renewed amenities waned slowly, for Philip always 
 felt discomfort with Martin, and enjoyed better to be 
 at Hartland when he was not by. He spoke less bitterly 
 against him, but his presence invariably hurt him, and 
 he avoided it. His secret hope centred in "Wesley, and 
 he endured what was not little to him on the child's ac- 
 count. Now, with reason staggering, he had matured a 
 secret scheme for the boy's welfare. The time was near 
 when he designed to put this idea into practice; but 
 though in all its fantastic unreality it dwelt full-fledged 
 within his head, none guessed that he dreamed of any 
 such thing. Cunningly he concealed it, because lie knew 
 that to hint of the plan was to be frustrated. 
 
 Another winter had passed, and on the day when fish- 
 ing began, there came Tiger to make whole holiday with 
 his master. 
 
 416
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 417 
 
 A great storm had raged on the first night of March. 
 A red, humpbacked moon went down over the Moor edge 
 and some keen, clear hours followed. The wind fresh- 
 ened hourly and, after midnight, veered south of west 
 and blew a whole gale. The homesteads shook from the 
 thrust of it, a dozen trees fell at Postbridge. Torrents 
 from a black sky heralded dawn and morning came on 
 a shouting wind under grey sheets of rain. Already 
 floods thundered to the valley at the first return of light ; 
 but Tiger knew Philip too well to break the appointment. 
 
 The sky blew clear by seven o'clock, and before eight 
 he was off to the head-waters of South Teign, there to 
 meet the old man. He carried ample food provided by 
 Minnie, together with his own rod and creel. 
 
 They fished with natural bait, and Tiger marked that 
 Philip had lost his cunning. His line fell feebly and 
 was always running foul of rocks and banks. He began 
 cheerfully, but presently relapsed into impatience and 
 disappointment. He emptied his flask long before the 
 time had come for food, and soon afterwards his good 
 humour departed. He threw down his rod, cursed the 
 fish, and bade Tiger come and sit beside him in a shel- 
 tered nook and smoke. 
 
 "Let the water go down a bit," he said; " 'twill run 
 finer in an hour or so. Us '11 sit and have a tell out o' 
 this raging wind. You can't keep the line in the river 
 for it." 
 
 They found an overhanging stone by streamside and 
 talked together. The younger had an item of news. 
 
 "You'll be glad to know that chap as fired our rick, 
 back-along before Christmas, have been found over to 
 Chagford. He was catched stealing Perrott's poultry, 
 and he confessed to a few other crimes. He knowed all 
 about these parts and said the Hartland rick was an acci- 
 dent along of knocking out his pipe there afore he started 
 off from it." 
 
 "I suppose Martin won't say that 'twas his father done 
 it any more now, then," answered Philip moodily. 
 
 ' ' Don 't you tell that or think that, master. He never, 
 never There, whatever can you be about to get such 
 
 27
 
 418 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 wicked thoughts in your mind — you, as never would hear 
 or speak a word against any mortal man or woman in the 
 old days? When you was more in the world, you took 
 bigger ideas. And I wish you was back in it again for 
 your own peace." 
 
 "I've done with the world — very near; and the world 
 have done with me. The world knows its own. It don't 
 know me no more. It don 't want my sort now. My son 's 
 the new pattern that the world axes for now. ' ' 
 
 Tiger laughed at a recollection. 
 
 "Mister Martin's a rum un in some ways. You mind 
 that big barn of Webber 's as he got a mortgage over three 
 year back? Well, now Webber's in a tight place for a 
 minute and he haven't been able to pay a halfpenny for 
 two year, and Martin's foreclosed, and Webber's going 
 bankrupt. Well, and what d'you think? Martin means 
 to hand the barn over to the Order of Rechabites and 
 they be going to have a tent there ! ' ' 
 
 "Water-drinkers and Little Baptists — 'tis a choking 
 air for that poor child to be fetched up in. But we shall 
 see as to him. Wesley have got a clean-minded grand- 
 father yet. ' ' 
 
 ' ' And he '11 have a brother or sister afore long. ' ' 
 
 Philip pursued his own thoughts awhile ; then he broke 
 out into a storm of invective against religion. Tiger 
 strove to still him. 
 
 "You mustn't say these things. What's the good of 
 'em and what's the sense? Live and let live did use 
 to be your motto. And none ever had a better. I can't 
 go all the way with you like I used to do, Phil, my old 
 dear, because I 've larned a bit since them days. There 's 
 a good side and a bad side to all things. And there's a 
 good side to church-going. I tell you 'tis a good thing 
 for a man like me. There's wonnerful matters in the 
 Book — more wonnerful matters than you've read out 
 of it yet. And I do wish, for a change from Job, 
 you'd let me read out a bit about one or two other 
 heroes. ' ' 
 
 "Never!" cried Philip. "What was good enough for 
 Barbara be good enough for me. And you mind that
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 419 
 
 when I go under, Martin don't have his way. I'll be 
 buried same as Barbara — or, if not that, then like a dog. 
 But no trash and lies and twaddle, no 'eternal life,' or 
 any of that mess over me." 
 
 ' ' The dead live again, however, ' ' asserted Tiger. ' ' I 've 
 got to a pitch now when I'm bound to believe that the 
 dead live again." 
 
 ' ' They do — in worms. ' ' 
 
 "Us have soaring souls, master." 
 
 ' ' No more of that ! Dust is dust, and God knows my 
 load of it have got heavy to bear of late. But one more 
 bit of serious work — but one more — and I shall be glad 
 enough to be done. Life's no great loss to me now, 
 Tiger. I've lost worse than that in my time. I've lost 
 pretty well everything worth living for — but you. You'll 
 see me out ; you '11 close my eyes. You 're the only friend 
 as I've got left — you and my grandson. He's all right. 
 My duty — what's left of it — lies there. And then — why, 
 I tell you that death may be the only prize in a life of 
 blanks ; and 'twill come as a prize to me afore very long. 
 I thought different once, though — how different I 
 thought once ! ' ' 
 
 ''And must again. You'm good for a lot of usefulness 
 and fun yet. ' ' 
 
 "I shall hand the child on as a legacy to you. 
 But that's all a secret yet. You'll see — come pres- 
 ently. I'm full of fight— full of fight till that's off my 
 mind." 
 
 Tiger paid no heed. He had recollected another item 
 of news. 
 
 "Greg's going," he said. "Can't last another week, 
 they say. I was past there two days ago and 'twas 
 mentioned in the bar that Mr. Twigg had begun 
 to take leave of his friends. He's quite happy. He 
 invited old Peter Culme and a few others to come and 
 see a good man die presently; and Peter hopes to be 
 able to do so, if he's well enough, and can get a lift up 
 the hill." 
 
 Philip looked about him and considered. 
 
 "Let's see," he said. "If us was to travel up over
 
 420 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Hurston Ridge, us could reach to 'Warren House' at 
 my gait in three parts of an hour. It han't above two 
 miles from here, I reckon." 
 
 "Would you like to do it?" 
 
 "Yes, I would. I'm dry as a kiln. 'Tis the nearest 
 drink from this place. And I've no objection to taking 
 leave of the man. We've knowed each other for fifty 
 year and more, and I've often had a good laugh at 
 him." 
 
 "Us '11 take down our rods then and fish another 
 time." 
 
 Philip agreed. 
 
 "I'm a bit rusty after the winter. I han't getting 
 out my line very clever to-day." 
 
 They climbed out of the valley presently, and in an 
 hour reached Furnum Regis, on the boundaries of the 
 Forest's eastern quarter. From this ancient place 
 of tin-smelting the distance to Mr. Twigg's public- 
 house was trifling, and after quenching his thirst 
 and resting awhile, Philip sent a message to the sick 
 man. 
 
 "Tell him that I've come up from the river special 
 for to see him," he said. "Because I hear he's soon 
 like to be off, and I should wish to take my farewell afore 
 'tis too late." 
 
 Gregory invited the other to his couch, and Philip went 
 up, but Tiger remained in the bar. 
 
 A faithful follower of the publican was sitting beside 
 him while he improved the fleeting hours. Mr. Twigg 
 had nearly reached his tether, but his mind was clear 
 and his body at rest. There seemed to be a shadow of 
 unfamiliar humility in his reflections, and Philip was 
 quick to mark it. 
 
 "Blessed if you han't singing small for once, 
 Greg!" 
 
 ' ' We must all sing small when we get to the waters of 
 Jordan, neighbour. But small though we may sing, the 
 Everlasting ear will hear, and be very quick to help us 
 through the river. I 'm face to face with it now. I 'm on 
 the bank, but I ain 't shivering. I 'm quite ready for the
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 421 
 
 plunge, and I know Whose holy Hand will be under my 
 chin to help me across. ' ' 
 
 ** Life's treated you pretty well, taking it all round," 
 said Philip. "It's gived you some good childer, 
 above all else, and a cast-iron conceit of yourself 
 that be worth everything for getting a man on in the 
 world. ' ' 
 
 "I wouldn't say that. I was blessed with rare intel- 
 lects and took care to use them. But I never went be- 
 yond a fair and reasonable self-esteem. At least I hope 
 not. I've had my trials too — dark and deep, I assure- 
 you. The larger you stake in the world, the larger your 
 troubles; and if you play a big game, as I have, and 
 keep in the eye of God and man, same as what I've 
 done for more than half a century, be sure there's 
 many have tried to pull you down, and the Lord have 
 let the devil tempt you and torment you too. You, who 
 know such a lot about the Book of Job — surely you can 
 understand that?" 
 
 "I don't understand," answered Ouldsbroom, ''May 
 I be plagued, worse than I have been, if I understand 
 your precious God and His ways. Look at me. Every- 
 thing took — one after another — everything took but my 
 pluck and will to go on against all odds. And what have 
 I done to deserve such wrongs'?" 
 
 ''They'm only wrongs because your eyes be blinded 
 to the truths of 'em. And even if your case was as 
 dark as you fancy it is, what's that but the unknown 
 way of the Almighty? God's got a nasty trick of 
 coming back upon us, like a thunderstorm. He'll 
 strike and you'll go on your knees and suffer and 
 moan; and then you'll think 'tis over and lift up and 
 try to settle down once more and count the cost and 
 make the best of it. But, while you'm just creep- 
 ing out cautiously and hoping for better things, He's 
 on the watch and strikes again, perhaps, and takes all 
 that's left." 
 
 ''The very image of His ways!" cried Philip. "And 
 be that a God to worship ? ' ' 
 
 "In your ignorance you might think He wasn't,"
 
 422 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 answered Mr. Twigg, "but the Lord of Light haven't 
 any use for our little, paltry ideas of what be sport- 
 ing and what be not. He knows the physic that every 
 sick soul stands in need of, and He sends the physic. 
 He don't mess about and talk to hide His ignorance, 
 and try you a bottle of the wrong stuff and then 
 pass it off and pretend 'twas the right one — like a 
 young doctor I've suffered from of late, who shall be 
 nameless. He understands every case and sends the 
 right remedy, whether 'tis nice or nasty, easy or harsh. 
 I've had many a pill and potion from the Surgery 
 of Grace, Philip Ouldsbroom ; and I 've let 'em all down 
 without a murmur. We've got to take 'em, whether 
 we want to or not; and 'tis a man's part to swallow 
 'em in a manly spirit. But you, you're for ever screaming 
 and kicking, like a naughty child as have to be forced. ' ' 
 
 * ' And will to the end ! Your God 's too hard, Gregory, 
 and if I believed in Him, I'd hate, but I'd not love. 
 And we'll see who's right in the long run. You'll know 
 first." 
 
 "And it ban't likely that you will be long behind me, 
 Philip. To my eye there's a look about you that says 
 the goal is in sight. I hope as we shall meet again — 
 some day. No doubt there's a lot for us both to learn 
 yet. Eternity won't be spent in idleness. No unem- 
 ployed there. ' ' 
 
 "Don't you think I'm going this longful time," said 
 the other. He had passed from his morning despondency 
 into a spirit of hope. 
 
 ' ' My work 's far short of finished yet, though it pleases 
 the people to think it is. I've got ten years more to go, 
 in my opinion, and plenty to do with them. There's 
 something very important calling for my hand and head 
 — the management of an immortal soul, in fact. At 
 least, if you 're right, and we shall all live for ever. And 
 my Tiger believes that now." 
 
 "I hope 'tis your own soul you speak of. The mills 
 of God grind slow, but they miss nought. If you are 
 to be caught up at the eleventh hour, Phil, I should go 
 the happier to my own rest. I admit that. The Light
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 423 
 
 have been long withheld from you; but if you begin 
 to see a twinkle of it " 
 
 *'No such thing," answered the other. "I'm dealing 
 with — however, I can't let out much about it yet — even 
 to you. If you're spared another few months, I lay 
 you'll hear about it." 
 
 "I shan't be," answered Twigg. "My home is ready 
 and I'm ready for it. A week or two is all that I can 
 expect. But where I'm going there'll be news of earth, 
 if I read my Bible aright; and along with other things 
 T hope it may come to my ear that you are on the strait 
 road at last and going along it quick — to make up for 
 lost time'." 
 
 "You won't hear that; but you'll find that I'm not 
 played out, and busy taking a hand with the rising gen- 
 eration. They be crying for a bit of the old spirit, I 
 reckon ; and 'tis their grandfathers, and not their 
 fathers, can best show 'em what that old spirit was 
 like." 
 
 A woman came in, and Ouldsbroom took his eternal 
 farewell of the fellow-man now about to vanish. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said; "and may you go easy as a 
 sleeping babe when the moment comes, Greg. You've 
 been a good, useful man according to your lights; and 
 if there's a wakening, as such as you believe, and even 
 such as me ban 't too forlorn to wish, though vainly — then 
 you'll be there with the best. Nought would give me 
 greater pleasure than to find out some day that you was 
 right and I Avas wrong." 
 
 "You'll find it out," answered the other; "and for 
 ray part, though dim-eyed now, I can see that the 
 heavenly folds be larger than I thought 'em once. 
 There's no knowing who will be drove in, with Christ 
 for sheepdog. I lived in a deal of doubt on that point; 
 but I die hoping, Philip. My mind be getting so big as 
 my swollen body, I do believe. 'Tis like a balloon for 
 largeness now. And if we worms can picture such a 
 power of mercy in the Lord, what must the real thing 
 be?" 
 
 ' ' You '11 enlarge His mind a lot, I shouldn 't wonder, ' '
 
 424 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 said the other cheerfully. ' ' If ever you find Him, Greg, 
 just tell Him to look all round things a bit more. Tell 
 Him to try and put Hisself in our places, if He can. 
 I'll get going now; but I'll drink to your good 
 health in the next world afore I leave the bar — as 
 I've often and often drunk to your good health in this 
 one. ' '
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Not even Tiger knew of the grassy resting-place on Crow 
 Tor, but Ouldsbroom, as his natural fire abated, spent 
 much time here, and drowsed and slept away many 
 hours when the weather allowed of it. 
 
 He clambered here on a July day, stretched his limbs, 
 and cursed the sun for lacking warmth. It was cold for 
 the season. The wind had gone north after some days of 
 heavy rain, but the clouds were broken at last, and a gen- 
 eral improvement marked the weather. There came, 
 however, an added sadness to this sad heart from the 
 chill breath of the wind and the lifelessness of what he 
 saw from his uplifted place. Little heather grew here- 
 about, and only splashes of sphagnum at a mountain 
 spring lightened the waste and welcomed the sun's offer 
 of friendship. The grey granite and green integument 
 of the hills suffered a sort of extinction under this light, 
 and the colour, though fine enough, was too subtle, too 
 reserved for Philip's eyes to mark it. To him the world 
 stretched lifeless and hopeless. The reflection of his own 
 spirit turned back to him unbroken from it. He smoked, 
 strove to put away recent discouragements, and occupied 
 himself with his supreme project. The time was nearly 
 come for it. With childish cunning he had matured 
 his plans, and now waited only for a pending event to 
 carry them forward. 
 
 He had a milch cow in his little croft at Brown's 
 House, and had laid in great store of biscuits and rusks, 
 sweetmeats and such things as children love. Some 
 poultry — safe in a fox-proof run — were also there. He 
 had taken lessons in cooking from Minnie, who little 
 guessed his purpose. 
 
 425
 
 426 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Events at Hartland conspired to increase Philip's de- 
 termination, while its fatuity and folly were quite ob- 
 scured from his failing intellect. He poured out his 
 whole hopes and energies upon this enterprise. The 
 thought was never long out of his mind, and he prided 
 himself mightily on his skill in having kept it such a 
 secret. But it was the craft of a madman. The idea and 
 its execution alone obsessed him ; he did not look beyond 
 it. The thing should be done in defiance of all obstacle, 
 and once done he trusted himself to defend it against 
 the might of the world in arms. He told himself that 
 duty demanded this performance. Each time he met 
 Martin, he came from the interview with increasing 
 fixity of purpose. 
 
 Martin was very busy and the renewed amenity had 
 perished. High words had passed, because the younger 
 strove to control Philip's credit, and had grumbled at 
 some large waste of money. He desired Ouldsbroom to 
 inspect the accounts of the farm, and had expected some 
 commendation for his brilliant stewardship. But the 
 old man would look at nothing. Philip asked for increas- 
 ing sums of money, and when Martin found the purpose 
 to which these payments were put, he withheld them. 
 Once Philip gave a five-pound note to a blind woman on 
 the road; once he marched into the 'Ring o' Bells' with 
 a party of eight gipsies, and spent thirty shillings upon 
 food and drink for them. 
 
 He had sworn now never to see Martin again; he had 
 openly threatened in hearing of moor-men to lie in his 
 path some night and shoot him. 
 
 The younger man did not fear assault; but he calcu- 
 lated the probable length of Philip's life, and heartily 
 trusted that his end was near. 
 
 "We know that they'll do something with him in the 
 world to come, ' ' he said to Minnie. ' ' 'Tis beyond human 
 power or human prayer to help him in this one. God 
 made him for His own good purposes; but what those 
 purposes were we shall never know till we hear in another 
 life than this." 
 
 Tiger was still told off to the task of watching Philip
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 427 
 
 and waiting upon him. He met the wanderer now on 
 the way home from Crow Tor. 
 
 ''Been looking round about for you everywhere, 
 master. ' ' 
 
 ''No matter for that. Come in and us '11 have a drop 
 of drink. The baggering sun don 't seem to have a blink 
 o' fire in it nowadays. Not for my bones, any way. I 
 can't catch heat." 
 
 ** 'Tis the cold wind. Come and have a bite. I've 
 fetched over a fine shepherd 's pie from missis. I '11 make 
 a fire and hot it up for you." 
 
 "How do she go on?" 
 
 "The child's due. But she's very well and cheerful. 
 My Mary 's up along with her. ' ' 
 
 "I'll ride over to-morrow morning. Try and get him 
 out of the way, if you can." 
 
 "Twigg's gone," said Tiger. "Last night he died, 
 and very comfortable, by all accounts. His old woman's 
 going to stop and his second son-in-law's to take over 
 'Warren House.' " 
 
 "Even that man was better at the finish than my boy 
 will ever be. Life soaked a little of the cursed starch 
 out of Greg the last year or two. But not Martin. He '11 
 never bate an inch, or pity weakness, or pardon sin. 
 Never did wrong in the little sense, and never did right 
 in the large one. Born with a flint for a heart ; and it 's 
 broke everybody but you. Not only me, mind you; but 
 his wife and many another here and there. She may 
 stick up for him; she may say her prayers to him, for 
 all I know ; but you look in her poor eyes and remember 
 how once they shined, and read 'em now. Pity — that's 
 the word the world cries out to my son; but his ear ban't 
 built to let it in. He would have ruined that chap over 
 thicky barn but for me. The jjoor man came to me 
 crying — crying, mind you. Think what a hell of hard- 
 ness it takes to make a grown man cry. 'I'm alive still,' 
 I said to him. And I 've commanded that thirty pounds 
 be given to him. And he's had it. And if Martin had 
 refused to let me handle my own in that matter, I'd 
 nave burned down the barn and let him and his blasted
 
 428 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 Rechabites howl in the ruins of it, like the water-drink- 
 ing jackals they be. And many such-like tales I've heard. 
 When he 's driven 'em to their marrow-bones, or devoured 
 a widow's house, or some such knavish trick, then the 
 people find me out and remember I ban't dead yet. 'I 
 was the first to go,' I tell 'em. 'Don't expect nothing 
 from me. Here am I, living here in this here ruin, wait- 
 ing for death to release me.' But still they come for 
 succour, and I give it if I can. ' ' 
 
 "I thought you was feeling better." 
 
 "I'm all right; I'm all right. I don't want to die, 
 Tiger, and I ban't going to die, for that matter. My 
 work's not done yet " 
 
 He broke off, and looked at the other. Tiger's back 
 was turned and he knelt and blew on the fire. 
 
 Philip shook his head. 
 
 "No, I can't tell you — not even you; though well I 
 know you're my side." 
 
 "And always have been." 
 
 "You'll know soon enough. 'Tis a thing calling for 
 some manhood in me. 'Twill surprise the pack of 'em 
 when it comes about. I've got to live for fifteen year 
 yet — fifteen year. I was never known to drop a job in 
 the middle, and I shan't begin now. And, if need be, 
 I'll fight " 
 
 "Don't you go and do anything rash, Phil. Not at 
 your time of life. I wish you'd tell me what 'tis. I 
 might help you." 
 
 "I'm not so sure. I'm not so sure; but — leave that. 
 You'll Imow soon enough. It may happen to-morrow, 
 for all I can tell." 
 
 He drank, and presently Tiger made him eat. Long 
 familiarity with Philip's surprises caused anxiety to the 
 younger now. There were things hidden — not only in 
 the old man's mind, but in his dwelling. There was a 
 great box locked up in a corner, and he refused to tell 
 Tiger of its contents. He had been meddling in financial 
 matters also, and Tiger knew that henceforth refusal 
 would meet his increasing and unreasonable demands in 
 the direction of money. Ouldsbroom had long ago signed
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 429 
 
 control into the hands of Martin, but thus far Unity's 
 son had not exercised it when Philip called for cash. 
 
 Suddenly impressed with the importance of keeping 
 well and strong, the old man ate heartily, and presently 
 rose to a more cheerful mood. But Tiger felt unusually 
 anxious for him. He was listless, and his voice sounded 
 weakly. Again and again he came to the brink of his 
 enterprise and trembled to impart it, but abstained. 
 
 Presently he grew drowsy and declared that he wished 
 to sleep. Then Tiger left him. 
 
 "I'll ride over in the morn," promised Philip, "and I 
 hope as another grandchild's little pipe will he tuning 
 up to welcome me afore long now."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 On the following clay Philip was in the saddle early. He 
 rode to the top of Broad Down, made fast his horse there, 
 then descended into the valley of the river, and presently 
 reached Hartland. 
 
 Tiger was the first to meet him. 
 
 ' ' Doctor 's come, ' ' he said. ' ' 'Tis going on all right — 
 so Mary tells me. Mr. Martin 's in the house. ' ' 
 
 "Where's Wesley to?" 
 
 "Up under the tor along with the girl." 
 
 The old man's heart beat hard. Even as he had hoped, 
 so things fell out. The day was fine; the minds of all 
 at Hartland were preoccupied. 
 
 "I'll go up and have a game along with him for a 
 bit." 
 
 * ' You can 't do better. No doubt Mr. Martin will bring 
 you the news himself come presently." 
 
 Philip went off, and soon found the little boy with a 
 maiden to watch him. 
 
 "You be off home," he said. "They'll want you to 
 run messages. I'll take charge of the child and bring 
 him back along presently." 
 
 The girl disappeared, and Philip heaved a mighty sigh 
 of satisfaction. His road lay all clear before him now. 
 Wesley expressed the most active delight at change of 
 nurses and was soon playing tyrant. 
 
 "Us be going to be men, to-day — you and me," said 
 Ouldsbroom. "Us have got to ride on gran 'father 's 
 'oss, and you shall hold the reins, if you mind to. But 
 we mustn't bide caddling about here. We've got to go 
 
 430
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 431 
 
 farther than ever you've been in your life yet, my grand 
 chap — right away up over yonder hill. And there we 
 shall find 'Samuel' waiting for us. Do 'e want to come 
 and see grandfather's house and all the fine things he've 
 got for you there?" 
 
 "Ess, I do," declared Wesley. 
 
 "Then away we go; and when you'm tired, I'll carry 
 you. ' ' 
 
 He talked of the sugared biscuits and sweetmeats, and 
 told Wesley to go faster. But the child's short legs could 
 make but slow progress, and the impatient old man 
 picked him up at last and panted up the great slope of 
 Broad Down with him. 
 
 Often he looked back, but as yet no sign of life ap- 
 peared at Hartland, and none had come to seek him on 
 the tor. Now that hill had shrunk to nothing, seen from 
 the mightier mound beyond, and Hartland was hidden. 
 
 They rested presently, and Philip picked a handful of 
 whortleberries for the boy. Then, full of a sudden fear 
 that he might be pursued and overtaken before he 
 reached his stronghold, he took the child on his back 
 and climbed on. 
 
 He was giddy before the summit had been reached ; 
 but his excitement kept him alert and fortified his 
 strength. 
 
 They turned the ridge of the hill and came to certain 
 neolithic hut circles spread, grey and ragged, in the 
 heath. 
 
 Philip's horse was tethered here, and soon he had 
 mounted and lifted the child vip before him. 
 
 "That's the style! Now I be going to take you all 
 the way to gran 'father's house. And you shall steer 
 'Samuel' and I shall hold you." 
 
 The eager infant spraddled out his little legs and held 
 the reins one in each hand. They hung loose, and the old 
 horse went on his familiar way. Philip kept a tight arm 
 round the child and talked to him. 
 
 "And will Wesley like to come to gran 'father? Will 
 he like to keep house along with me and bide there, and 
 see me shoot birds and catch fish ? ' '
 
 432 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "Ess, I will then." 
 
 "And so you shall; and the devil and all his angels 
 shan't take you away from me no more." 
 
 Presently he spoke again. 
 
 "You must know, Wesley, that me and father ban't 
 quite the same; but I'm older and wiser than him, and 
 I want for you to be a proper man, like me — not half a 
 man, like him. I want for you to be kind to everybody, 
 and large-hearted and gentle to the poor, and all that. 
 But father can't teach you them things, because he's 
 never larned 'em. I tried terrible hard to get it into 
 him; but I couldn't. Perhaps I didn't try hard enough. 
 He never understood me — not like you do. But we un- 
 derstand one another something wonnerful — you and me 
 — and a quick-witted boy, like you, will soon larn all I 
 can teach you." 
 
 The horse stumbled and recovered himself. Philip's 
 arm gripped the child and Wesley shouted with laughter 
 at the mishap. His grandfather laughed too. 
 
 "Whoa! What be 'Samuel' up to? Ha, ha, ha! 
 The rascal! That's right — you laugh like that. You 
 and me will always be laughing. That's what we'm 
 here for — to laugh and make others laugh. But nobody 
 laughs nowadays. But we'll teach 'em. You'm that 
 wise a 'ready — you know 'tis better to laugh than cry. 
 Your father never laughed much at your age. But you 
 and me will. And you'll grow so quick as a larch up- 
 along with me. And I '11 bide as I am. Not a day older 
 will I get till you'm a big boy and full of my sense," 
 
 The child was excited and joyful. He chattered awhile 
 and pointed to sheep and cattle dotted over the Moor. 
 
 ' ' They be all father 's things, ' ' said Ouldsbroom. ' ' His 
 and mine. You mustn't forget him, Wesley. Ill though 
 he's used me, I won't set you against him. Too wise for 
 that. I be going to make such a man of you that, some 
 day, you'll go along to your father and lift him up and 
 do for him what his father could never do. I be going to 
 fashion your little budding mind into such a pattern that 
 you'll teach your father to be a better chap and draw 
 the poison out of him. All that I'm going to do; and
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 433 
 
 though I shan't be here to see it, I shall die easier for 
 knowing- about it. Life's a dark thing, Wesley — dark 
 and difficult, because we can't make people see with our 
 eyes. But you must be patient with everybody. You 
 must larn to bend early, else you'll be broke late. 
 They've never broke me, never, though God He knows 
 they've plotted and planned to do it. But you and me 
 ban't built to break." 
 
 He bent over the little boy and lifted his chin and 
 kissed him. 
 
 ' ' You mustn 't think life 's all fun. It did ought to be, 
 but it never falls out like that. The w^orld 's got into such 
 a mess now that it have to work terrible hard to keep 
 going at all. There's too much work in it now. I see 
 the change even in my time. Less joy than there was, 
 and more care. Folk be like the birds and beasts now. 
 They 've no time in life for anything but earning a living. 
 There's more hungry people than there was — more folk 
 and less money for 'em. I see a lot of them now — wan- 
 derers that don't know what they be seeking. But I 
 can't tell what have brought it about. Nobody demands 
 the right to be joyful now. The highest they rise to is 
 for leave to work their fingers to the bone. 'Tis a very 
 rotten fashion of world, Wesley, where joy's forgot. The 
 boys don't even marry the girls now but in fear and 
 trembling of the future." 
 
 A fox slipped away over the heath ahead of them. The 
 child was all excitement and wanted to follow. 
 
 "Beat 'Samuel!' Make him run!" he cried. 
 
 "No, no! Mister Pox be safe for the present. He'm 
 going to his wife and family, maybe. I lay he was out 
 here to think a bit and turn life over in his mind and get 
 away from the noise to home. So must all we married 
 men, and married foxes too sometimes. Or maybe he 
 was after a rabbit for dinner. You'll see a fine rally of 
 foxes up to Brown's House. They want my chickens, 
 the rascals, but 'No, no,' I say, 'they chickens be here 
 for my brave boy to eat their eggs ! ' " 
 
 "I do love a naked egg," said Wesley, and the old 
 man laughed. 
 
 28
 
 434 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ' ' Was ever such a funny fellow ? And you shall have 
 many a naked egg, as you call it — hard-boiled wi' the 
 shell off. And many another good thing you shall have — 
 sweeties to make you happy and broth to make you fat! 
 When us come over yonder ridge, you'll see gran 'father's 
 house an' gran 'father's cow in the croft. And you shall 
 have your own garden, if you mind to, an ' I '11 come and 
 dig in it for 'e. " 
 
 They jogged on and the child said he was hungry. 
 
 "And right to be, and soon shall you have your fill." 
 
 Philip looked round sometimes, but there was no sign 
 that any followed. His muddled intellect apprehended 
 pursuit and attack. But he was resolved that once within 
 the stronghold of his home, no powers of persuasion or 
 violence should make him yield up Wesley. He had 
 planned this abduction long ago, and with a child's indif- 
 ference to reality, proposed to bring up the little boy 
 at Brown's House on his own model of what a boy 
 should be. 
 
 ' ' You ban 't the first as I 've trained, my young shaver. 
 There's Tiger — you love Tiger, don't 'e?" 
 
 "Ess, I do love Tiger." 
 
 "And Tiger was my boy. I made Tiger, and you and 
 him be my only friends now. And I'll make you like 
 him. Tiger's a good man, framed to bring nought biit 
 kindness in the world. And your father might be the 
 very same this minute, if he'd but given heed to me. But 
 we '11 win round him yet. I 'm never beat, and I '11 strike 
 at him through you now, and see if that will fetch out 
 the heart of him. ' ' 
 
 They reached the dwelling, and the child rejoiced at 
 it. He ran about on a voyage of discovery, and presently 
 came in very wet, when Philip called him from the door. 
 
 ' ' Here 's your meat ready, ' ' he said. ' ' Ah, you rogue, 
 you've been in the water I see!" 
 
 He locked the door and barred the window after the 
 child entered; then he took off Wesley's shoes, socks 
 and frock and put them by the fire. Next he wrapped 
 a blanket round the boy, sat him on his lap, and fed him 
 with biscuits in hot milk. The old man had drunk heavily
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 435 
 
 on returning home; and now he was refreshed, cheerful, 
 and garrulous. 
 
 He talked to Wesley and planned their future to- 
 gether. 
 
 "I've forgot your clothes, my bold hero, and that's 
 the only thing as I have forgot. And if they won't see 
 sense and meet me half way and send 'em by Tiger, then 
 you and me will ride to Tavistock some fine morning 
 and get more for 'e. Drink it up; then I'll give 'e a 
 sugar-plum. ' ' 
 
 The child was happy, wearied out, and ready to sleep. 
 He wanted nothing else. He smiled at Philip now, 
 sighed comfortably and yawned. Philip finished- the pap 
 himself with a gulp or two. Then he went to the fire 
 and sat down in an easy chair with his treasure on his 
 lap. He wiped a little rim of milk off Wesley's 
 mouth; and soon the youngster nestling close to him, 
 drooped and slept. In half an hour the man also slum- 
 bered. 
 
 Elsewhere Martin Ouldsbroom had waited for a child 
 to be born to him. He worked in a little room where 
 he kept his books and accounts. He was making cal- 
 culations and pondering upon a problem. He gave a 
 tithe of all that he earned to his God ; and now he spec- 
 ulated as to whether that sum should be subtracted from 
 his gross earnings, before he paid rates and taxes out of 
 them, or afterwards. The difference was not consider- 
 able, for his farm was freehold and the land his own. 
 He decided, however, that the amount of his fellow-man's 
 claim should pay tribute. 
 
 Presently a daughter appeared at Hartland, and Mar- 
 tin was told that his father waited on Hartland Tor to hear 
 the news. But when Tiger hastened hither to bring it, 
 and ask the old man back that he might eat with his son 
 and see the baby, he did not find him. Neither was there 
 any sign of the boy. Martin felt some anxiety, and his 
 care deepened as noon passed and the day waned. Minnie 
 was not told, and presently, when she called aloud for 
 Wesley, Martin saddled his horse and rode to seek him.
 
 436 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 He guessed that Ouldsbroom had taken him up to 
 Brown's House, and doubted not that he would meet his 
 father and ehild returning home again. 
 
 But he did not meet them, and it was five o'clock before 
 he reached the lonely dwelling, fastened his horse at the 
 gate, and hammered at the portal. Smoke rose from the 
 chimney, but his knock was not answered, and he tried 
 the door, to find it fast. 
 
 The summons had, however, wakened Philip, and he 
 made ready. He roused himself, gathered Wesley to 
 him, carried the child, still sound asleep, into his bed- 
 room, and there left him on his bed. Next he peeped 
 from his window and saw Martin's horse. By this time 
 the visitor had knocked again. 
 
 Philip opened the window a small space. 
 
 "Who's out there?" he asked. "And what do you 
 want?" 
 
 ' ' 'Tis I, father. Tiger tells me that you took charge of 
 the boy this morning. But I never thought you'd have 
 brought him all the way up here. You must be tired 
 out, I'm fearing. Bring him along and he shall ride 
 home with me." 
 
 Martin had come round from the door. He looked up 
 and saw the old man peering out. 
 
 "You guessed where he was — your conscience told 
 you, belike — if you've got a conscience left in you. Yes, 
 he's here; and here he'll stop. I've meant to do this 
 thing these many days, and I've plotted and schemed 
 for it and made all ready. There's everything here as 
 he wants for his body and his mind. And he came gladly, 
 and he's going to bide and be my child, till I've larned 
 him to take his part in the world and undo a bit of the 
 mischief that you 've done. ' ' 
 
 "My dear father, you must not be so foolish. Can't 
 you see this is absurd — impossible?" 
 
 "Is it? Well, I don't think so. And don't you 'dear 
 father' me, because you're long cast off and I won't have 
 no hypocrisy. You can carry that to them that trust 
 you, if such there are." 
 
 "Let me come in and we'll talk it over," said the
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 437 
 
 young man. He gave a sigh and prepared to return to 
 the door ; but the other laughed aloud. 
 
 "You think to come round me like that, do you? I've 
 been such a poor innocent all these years that I can't 
 see through your hookem-snivey ways even yet — eh? 
 No, you don 't come in here — never while an iron padlock 
 can keep you out. I've had a brace of extra bolts put 
 up against to-day. And they be close shot home, I 
 promise you. You'll never come in this house while I'm 
 living. And if you did, you'd find your child strangled. 
 He's got loose from you, and never shall you lay a finger 
 on him ; never more shall you rob him of his little joys or 
 flog his tender hide. Go back to your newborn child and 
 torture that and hear it scream. Your boy be my boy 
 now — safe from you while this arm can hold him." 
 
 "Think, father; think what you are doing. Such 
 things can't be. There's no room in the world for them. 
 I've never denied you your grandson. But you can't 
 have him here. Do be reasonable and see how this must 
 look to any impartial person. Think of his mother, if 
 not of his father." 
 
 "I'm his father, I tell you — father and grandfather 
 both. The child's content and at peace. He's thankful 
 to God to be out of Hartland and up here along with me. 
 He wouldn't go back if you was to pray him. He knows 
 what's best. And his mother knows too. No need to 
 name her name. You tell her that he's safe and joyous 
 and full of meat, and that I've bought a shipload of 
 proper food for him — that 's all you 've got to do. ' ' 
 
 "I must have my child, father. You can't come be- 
 tween him and me. The law won't allow it." 
 
 "Damn the law! I've got him and I'm in the right, 
 and let's see the law as will be strong enough to break 
 my padlocks and take him from me. Be off and get out 
 of my sight. Haven't my eyes ached oft enough at 
 you? And, law or no law, I ban't going to hand the 
 lamb to the wolf for any man's pleasure. No call to 
 prowl round this fold, for you'll never get in. And, 
 mark me : if you use might and think to pull down my 
 walls and steal what's within, then you'll find yourself
 
 438 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 cheated for once, as you've cheated the world too often. 
 You'll find dead foLk and nought else. So if you think 
 to use force, bring two coffins with you — a big one and a 
 little one!" 
 
 Philip felt a hand in his. The child had wakened at 
 his noise, arisen and come to him. 
 
 "Wesley's hungry," he murmured. 
 
 The old man picked him up and held him to the win- 
 dow, 
 
 "There he is — look at him!" he cried; "ax him if 
 he wants to go home to be whipped and starved. Tell 
 that man as you've got no use for him, my pretty. Say 
 you be going to bide along with grandfather." 
 
 "Ess, I be." 
 
 "For ever and ever," said Philip, 
 
 "For ever an' ever," echoed Wesley. 
 
 Martin spoke for some time, and mentioned the fact 
 that his wife had got a daughter. But Philip only re- 
 gretted that the babe was born alive, and soon the 
 younger perceived that nothing could be gained by fur- 
 ther speech. His son appeared to be perfectly happy, 
 and there seemed no immediate fear that he would grow 
 either frightened or forlorn. 
 
 "I'll go," he said. "But I warn you that this cannot 
 be. Suppose anything was to happen to you " 
 
 "Much you'd care for that. All the ill that has happed 
 to me in this world be of your heaping. And if my 
 heart's cracked, don't you ever pretend you don't know 
 who cracked it. You've murdered me, remember that, 
 when you hear I'm gone. But it won't be yet. Here's 
 my work. Night and day I '11 be busy for this dinky boy. 
 I shan't go till he's big enough to stand alone. I shan't 
 go till I've taught him how to face you. He's made me 
 young again a 'ready. I'm well. I'm strong as a lion. 
 He'll mend your work yet and help to heal the bloody 
 wounds you've dealt me." 
 
 Philip shut the window and made it fast. Two bars 
 had been screwed upon the inside, so that none might 
 force an entrance. 
 
 Martin turned and went back to his horse and Oulds-
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 439 
 
 broom watched him ride away. Then he rubbed his 
 hands and laughed to the child. 
 
 ''So much for him — soon sent him off with his tail 
 between his legs ! 'Twill be a long time afore he troubles 
 us again. You'll be growed big enough and bold enough 
 to fire my gun afore he comes here any more. And then 
 you can shoot him for grandfather — and a good day's 
 work 'twill be." 
 
 "Wesley's hungry," repeated the child. 
 
 "Come on, then, and stuff; and if you'm hungry, I 
 swear I'm thirsty along of such a lot of talk. But 'tis 
 deeds, not words for us in future. You eat your fill of 
 these here goodies and I'll drink a drop; and then us '11 
 walk out a little way and I'll show 'e the chickens and 
 fetch in an egg for your supper. But I must keep my 
 weather eye lifting — else they'll go and kidnap you from 
 me. And God help the creature as tries to do that ! ' '
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 With something of the fearful pleasure of a child mak- 
 ing believe, Philip kept guard over Wesley when night 
 came. He fed him, washed him, and put him to bed. 
 Then he loaded his gun and shut up his house with a 
 great padlock and two bolts. 
 
 For some hours he preserved a keen watch and was 
 alert for every sound. Once he crept out into the sum- 
 mer night and prowled about to see that none lay in wait. 
 But only the voices of darkness fell on his ear. The 
 weather had grown warmer and mist hung drowsily un- 
 der the stars. Philip was about to retire himself and 
 had already thrown off his coat, when there came quick 
 footsteps at last. The conflict was at hand and his heart 
 leapt. 
 
 "Steady! Steady !" he said to himself. "Keep your 
 wits about 'e, Phil ; you be going to need 'em now ! ' ' 
 
 But he heard no speech, and it was clear that only a 
 solitary man approached. The feet did not stop at the 
 door, but came round the house to the window. A dog 
 jumped out, barking furiously. Then Tiger's voice stilled 
 it. Presently there fell a gentle tap upon the glass. 
 Philip stood irresolute, but at a second summons he 
 pulled up the white blind and looked out. Holding the 
 candle above his head, the old man presently recognised 
 Tiger, whereupon he opened the window. 
 
 "Be you come as a friend?" he asked. 
 
 "A friend always, and you know it, master." 
 
 "There's nobody else out there?" 
 
 "Nobody else. I've walked up alone." 
 
 "Swear it then." 
 
 "I swear it. Let me come in and we'll have a tell 
 about things." 
 
 440
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 441 
 
 ' ' If any other man thrusts through my door, I '11 shoot 
 him." 
 
 "And welcome. Would I deceive you, Phil?" 
 
 " 'Tis hard to trust nowadays. I've been bit very 
 bad in my time. Haven't the blood of my own veins 
 deceived me? 'Tis as if your right hand could lie to 
 your left. ' ' 
 
 He went round and let Tiger into the house. The 
 younger man had come for Wesley, but he felt small 
 hope that he would succeed in his mission. Martin had 
 desired to go also, but when this most difficult of tasks 
 was put upon him, Tiger, while promising little, yet bar- 
 gained to carry out the attempt in his own way. 
 
 "I must go to him empty-handed and alone, and may 
 come back so," he said. "There'll be no fighting or 
 struggling with him. I'd rather do away with myself 
 than hurt a hair of his head. If, please God, I can get 
 him to see sense, then I will do. But I'll use nought 
 but gentle words to him." 
 
 And now he entered upon his unlikely errand. Philip 
 bolted the door behind him and drew the blind again. 
 
 "Mark this," he said. "You and that sleeping boy 
 yonder are the only two fellow-creatures I've got left in 
 the wide world now. And if you're here as a friend, I 
 welcome you, as I have done since first I set eyes on you, 
 when you came to Hartland a hungry, weary lad." 
 
 "As a friend, sure enough. I needn't tell you that." 
 
 "Drink then — drink away the sharpness of your eyes 
 and the clearness of your voice a bit. I can't trust an 
 empty man. Have a good go at the whisky — then we'll 
 meet on even ground. I was just going to bed with the 
 gun by my pillow. To tell you the truth, my heart's 
 been on the rack too long, Tiger. It have had to fight 
 against more than one human's fair load of trouble. But 
 I shall mend very quick now. Life's got very simple 
 and straightforward at last. I see the way as clear as 
 the way of the bird in the air." 
 
 "So much the better then. I'll have a drink, and 
 gladly." 
 
 The other poured whisky into two tumblers.
 
 442 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 "I be running rather short," he said. "I've thought 
 more on milk for the boy than whisky for myself the last 
 few days. But I'll broach another bottle." 
 
 "This is enough, Phil — more than enough. I don't 
 want you to get muddled to-night. I want you to listen 
 to me." 
 
 But Ouldsbroom fetched another bottle, opened it, and 
 began to laugh. 
 
 "I triumphed over him, I warn you! Up he came on 
 his boss as big as bull's beef. Must have his child that 
 instant moment ! 'Did I know what I was doing?' 'The 
 law was against me/ and all the rest of his nonsense. 
 But I soon had him away. He'd have seen the muzzle 
 o£ my gun if he'd stopped much longer. 'I'll suffer no 
 wolf prowling round my fold,' I said to the villain. 
 And off he went. ' ' 
 
 "He don't understand you like I do. He came in a 
 wrong spirit, no doubt. But 'tis very different when you 
 and me get together. 'Twasn't very often, after you'd 
 once larned me sense, that I ever catched myself not 
 thinking same as you think." 
 
 ' ' No, because you 'd got a brain to work upon — a brain 
 
 and a heart. But my son Here, fetch out this cork, 
 
 will 'e? My strength's a thought low to-night along of 
 carrying Wesley up the hill. Such a fine, solid lump of 
 a child! He's going to be like me in body so well as 
 mind." 
 
 "Happy as a lark along with you, no doubt?" 
 
 "I should think he was. A noble child at his victuals. 
 So full as a little barrel he be. He '11 keep my old bones 
 warm come the winter nights ! ' ' 
 
 "What did he tell about? Didn't he whimper a bit 
 for his mother when night came down?" 
 
 ' ' ' Whimper ' ! Not him. Jolly as a badger, and didn 't 
 want to go to bed. Thought to be playing all night along 
 o' me. But of course he went off after his supper. And 
 I washed him and dried him wi' a towel bought a-pur- 
 pose ; and no woman could have done it better. He don 't 
 want his mother." 
 
 "She wants him, however."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 443 
 
 *'Yoii can tell her this," said Philip, holding his glass 
 between the table and his mouth: "I've got nothing 
 against Minnie — never had, and never shall have. She's 
 a good girl, and if he 's broke her and cast the tenderness 
 out of her a bit, that's not her fault. When the frost 
 falls the still water's got to freeze. She's what he's made 
 her now, not what nature made her. So I'm too wise 
 to blame her. She's the child's mother, and I've no wish 
 to lift up any bar between her and her own. She can 
 come up along to see him when she pleases ; and she '11 be 
 welcome, so long as she comes alone. But we shan't al- 
 ways be at home, mind. I'm not going to bring up my 
 boy like an owlet on a rock. He'll travel afield with me 
 and sit astride on my saddle-bow, and see the world and 
 the people in it. He '11 go down along to Two Bridges ; 
 he'll meet my friend Nick, the warrener to Wistman's 
 Wood ; and he shall fall in with other fine men and larn 
 their ways. And money he shall never see — never. You 
 tell his father that. So long as he bides under my roof 
 he shall not handle a halfpenny, or hear the cursed 
 devil's chatter of coin with coin. Not a pinch of that 
 poison shall ever touch his hand till he'm old enough to 
 know that it is poison. Then he'll use the filth in its 
 proper place — as manure where the land be poor and 
 cries for enrichment. Money's manure, I tell you, and a 
 very respectable thing regarded as such. But once get 
 to lust for it, like my son, and you might so soon roll 
 with the pigs in it. It drips off Martin, and my eyes see 
 it. I mark the stain of it on him; I smell the evil smell 
 of it when he passes by." 
 
 "All so wise as can be — like yourself. But now, as a 
 friend and as one proud to be your friend, I 've got to ax 
 you to listen to me a bit. Have a smoke. I've brought 
 a full pouch." 
 
 The other loaded and lighted his pipe. Then Tiger 
 spoke. 
 
 "You see, Phil, a clever old man like you must look all 
 around the subject afore you take such a bold step as 
 this; and I make no doubt that you have done; but 'tis 
 often worth while having a talk with another, because
 
 444 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 two heads are better than one. And though I ban't very 
 clever, yet I think very much the same as you most 
 times. ' ' 
 
 "Natural you should — seeing as I taught you to 
 think." 
 
 "That's it, of course. I'm a long way behind you — 
 most of us be, for that matter. But I think same as you, 
 and so the things that I be thinking now be much the 
 same as your thoughts." 
 
 Philip shook his head. 
 
 "You'm getting mixed, Tiger. Talking ban't in your 
 line," he declared very wisely. 
 
 "Right again! But, touching this boy, I've thought a 
 lot, and no doubt what I think you '11 think too, if I can 
 set it afore you. In a word, 'tis the mother of him. You 
 must know that she 's had rather a bad time of it, and be 
 terrible weak to-night." 
 
 "What's that to me? That snake told me he'd got a 
 daughter. 'So much the worse,' I said to him. 'I wish 
 for her own sake as she 'd been born dead. ' ' ' 
 
 ' ' Missis be very fond of you, and she puts a large faith 
 and trust in you, same as I do. ' ' 
 
 "And every reason to. Haven't I done what I could 
 for her against him? Haven't I withstood him for her? 
 Wouldn't her life have been a better and a brighter 
 thing if she'd took you, for instance, or any other man 
 on earth but him? But him she took, and had to abide 
 by it, and feel the slow frostbite of him creeping through 
 her veins and reaching to her heart. I saw it — I saw it 
 all, and she knew well that I did. ' ' 
 
 "She thinks the world of your great kindness. Well 
 she knows that you never brought a pang to a living 
 thing, or a tear to any cheek. ' ' 
 
 "If she'd trusted me more and stood my side more, 
 'twould have been better for her. ' ' 
 
 ' ' She looked to you all she could, and she did for you 
 all she could; you don't forget that. But you know 
 how 'tis. No woman was born that could have bided in 
 her maiden mind after she was married to IMister 
 Martin. That strong and stubborn is his nature, that
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 445 
 
 all must bend or break afore it. And so she bent to 
 him." 
 
 "And never will she come straight again. But this 
 here child — he ban't built to bend and he shan't be broke 
 neither — not while I'm above ground. Let him break 
 his dogs and his newborn daughter — not my grandson. ' ' 
 
 "You've no word against the child's mother, how- 
 ever?" 
 
 "None. She'd do right, if she was let alone. She's 
 got a gentle spirit and a feeling heart. I'm very well 
 content with her." 
 
 "There's none knows you better than she does," de- 
 clared Tiger. "There's none — not I myself — has more 
 perfect trust and love for you than what she has. I'm 
 come with a message hot from her this minute. And she 
 wouldn't give it to no second person neither. Wouldn't 
 trust it to any other ear but mine, master. Nought would 
 do but I went up in her room and, after she gave the 
 message, she spoke to me again and said, ' Tell father that. 
 Tell him as you heard it straight from my lips, with no 
 go-between. ' ' 
 
 " 'Twill add to her peace, if she's all I think her, to 
 know her brave child be safe while she's laid by," de- 
 clared Ouldsbroom. "She's no cause whatever to fret 
 for him ; she '11 not strain her ear to hear him screaming 
 under his father's whip, while she's too feeble to come 
 and fight for him. Safe — safe he is ; and presently, when 
 she's strong enough to do it, she can ride up and see 
 him, and mark how he's growed in size and sense. But 
 to Hartland he shall not go. I won't trust him among 
 'em more." 
 
 ' ' Don 't say that. There 's one stronger call than yours 
 — a call that must be heard and heeded. And you 've got 
 to see it the same as I see it. You know me. I'm your 
 side, thick or thin. I've fought for you since I was a 
 child myself. But a mother's a mother, and given a real, 
 right down good mother . , . . " 
 
 "Tell me her message and take back mine," inter- 
 rupted the old man. 
 
 "I will then. I mind every word. I 've altered nought.
 
 446 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 She said 'Beg dear father, for the true love he has for 
 me, to let me have Wesley back, or I shall not close my 
 eyes this night. ' And then she said a word to me. ' I 've 
 had a cruel day. Tiger/ she said; 'for God's sake touch 
 father 's heart for me. I 've never yet gone to sleep with- 
 out my boy in my room. I can't do it. 'Twill kill me, 
 Tiger.' There, Phil, you didn't know that. In your 
 love for this here boy, you thought only of him and his 
 good; you forgot belike that his mother's heartstrings 
 was wrapped round and round him. She've been torn 
 enough to-day. 'Tisn't in your big spirit to add one 
 grief to her. You couldn 't — not if they came and prayed 
 you to do it. You'll see it same as I do now. Don't we 
 always see alike ? Be us ever on different sides of a ques- 
 tion ? So well I know it that I said to her — I said, ' Fear 
 nothing. You'm in the power of one who never yet " 
 
 Philip held up his hand. Great anxiety and tribula- 
 tion marked his face. 
 
 *'Say no more," he answered. "Suffer me to think 
 upon this." 
 
 He rose and walked about the kitchen. Presently he 
 took a candle and went into the adjoining room. 
 
 ' ' Come in here, ' ' he said to Tiger. Then the two men 
 looked at the sleeping child. 
 
 "That's the answer to his mother's message," said 
 Philip. "Tell her that you've seen the boy sleeping like 
 a cherub — warm, happy, and so comfortable as only a 
 babby can be. Mark down that picture in your mind; 
 feel the soft stuff he's got over him — bought for him, so 
 as my rough covering shouldn't chafe his flesh. And 
 now look in this here box and see what I've laid in for 
 him." 
 
 Tiger obeyed. 
 
 "A wonderful man! Who would have thought, now, 
 your mind could reach down even to a babby 's need! 
 Well, well, nought will be wasted. They want for you 
 to come to Hartland and bide there a bit. The missis be 
 terrible anxious to see you and ax for your opinion on a 
 score o' questions. And you know how me and Rogers 
 and t 'others will welcome you back."
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 447 
 
 "I shan't see Hartland no more." 
 
 ' * You mustn 't talk like that. Now, because his mother 
 wants the child so bad, and because holding of it away 
 from her may be dangering her health, of course the boy 
 must go back. That's your own thought, Phil — I swear 
 to God it is — for you and me always think alike. And I 
 wouldn't believe you if you said it wasn't your thought. 
 He must go. If she'd been different now, then you and 
 me would have felt different. If she'd been a bad sort 
 of mother, and you had anything against her — but it 
 isn't so. She's a rare good mother, and the boy's her 
 life, and it ban't for a brace of wise men like you and 
 me to come between her and her life. ' ' 
 
 Philip sat down again, stared at Tiger and panted. 
 His head drooped forward and his skin grew grey. Tiger 
 made him drink a little. Then he rose and mended the 
 fire. 
 
 "I knew you'd see it," he went on. "What don't you 
 see where another person 's good is the matter ? A suffer- 
 ing, longing mother — crying for her young and can't 
 reach it ! Good God, Phil, I 've seen you sore put about 
 for a bitch or ewe when she's unhappy. I spoke to your 
 daughter-in-law afore I left her too. I said, 'You know 
 the master. You know if ever he's come between any 
 creature and their own.' I said, 'He's wise as Solomon 
 in the matter of the happiness of the people and how 
 to add to it.' I said, 'Don't shed a tear, missis; don't 
 feel one thought of fear that you shan't have your li'l 
 boy in reach of your hand this night.' That's what I 
 said to her, because I know you better than all the world 
 knows you. Ess fay! And I've seen deeper in your 
 grand old heart than living man or woman ever will. I 
 ax you — I pray of you, Phil, I " 
 
 Tiger's ovm eloquence had touched him. He broke 
 off, bent forward, put his hand on Ouldsbroom's and 
 held it tightly. Philip did not move or speak. 
 
 The younger rose presently and walked up and down. 
 Philip remained humped up by the table. He emptied 
 his glass and clasped his hands on his chest. At length 
 he spoke^ and his voice was weak.
 
 448 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ' ' You was the last — my sheet anchor against any storm. 
 I never thought that you 'd go over to them. ' ' 
 
 "And never do you think it. I'm but the ghost of 
 yourself, and when I speak to you 'tis yourself speaking. 
 And if you'd heard her speak, as I did, you'd think now 
 as I do and you 'd do what I must do. We 're not against 
 you — never you dream that. But 'tis the mother in her 
 — yearning for her own. You know how it feels better 
 than I can tell you." 
 
 The old man's mind wandered. 
 
 "You'm childless yet, Tiger; but you must hope. I 
 waited long, remember. 'Twill come ; and when it do, 
 you'll never keep it away from me, will you? You'll let 
 me help to fashion your son, same as I fashioned you ? ' ' 
 
 "By God, you shall!" 
 
 ' * In bringing up the childer ' ' began Philip. 
 
 He wandered on, and the younger man, greatly daring, 
 went to the sleeping-room, lifted Wesley gently and 
 brought him back to the fire. The child still wore his 
 smock. 
 
 Philip started up when he saw what Tiger had done. 
 He swayed on his legs a little ; then he sat down again. 
 
 "He'll be shouting out with all his might for you in 
 the morn," declared Tiger. "You'll be the first word 
 on his lips, I warrant ! And you mustn 't keep him wait- 
 ing, master. I shall tell 'em that you '11 come down along 
 very quick." 
 
 The old man seemed stricken in mind and body. He 
 kept putting his hand out and drawing it back; but he 
 did'not move from his chair. 
 
 ' ' Can you take him from me ? Have you got the heart 
 to do it? He's all that's left for me to help — all — out of 
 the whole earth." 
 
 "You'd do the same, Phil — the very same, if we was 
 to change places." 
 
 "You're strong, and I'm weak." 
 
 "Don't say that — you shan't say it!" cried the other. 
 " 'Tis I'm weak afore you, and always have been. The 
 world's weak afore the likes of you — all that's best in it. 
 Hold him in your arms, and keep him in your arms —
 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 449 
 
 keep him there so long as you will. And not a regiment 
 of sojers shall take him out of 'em while I can see to 
 fight." 
 
 He put Wesley on Philip's lap. The child turned, half 
 woke, opened his eyes, then shut them again. 
 
 "There he is, and there he shall bide, master. Only 
 you shall give him up to his mother. None shall take 
 him — none. ' ' 
 
 Philip leant back. His hand listlessly fingered the 
 child's hair. 
 
 "I'll give him back, then," he said. "And along with 
 him you can take the last pinch of life I've got left. 
 I'd have lived for him — years and years — but now it's 
 all done. Tell him, when he grows, how hard I fought 
 for him ; but what 's one old man against ? ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis your wish I take him?" 
 
 Philip nodded. 
 
 ' ' To his mother — from me. ' ' 
 . Presently he spoke to the slumbering child. 
 
 "Good-bye, boy; and if ever you hear tell of this 
 night " 
 
 He broke off, then resumed: 
 
 "Pick him up and begone. There's a little blanket as 
 I bought for him — wait a minute. ' ' 
 
 He fetched the wrap and Wesley's other clothes that 
 hung by the fire. The child was fretful at being wakened 
 and dressed. 
 
 "I shall be back so soon as ever I can," declared Tiger. 
 "I'm coming to spend the rest of the night with you. 
 But 'twill be morning a 'most before I can be up again. 
 You get off to bed, and I lay I'll bring some joyful words 
 from his mother presently." 
 
 They were at the entrance now. 
 
 "No call for you to come back. None need ever come 
 back to me no more. It's all ended now." 
 
 "Don't you say that. Lie down and get a bit of rest. 
 You'll see 'em to-morrow." 
 
 Tiger went away. 
 
 * ' Keep him warm ! ' ' 
 
 "That I will," shouted back the other from the dark- 
 
 29
 
 450 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 ness. *' 'Tis as mild as milk to-night. He'll take no 
 hurt." 
 
 Dawn had broken before the weary Tiger returned to 
 Brown's House and found the door wide open and the 
 place empty. Thin white light struggled through the 
 window, but there was not enough to show the interior. 
 The candle had guttered out and gone, so Tiger lighted 
 matches and looked about him. On the table was an 
 empty glass and a bottle of whisky that had been 
 knocked over. Part of its contents had flooded an open 
 Bible. A pencil lay in the book, and a broken clay pipe 
 was upon the floor. 
 
 Tiger entered the bedroom, then he looked round the 
 house. A dog came from its kennel, but there was no 
 sign of Philip Ouldsbroom. It seemed that some impulse 
 had called him forth suddenly. 
 
 Tiger walked round about and shouted until the hills 
 cried back faint echoes ; but no answer came. 
 
 Morning broke crystalline over the hills and a cock 
 crew.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 For two days great hue-and-cry was made after Philip 
 Ouldsbroom, and then it chanced that Martin discovered 
 him. 
 
 Many had scoured the Moor, persisting in their quest 
 from early dawn to twilight of evening ; but it remained 
 for the new master of Hartland to find the old master, 
 and then it was by an accident that he did so. 
 
 Riding at sunset of the second day, Martin came aloft 
 to the steep valley of West Dart. At hand stood Crow 
 Tor, and he dismounted and approached it. His purpose 
 was to climb the rocks, if possible, and survey the hills 
 round about with a telescope, which he had borrowed 
 for this search. 
 
 Upon the crown of the tor an evening wind played 
 faint music and touched the stones to melody, even as 
 a dawn wind, at the morning of days, woke Memnon's 
 granite lips to welcome the ascending sun. But this stone 
 breathed an elegy through the gloaming and made a 
 lamentation for the dead. Beneath it, stretched along, 
 lay Ouldsbroom on his face. He had sought his haunt, 
 climbed to his familiar eyrie unde^. the rampire of the 
 tor, and lain dowTi and died there. His hair was dabbled 
 with the falling dew, 
 
 . • . his bowed head seemed listening to the Earth, 
 His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 
 
 Martin carefully drew the dead man's watch out of his 
 pocket. It was an heirloom of gold. 
 
 At dayspring they came and carried the body away to 
 Hartland. 
 
 451
 
 452 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 
 A shining bed in the whortleberry and green grass 
 persisted for some hours to mark the place of passing; 
 but leaf and herbage were restored anon. They lifted 
 themselves again and sprang up to the call of the life 
 within them. Then that silvery depression disappeared, 
 as the sleeping lairs of flocks and herds vanish when they 
 rise up at dawn and go upon their way. 
 
 Unmarked, a scrap of dirty paper remained upon the 
 little plateau after Philip was borne from it. Now this 
 fragment, touched by the wind, moved to the edge of the 
 rocks and presently lifted into air. It hovered, fluttered, 
 fell into the peaty pool beneath and floated there. 
 
 The dead man had fingered it a thousand times and 
 never parted from it. Once he tore it in half, then 
 changed his mind and mended the pages again. It was 
 Martin's first letter; but upon it now might have been 
 read more than the child had set down. A faltering 
 scrawl ran over the last empty page, where Philip had 
 copied words from Job before he entered upon his 
 journey. 
 
 ^^He shall he driven from light into darkness and 
 chased out of the world. . ." 
 
 Presently the paper sank beneath the surface of the 
 pool and vanished. 
 
 THE END
 
 THE HAVEN 
 
 BY 
 
 EDEN PHILLPOTTS 
 
 Cloth. 12mo. $1.50 
 
 **The foremost English novelist, with the one exception 
 of Thomas Hardy. . . . His descriptions of the sea and his 
 characterization of the fisher folks are picturesque, true to life, 
 full of humorous philosophy." 
 
 — Jeannette L. Gilder in The Chicago Tribune. 
 
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 an infinite variety like Mr. Phillpotts." —Boston Transcript. 
 
 A close, thoughtful study of universal human nature." 
 
 — Outlook. 
 
 One of the best of this author' s many works. ' ' — Bookman.
 
 THE COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM J. LOCKE 
 
 "Life is a glorious thing." — W. J. Locke 
 
 "If you wish to be lifted out of the petty cares of to-day, read one 
 of Locke's novels. You may select any from the following titles 
 and be certain of meeting some new and delightful friends. His 
 characters are worth knowing. " — Baltimore Sun. 
 
 The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne The Demagogue and Lady Phayre 
 
 At the Gate of Samaria The Beloved Vagabond 
 
 A Study In Shadows The ^Vhite Dove 
 
 Simon the Jester The Usurper 
 
 Where Love Is Septimus 
 
 Derelicts Idols 
 
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 Simon the Jester 
 
 (Profusely illustrated by James Montgomery Flagg) 
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 artistic triumph — a fitting climax for a story that's full of charm 
 and surprise." — American Magazine. 
 
 The Beloved Vagabond 
 
 " 'The Beloved Vagabond' is a gently-written, fascinating tale. 
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 the vagabond nerve-thrilling in your own heart. ' ' 
 
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 Septimus (illustrated by James Montgomery Flagg) 
 
 "Septimus is the joy of the year. " — American Magazine. 
 
 The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne 
 
 * ' One of those rare and much-to-be-desired stones which keep one 
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 tible temptation to linger for full enjoyment by the way. ' ' — Life. 
 
 Where Love Is 
 
 " One of those unusual novels of which the end is as good as the 
 beginning. ' ' — Ne<u> York Globe.
 
 WILLIAM J. LOCKE 
 The Usurper 
 
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 conception, the descriptions are all vivid flashes from a brilliant 
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 Derelicts 
 
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 — The Daily Chronicle. 
 
 The White Dove 
 
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 The Demagogue and Lady Phayre 
 
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 At the Gate of Samaria 
 
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 An American Love-Story 
 
 MARGARITA'S SOUL 
 
 BY 
 
 JOSEPHINE DASKAM BACON 
 
 [INGRAHAM LOVELL] 
 
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